Page 2 of Haunted Hearts
Well, fuck.
As I hop in my truck and head off toward the center of town, I heave a sigh. I love my brother, but having Zeke here with me in Hawthorne Bay is… rough. Here I am, forgoing the new laptop I actually need so I can scrape enough together for those student loans, and he’s passed out on my couch. Let’s just sayI’m starting to understand why his roommates back in Boston pulled the plug on him.
But honestly? Financial reasons aside, Zeke’s behavior is just another reason to keep on pushing myself. Keep myself in line. It’s been six years since Mom died. My brothers—and my sister—needsomekind of responsible adult in their lives. God knows it’s the least I can do, given it’s my fault things ended up the way they did.
I may be one closed-off motherfucker, but at least I’ve got my shit together. And I need to keep it that way—for them.
But no pressure, Will. None whatsoever.
two
LYDIA
I’ve been waitingmonthsfor this meeting. With only 4,000 people in Hawthorne Bay, you wouldn’t think it’d be so hard to snag some time with the director of the town’s Historical Society. But here we finally are—and this woman, Eliza Corey, is staring at me across the town hall conference table with something that looks a little like pity.
“So there you have it,” I say, putting on a cheerful smile despite the look on her face. I slide the binder I’ve prepared across the table. “I think it’s really a no-brainer that the library is the perfect candidate for historical landmark status. Not only would it be a huge honor to the town—formally recognizing a building that holds so much history—but, with the right positioning, it’d also be a tourist draw for Hawthorne Bay. You know, a slice of New England lore and all that.”
Mrs. Corey leafs through the pages in the binder, her pale pink nails gleaming in the overhead lights. I shift in my seat, waiting for her to say something. Throughout my pitch, she smiled and nodded politely, but I’d be lying if I didn’t admit I was expecting more enthusiasm. As the assistant librarian, I’m probably biased, but the Hawthorne Bay library is one of the oldest buildings in town, and it’sbeautiful.
“Ms. Chandler,” Mrs. Corey begins. Her fingers play with the edges of the binder. “I’ll preface this by saying you make a compelling case. And the materials you’ve put together—the research you’ve done—is extremely thorough.”
My heart sinks. She’s saying all the right things, but there’s something in her voice that tells me I’m not going to like what she says next. Mrs. Corey clears her throat and continues.
“That being said, I’m sure you’re as aware as anyone of the renovation project that’ll be kicking off in just a couple of months.”
“Of course,” I say, trying not to show the irritation that creeps in every time I think about that damn renovation project. I know I should be happy about it—renovating the library and all—but it means we’ll have to close temporarily, moving operations to a trailer that Nancy, my boss, is calling The Bookmobile. Oh, well. It’ll be worth the hassle in the end, having a nicer facility for the community. “Actually, I’m headed to the stakeholder meeting after this. I thought I could share with them the research I’ve put together, let them know the Historical Society’s on board.”
“Hmm…” Mrs. Corey rises from her chair. “I appreciate your enthusiasm, but my concern is that some of the plans for the renovation won’t be compatible with the criteria for historical landmarks.”
I stare at her, confused. “Won’t be compatible? The project may slow things down, but the library will be inbettershape once everything’s done. Besides, my understanding is that the plans are still being drawn up. There’s still time to make sure everything’s aligned—hence the stakeholder meeting today.”
Mrs. Corey cocks her head at me. The pitying expression is back. “Ms. Chandler—Lydia—has anyone on the board… talked with you?”
“Talked with me?”
“Yes,” she says. “I’m not sure it’s my place to say anything, but I think there may have been some… wires crossed. Nancy Cohen is your boss, right? I’d suggest taking this up with her.”
Mrs. Corey gestures to the door, and I follow her numbly out to the hallway. She hands me back the binder I put together, full of newspaper clippings, historical references, and photographs from throughout the years. As I take it from her, she pats my hand.
“I can tell how much the library means to you, Lydia,” she says. “And if it were up to me, we’d preserve every facet. It’s a beautiful piece of history.”
The silentbuthangs between us.
Mrs. Corey’s face is kind as she holds the front door open for me. She tells me to take care, and I must say it back to her, but I don’t remember because all I can think about is getting out of that building.
I stop on the corner, gulping in lungfuls of crisp, autumn air. Above me, the maple trees have begun to change color, their fiery leaves a burst of orange and red against the clear blue sky. For a moment, I close my eyes, willing myself to focus on the scent of salt drifting inland from the sea. I remind myself I’ve got this, that the world isn’t ending.
Because honestly, even though it sounds dramatic, learning that something’s going on with the Hawthorne Bay library—something I haven’t been told about even though Iworkthere—feels kind of like the world is ending. Or at least, likemyworld is ending. I feel like I’ve just been told my childhood home is being bulldozed.
Mrs. Corey said she could tell how much the library meant to me. And she’s right—it does mean a lot. But she doesn’t know thehalfof it.
She doesn’t know it’s the last place I spent a morning with my mom before we found out she was dying. I was ten that summer,and Mom—the head librarian back then—took me along with her to work that day. I sat cross-legged on the floor beneath the circulation desk, a pile ofAmerican Girlbooks next to me, and read while Mom worked. The library was pretty busy that morning, so we didn’t talk much, but every once in a while I’d tap Mom’s leg and she’d duck down to help me pronounce a word I didn’t know. After lunch, I went along to the doctor with her, and when she came back out into the waiting room, her face was weirdly drawn. I don’t think they knew for sure then that she was dying—she had to go back in for more scans, which is when everything turned into a blur—but I do know Mom didn’t let go of my hand the whole drive home.
I remember thinking we never should’ve left the library. We should’ve stayed there, planted right at the circulation desk, for the rest of time. In the library, surrounded by the smell of books and the rustle of pages, life couldn’t touch us. I think about it every time I sit at the desk now, scanning books and looking up titles for kids like I once was.
Mrs. Corey also doesn’t know how little Lydia Chandler, still trying to forget what it felt like when her dead mom’s hand turned cold in hers, used to take down all theNancy Drewbooks the library owned and curl up in the corner, reading them one by one. Her mom always lovedNancy Drew. Does she know how that same little girl would slide down the great wooden banister when the librarian who was no longer her mom wasn’t looking, pretending she was a princess in a castle—whose father would be home that night, instead of at the bar? Does she know about the naps in the enclave? The hiding spots in the basement? No?
Then with all due respect, Mrs. Corey doesn’t knowshit.
