Page 127 of Book and Ladder
“Trust me,” she continues. “After story hour, you’ll probably be begging for an escape hatch.”
“Thank you. I’m grateful to have access to the secret passages and nooks.”
“Oh, you haven’t seen the secret passage yet—that’s reserved for after your probationary period.” Her face is dead serious. Then she bursts into a melodic laugh. “I’m kidding. I wish we had one of those bookcases that swings open into a secret room—or a wardrobe that leads to another world. Anything of that sort.”
“Don’t some historic Waterford homes have hidden spaces?”
“They do. Matter of fact, my grandparents’ home had a passageway. Just a root-cellar tunnel, but we swore it led somewhere magical.”
The faraway look in her eyes makes me nostalgic for a time that wasn’t even mine.
“I sure hope Conrad doesn’t go plowing down those homes too,” Mrs. Lockett says.
I nod. “Me too.”
Though honestly, I don’t know what could stop a family like the O’Connells from steamrolling the town one block at a time.
We end our tour at the circulation desk. I don’t have any real duties yet, but I do know how to check books in and out after my orientation, so I stand ready to do at least that. Not being in charge feels unnatural—like not knowing what to do with my hands.
Chance, a preschooler from Moss and Maple story time, rushes the desk, his mom on his heels. “Hi, Miss Daisy! Are we having story time at the library now?”
“Yes, Chance. I’ll be reading right over there,” I point to the open carpeted area near the children’s stacks.
His hand raises above the counter, a crumpled piece of typing paper in his grip. I take it from him.
His mom says, “He missed giving that to Emberleigh and Sydney before you closed.”
It’s a picture of the old shop, on the roof, he scrawled,MOS AND MAPL.
“That’s me and you on the porch,” Chance explains. “We just had cookies. See?”
I glance back at the paper. Small dotted circles are randomly drawn on the porch and grass.
“Those are chocolate chip,” Chance explains.
“I loved our cookie story times,” I tell him.
Tears don’t come in their usual rush. A soft wave of sadness rises, and I breathe through it.
“We sure are looking forward to hearing Miss Daisy read here at the library,” Mrs. Lockett says.
“Yep. She’s good at it,” Chance says.
I can almost hear the encouragement Cass gave me at our last book club:It won’t be the same, but it will be a new kind of sweetness.
The day at the library moves slowly. It’s quieter than the bookshop. Same tasks, different walls—shelving returns, categorizing, recommending books, planning community events.
On the way home, I grab a slice from The Pizza Den. Parking my car outside my house, I double check for any sign of my neighbor. When the coast is clear, I hurry up the walkway and into my side of the duplex, exhaling a long, private sigh as the door clicks shut.
I plate my pizza and grab my laptop. I haven’t checked my personal email all day. We weren’t busy, but I kept myself occupied. It’s a new rhythm—one I’ll adapt to over time.
I don’t feel like talking to my friends tonight. They’ve been amazing, but I crave silence. Well—silence, and maybe a note from the host ofBurning Through the Pages. I’m hopeful he responded to my last email.
I crack open my laptop, take a bite of pepperoni, and peek at my inbox. The grin comes before I can stop it—a new message from the host. Subject line:Frisking?I laugh out loud.
Dear M&M:
The image of you frisking a member of that family is firmly planted in mymind, thank you very much. Pied Piper whistle? I see what you mean.
