by Gayle Roper
Abby reached to him with her free hand and brushed his red bangs aside. He didn’t quite flinch, but it was close enough that her heart constricted. Did people raise their hands to him only in anger? “Can you tell me your name again but louder?”
“Monty,” he all but screamed.
Abby smiled, ignoring all the curious people, drawn either by the original incident or the boy’s yell. “Hello, Monty.” She made her voice as warm as she could.
He looked at her hand holding his and tried to pull free again. “Let go of me!”
Abby maintained her grip. Lord, please no bruises on this little wrist. All I need is for some lady to go to Nan with the story that I purposely bruised her son. “Do you like the library, Monty?”
He shrugged. “It’s okay.”
“Did anyone ever tell you that you have to be quiet in the library?”
“My mom.”
So where was the woman while her son committed mayhem? “Is she looking for a book of her own to read?”
“She’s shopping.”
Abby frowned. Using the library as a free baby-sitter was not kosher, to put it mildly. “Is that little boy over there your brother?”
Monty shook his head. “I don’t have any brothers.”
Abby waited for more information, but none came.
“Have you known him long?”
“I don’t know him at all.”
Interesting. Abby pointed to the book still sitting on the table. “What were you reading?”
“A book about Elmo,” he said, shoulders hunched like there was something wrong in reading a Muppets book.
Abby laughed. “I like Elmo too, but I like Cookie best.”
Monty looked at her in surprise. “He said it was a baby book.” He looked toward the boy whom he’d wanted to brain. Not surprisingly, the boy was gone. Abby looked toward the front door and saw him being pulled outside by his mother. She wondered if she’d ever see them in the library again.
“Who cares what he said. We don’t think it’s for babies.” Abby waved her hand at the nearby bookshelves. “Do you know why we have so many books? Because people like all kinds of books. I bet I like some you don’t.”
Monty looked at her like she was crazy. “Of course you do. You’re a big people. You don’t have pictures.”
Abby nodded. “Very true. Now I’ve got to tell you something, Monty. You’re not allowed to hit people in the library. Not with your hands and not with a chair. You said you know about the rule here that says you need to be really quiet so that other people can read and work without being bothered. Hitting people isn’t being very quiet.”
“He made me mad.” Monty’s jaw was set.
“But that doesn’t mean you can hit him with a chair. It would have hurt him a lot.”
He nodded. “Yep.”
Abby looked at him, her expression stern. “Nope.” She stood. “Come on. Let’s get Elmo. Then you can wait for your mom by the front door.” Where someone would see her and grab her when she returned, telling her a few of the facts of life.
Abby walked across the library to the checkout desk, Monty in tow. She smiled at the perky old lady with blue-tinted hair who was manning the desk. “Mae, this is Monty. He needs to sit with you for a minute while I speak to Nan.”
Mae looked over the desk at the little boy. “Okay, kiddo, come on back here and take that seat. But you got to be quiet, you know. This is the library.”
Monty dragged himself around the desk with the enthusiasm of a toddler going to the doctor’s office for an injection. He climbed into the chair Mae indicated and opened his Elmo book. He put out a finger, touched the picture of the red creature, a slight smile tugging his lips.
Abby’s heart bled a bit as she watched him, a boy who dealt better with a red puppet than with people. She turned to go to Nan’s office only to find her standing not five feet away.
“Well done,” Nan said.
“Thanks.” The two walked away from the checkout station to Nan’s office where they could talk unimpeded. Abby told the story while Nan listened intently. She concluded, “The poor kid’s a little volcano just waiting to erupt.”
Nan grimaced. “Just so he doesn’t erupt here.
Abby nodded, aware now that the crisis was past that she had wrenched her hip, doubtless in that dive across the table. The pain was fierce. She was seeing Celia at five for a massage, but five seemed days away.
“Go get lunch,” Nan said. “Mae and I’ll keep an eye out for the mother and try to talk to her.”
Abby limped back to her desk, wincing with every step. Tylenol. She needed some Tylenol. She couldn’t take one of her strong pain meds because they made her too fuzzy.
“That was a most interesting situation.” Sean sat in her chair, looking at her over her own desk.
“Sean!” She’d forgotten he was here, but he didn’t need to know that. Besides, a handsome man was always good for what ailed you.
“I hope you don’t mind my sitting here.” He rose and stood with his hands in his pockets. “The other chairs all looked a bit too small, to say nothing of a bit weak for my weight.”
“And I’d hate to see you sent crashing to the floor.” She walked around the desk and reached into the top drawer. “You’d probably sue us just for the fun of it.” Her smile told him she wasn’t serious. She pulled out a bottle of Tylenol, tipping three into her hand.
“Three?” Sean looked at her in question.
“Wrenched my hip grabbing Monty. If I don’t do something, I’ll be crippled by evening.”
Sean took her arm. “Here. You sit. I’ll get you some water.”
“No, don’t bother. I have some here.” She reached into her bottom drawer this time, pulling out a bottle of water. She broke the seal and swallowed the Tylenol.
“Let’s go somewhere for lunch, okay?” he said. “That’s why I came in the first place.”
“To have lunch with me?”
He laughed at her expression. “You needn’t look so surprised. I like to get to know a pretty girl when I meet one.”
“Checking her out, huh?” Abby picked up her purse. “Okay, let’s go.”
He drove downtown to Bitsi’s. “They have great food and are one of the places open this early. This weekend will bring the town alive until after Labor Day, but today Bitsi’s is still the best bet.”
They took a booth and placed their order.
Sean put his elbow on the table, leaning his chin into his palm. “I’ve got to tell you that I never knew a job like yours could be so exciting. I thought all you did was put numbers on the spines of books and yell at kids who returned stuff late.”
“We are a full-service facility. Numbers on spines, yell for silence, read stories, prevent homicides.” Abby opened her napkin and spread it across her lap. It wouldn’t do to have the tomato in her BLT drip onto her gauze skirt, though if it did, it’d get lost in the pattern. “Fortunately I don’t often see trouble like this morning’s.”
“What did the other kid do to set the redhead off?”
“He told Monty his Muppets book was for babies.”
“And Monty thought this was an offense worth decapitation.”
“You know, most of us work up to it before we lose our tempers. One thing happens, then another. We slowly get more and more angry. We start at one, working our way up to ten over time. If we’re wise, somewhere in the early build-up of the negative emotions, we confront the problem and solve it.”
She thought briefly of her anger at her mother. She feared she was past the early build-up stage, and no solution was in sight. What a mess. At least beaning her mother was an option she wouldn’t consider.
She pushed her potato chips around her plate and continued. “Not only do kids like Monty have no problem-solving skills—that’s largely because of their age—they’re at eight on the anger scale all the time. There’s no building of emotion; it’s everything on high boil, waiting to scald. Brain the kid because he
says you’re reading a baby book.”
Sean considered that idea. “I’ve met a few people like Monty, always angry. Makes me think of a guy I know named McCoy. The least provocation, and it’s Mount St. Helens all over again.”
“Don’t you wonder why?” Abby sipped her iced tea. “What’s happened in Monty’s life to make him so angry? Is it his mother going off and leaving him? When I pushed his hair back, he jumped like he expected me to hurt him. Is he being physically abused?”
Abby thought of Vivienne deMarco. She seemed furious always, even when she was purring over Sean or Rick or Marsh. Whatever Rocco deMarco had done, she was livid, and she wasn’t giving an inch.
“Do you think Monty can’t help it?” Sean asked. He had a large order of french fries that he bathed in vast quantities of ketchup. Abby shuddered. He saw her reaction and smiled. “I can’t help my ketchup fetish. Eggs. Steak. Meat loaf. Hamburgers. Hot dogs. Cheese steaks. Toast.”
“Toast?” She watched a glob of ketchup fall from the fries as he brought some to his mouth. “Poor man. I’m sure there’s a twelve-step program for you somewhere.”
“Hello, I’m Sean and I’m a ketchupaholic.”
It was a relief to leave problems like Monty for a time and listen to Sean’s funny stories of his miniature patients. No wonder he was such a successful doctor. It was obvious he enjoyed all the children he treated.
“I’m delighted Karlee is doing so well,” Abby said. “I still feel that somehow this is all my fault.”
“Come on, Abby. You know better than that.”
“I do. It’s just that I see this little girl in pink overalls and a ponytail with a pink scrunchie skipping along, singing, happy with life and herself. Then—” She spread her hands. “Nothing.”
“Just relax. If it’s going to come, it will. If not—and with hysterical amnesia often memory doesn’t return—there’s nothing you can do about it.”
“How about hypnosis?”
He looked thoughtful. “Have the police suggested it?”
She shook her head, pulling the last of the iced tea through her straw.
“Then I wouldn’t worry about it.” Sean put the tip on the table. “Time to get you back.”
It was five minutes before one when they pulled into the library parking lot. Abby watched a young mom with three young children parade past with arms full of books. “I wonder if Monty’s mother has come for him yet.”
“If she hasn’t, you’ve got part of the reason for his anger.”
“How does he learn to control himself if there’s no one to teach him?”
“I’m guessing he doesn’t.”
“That’s too terrible to think about. He has to learn to control himself. Part of becoming a responsible adult is learning to act appropriately.”
“You think all adults act appropriately?”
“Your cynicism is showing.” Abby pushed the car door open. “And no, I don’t. I know better. Just look at the person who hit Karlee.”
Sean nodded. “May I call you or stop by the house?” he asked as she made to shut the door. “Maybe we could go somewhere together.”
“You surprise me,” she said. The last thing she ever expected was for Sean Schofield to take an interest in her. “But certainly you can call.” Whether she’d actually go out with him she could decide later. She shut the door and headed up the walk.
“That’s an example of appropriate guy behavior when he sees a pretty girl,” he called through the window he lowered. “Like we were just talking, you know.”
Laughing, she walked into the library. She was relieved to see that Monty wasn’t behind Mae’s desk. Of course, neither was Mae. She’d been replaced by another volunteer, a white-haired gentleman with a bushy mustache and a cravat.
A cravat, Abby thought. A real cravat. That’s sort of the sartorial equivalent of milieu.
Abby sat at her desk, realizing as she did so that her hip wasn’t hurting too much at the moment. Five o’clock and Celia no longer looked quite so far off.
She saw that someone had put the Elmo book on her desk. There was a slip sticking out of the top, marking a page. The message read: I’m sorry. He did it when I wasn’t looking. Mae. Abby opened the book and found a page torn from top to bottom, most of it gone. All that was left of what must have been a large picture of Elmo was one part of his foot. Monty had decided to take his friend home with him.
Abby felt a black veil of sadness descend as she thought of Monty. Poor kid.
What about me? Have I become an adult version of Monty? Am I bubbling at an eight, a nine, a ten? Granted it’s taken me a long, long time to get this mad, but the irate feelings don’t go away.
She heard her own words. “Part of becoming a responsible adult is learning to act appropriately.”
She stuffed her purse in her bottom drawer and pulled a manila folder toward her. She opened it and began studying the material.
“Abby, excuse me.”
Abby looked up at Nan Fulsom. Standing just behind her was a Jimmy Stewart look-alike. The expressions on both their faces were serious.
“There’s been another note,” Nan said.
Twenty-nine
ABBY LAY ON her stomach with her face resting on the padded doughnut that stuck out from the end of the massage table. She knew that when she turned over, she’d have crease marks on her face and the front of her hair would be an absolute ruin from the pressure. Who cared? Time and a curling wand would correct the problems.
She was so glad to be there, to anticipate the relief that Celia’s magic fingers would bring. Her whole right side felt as taut as a violin string and as twisted as a pretzel.
It was that one sentence: There’s been another note.
When Nan had spoken those words, all the relaxed feelings she’d experienced over the course of her lunch with Sean had vanished, dissipating like steam rising from a boiling pot. Instead, the talons of tension sank deep. As a result, she’d had back spasms off and on all afternoon.
“Whoa, Abby.” Celia gently ran her hands down Abby’s back and side. “You’re in spasm from L5 to S1.
“Tell me something I don’t know.” Abby sounded cranky even to her own ears.
“Okay. Your erector spinae are contracted and tight, and your pelvic crest is contracted into the gluts,” Celia offered. “How’s that?”
“I’m sorry if I sound grumpy, Celia. It’s been a hard day.”
Celia moved to Abby’s feet and began massaging. “After Aunt Bernice and Poor Uncle Walter, I’m immune to grumpy. What happened?”
Abby sighed as Celia’s fingers dug into her muscles. “It started with one little boy trying to brain another with a chair. To prevent it, I had to dive across a table. Not a good move for someone like me.”
“Did you save kid two from kid one?”
“I did, but it was a close call. If I hadn’t been looking or if I hadn’t been near, kid two would be in the hospital as we speak.” Abby winced as a tight spot in her calf reacted to the pressure of Celia’s thumb.
“Am I pushing too hard?” Celia asked, lightening her touch.
“No. Keep up the pressure. I need some major kinks released.”
Abby heard Celia pour some more oil and rub it into her hands. Then the soothing strokes began again. As casually as she could manage, Abby said, “Sean took me to lunch.”
“Sean Schofield?” Celia laughed her surprise. “He actually did something social in the middle of the day? I sort of got the impression that he lived and breathed his practice. I mean, anyone who stops to see patients after midnight on a Friday night has to have a limited social calendar.”
“Well, he did come out to the house Saturday evening and Monday.”
“Yeah, he did. In time to get fed both times.”
“Celia Fitzmeyer, you are a cynic.”
“I’m a realist. You’ll notice there was food involved with Sean’s visit this time too. Makes you wonder if it’s true about the way to a man�
�s heart. Where did he take you?”
“Bitsi’s.”
“He disappoints me. I thought, being a doctor and all, that he’d take you someplace ritzy.”
“Not for lunch on a workday. There’s not enough time.”
“Excuses, excuses.”
They fell silent as Celia finished working on Abby’s left leg. Since this part of her didn’t hurt much at all, the massage felt wonderful.
“So,” Celia said as she chopped the edges of her hands up and down Abby’s leg, “you’ve got both Marsh and Sean chasing you, eh?”
Now it was Abby’s turn to laugh. “Sean just wanted to see where I worked. He said I’d seen him in the hospital, so he wanted to see me in my—” she couldn’t bring herself to say milieu—“setting.”
“I’ve seen him at the hospital too,” Celia said as her fingers attacked a recalcitrant knot in Abby’s right thigh. “But he’s never come to the spa to see me in my setting.”
“Do you want him to?” Abby asked after she caught her breath at the unexpected jolt she felt to her toes as Celia’s thumb dug deep. “Or is Rick enough?”
“He is a sweetie.”
“I take it that means you had fun last night on the boardwalk?”
“I had a wonderful time. So did the girls. I don’t think we’ve laughed so much in a long time. We certainly didn’t last year at Aunt Bernice’s.”
“Did people think he was Rick Mathis or call him Duke?”
“A couple of people kept staring, and one kid asked for his autograph. Poor guy. He’d worn a baseball cap that he kept pulled down over his forehead and a pair of mirrored sunglasses. Still people thought they recognized him.”
“You don’t think he really is Rick Mathis traveling incognito, do you?” Abby asked.
“Come on,” Celia scoffed. “What would a big star like that be doing bunking with a friend here in Seaside?”
“Well, even movie and TV stars have friends and go on vacation. I imagine they don’t like to go alone any more than the rest of the population. Marsh is a senator’s son. Maybe Rick’s one of those stars who gives to political causes, and they met each other that way.”