Page 47 of The Librarians
Astrid glances at her watch—her shift is about to start. All at once her heart pounds. “Today will be the first day I don’t speak with a Swedish accent at work.”
Hazel smiles. “Sounds like a great way to start the rest of your life.”
How many times did Astrid see theToday is the first day of the rest of your lifeposter in her high school library? Enough for the exhortation to have lost all its power. But now she feels it, the joy and urgency of a new beginning.
And this time she will rise to the occasion.
The shopping center next to the library is pretty white-bread—an H-E-B, a nail salon, a car wash, and an old-fashioned diner. The shopping center across the street, however, has always boasted a wide selection of ethnic restaurants and businesses.
Hazel stops before the door of the South Asian mart, pretends to look at her phone, and glances about from underneath her lashes. The parking lot isn’t the carnival of a 99 Ranch on a weekend, but cars flow, and shoppers and diners mill about in pairs and clusters.
She’s had some training in spotting would-be kidnappers, but Jason Bourne she isn’t, and she can’t pinpoint exactly what gives her that slight yet unmistakable sense of unease. Inside the store, she wanders about and casts a look here and there out of the glass front of the establishment. Still nothing.
Giving up, she walks to the vegetable section to inspect a crate of bitter gourds.
“Hi!” says a man’s voice. “Hi, I thought it was you!”
She looks up. Elderly white male, comb-over, overkeen expression: theFifty Shadespatron.
“Do you come here regularly?” he asks eagerly.
“Occasionally,” she says. “You?”
“At least once a week. The samosas here are fantastic. Have you ever tried them?”
She has and likes them very much. “No,” she says. “I have to stay away from gluten, unfortunately.”
That does not discourage him. “Try the dhokla, then. It’s made from rice and lentils, perfectly gluten-free.”
“Okay. Thanks for the recommendation.” Might as well agree with him since she has no good objections.
The old guy grins, as if she’s given him all the approval in the world. “Do you still enjoy working at the library?”
“Yes, I do. Thank you.”
“Oh, oh, oh,” he cries excitedly, oblivious to her attempts at killing the conversation. “Were you there when a fight broke out at the library?”
“You know about the fight?” She doesn’t remember him being there that day. In fact, she’s pretty sure she hasn’t seen him since her first day of work.
“Didn’t see it in person but somebody in my neighborhood was there and put a video on Nextdoor. You’ve got to see it—I cribbed it and uploaded it to Facebook.”
“I’m not sure I want to relive it again,” she protests.
He’s too busy fiddling with his phone. “Let me open my Facebook app—”
A woman comes up behind him. Ayesha, who was at Game Night with her husband. And on her face is the universal expression of female sympathetic horror:Oh no, are you cornered by this guy too?
“Hazel!” She waves. “What are you doing here?”
Hazel drops a pair of bitter gourds into her basket. “Getting some vegetables. You?”
“Dal. They have a whole aisle of organic dal and spices now. You want to check it out?”
“Absolutely. Excuse me,” she says toFifty Shadesand ducks around him.
“Look me up on Facebook if you want to see the video—Gus Anderson is the name!” he cries after her. “And hi, Ayesha! See you ladies around!”
Ayesha leads Hazel nearly to the other end of the store before she rolls her eyes. “Can you believe him? I was working at the library the other day. That fellow sat down at my table, started talking, and refused to take any hints. I had to flat-out ask him to please be quiet. He shut up but still wouldn’t go away until Ahmed came back from taking a call outside. What a nuisance. The library is such a great place to work but because of him I almost didn’t go back the next day. Thank goodness he hasn’t been around since then.”
