Shep glanced at the bed. I stifled a nervous giggle, trying again to breathe slowly through my nose—but in a sexy way—to calm myself down. It had been so long since I’d kissed anyone I really, really liked. He was looking at me like I was an ice cream cone. That was encouraging.
But there was something pricking at me, a fear. “Shep, I have to ask. I thought that you had a—”
“Dodie,” he interrupted, his voice low. “When Sullivan died, everything became so clear. I wanted to be by your side. There was no other choice for me, no other person. Knowing how sad you’d be . . . that’s why I was there that day.”
“For me,” I murmured, even though a part of me had already suspected. “But how did you know?”
“I know Sullivan was one of your closest friends and the reason you’re here in Chatsworth. This is a pretty small town, and about four people told me that when I asked about you. Also, you have that picture of Terabithia on the desk of the library. And I always see you looking at it. It didn’t take much to put two and two together.” He gazed around the room, his eyes resting on four other pictures of Terabithia mixed in with photos of my family.
I blushed.
“You’re really beautiful when you blush.”
Now my cheeks were on fire. I felt a twinge of sadness—any thought of Sullivan and Terabithia would probably cause that for quite a while—but it faded as I met Shep’s eyes again.
After wrapping his arm around the small of my back, he tugged me in so that our bodies were pressed up against each other. His soapy smell was even more intense up close. I could hear my pulse pounding. He kissed me tenderly on the cheek and, finally, trailed down to my lips.
In the weeks that followed, whenever I wasn’t at school, the library, or with Terabithia (or on the phone filling in a cheering Maddie or a very enthusiastic Mom and Dad), Shep and I were more or less inseparable.
For the most part, my life before Shep had been simple and delicious like a coffee ice cream and hot fudge sundae. Now, thanks to him, it was an even more brightly colored and brightly flavored sorbet sundae with lots of things in it that not only tasted good but were good for me. Not like flax or anything. Maybe pineapple in season. Mango too. Somehow familiar yet exotic. But most of all, more irresistible and more delicious!
Still, I wondered about what had happened with his ex-girlfriend Quinn. He never mentioned her. Of course it wasn’t hard to find out the basics in a town this small, especially thanks to Mike’s loose lips at the checkout desk. Apparently, she was from Derbyshire, and they had met over the summer at a party on a boat. I asked him about her once when we were falling asleep on one of the first few nights we spent together.
His face tightened, but he said lightly, “We were in different places and wanted different things.”
“Like what?” I asked. I sensed his reluctance to talk about her, but I was already worried about how strong my feelings were.
Shep sighed. “Quinn wanted a baby, and I was nowhere near ready to have a child with her.”
I nodded, thinking, Did he feel any differently now, one month later? Was it her? Or would he feel the same way now no matter whom he was with? I had a feeling I wouldn’t like the answer to any of those questions.
—TEN—
May 2008
I had seen Trey Parks admiring Melissa Boyd at the library a number of times before, a slow smile on his face as she read to her daughter, Deandra. Today they were reading Moo, Baa, La La La! A total classic.
“You two know each other, right?” I asked him. I would have introduced him to her, but I had seen them making small talk a few weekends earlier.
“Yes, we’re in a night class together on bookkeeping at Eagle Ridge Community College.”
“That’s nice. So . . . have you hung out after class at all?” Being the town librarian had clearly emboldened my nosy side.
“We’ve had coffee a few times.” But, his face said, I’m clearly stuck in the friend zone.
The week before, at Foodie Book Club, Melissa had told me—over truffles and spiced hot cocoa inspired by Chocolat—that her divorce had been really messy and she was much more interested in chocolate than men at the moment. But now Trey and I both watched as Channing Robison, one of the investors in the mall project, tapped her on the shoulder and asked her a question. She laughed. Ugh, he was flirting with her. He had a ridiculously handsome face and a ridiculously large ego to match. Melissa seemed to be responding.
Trey was no longer smiling. He looked as though he had missed out on the annual crop of Cadbury Mini Eggs. (That had happened to me once, and I’d had to send out an all-points bulletin to my art school friends across the country. Thankfully, my buddy Jenny Doig in La Habra, California, had come upon a CVS employee trying to hide a whole box for herself and had managed to wheedle a few bags.)
Trey was not ostentatiously handsome like Channing, but he had kind eyes and a sweet, boyish face. He was serious and steady and always offering to help unpack book deliveries or fix the clogged toilet in the bathroom or change light bulbs simply because he was a nice guy who liked to be helpful (and because he was a big fan of the library). He reminded me of Gabriel Oak from Far from the Madding Crowd—overlooked by Bathsheba Everdene in favor of the dashing, selfish Frank Troy.
Trey left before seeing Melissa give Channing her number. Kendra did notice, however, with a grimace in my direction.
When we were closing up, I told her, “You know how people request books they want added to the library on the comment cards? I’m thinking about taking that a step further and starting a year-round Secret Book Santa.”
“How would that work?”
“I’ll keep a wish list at the checkout desk, and then when people see a book on the list that they have, they can donate it anonymously. That makes it more of a treat for the giver and the receiver, don’t you think?”
“Yes, I do. When are you going to start it?”
“Well, maybe I will kick it off with a couple discreet donations myself this week and get it going before summer starts.”
“Such as . . . ?”
I leaned in closer. “I was going to give Melissa a copy of Far from the Madding Crowd.” I raised my eyebrows at her.
She gave me a wry smile back. “Maybe I should secretly donate a copy of Emma to you.”
“What do you mean?” I feigned innocence.
“You know exactly what I mean. Are you about to create a matchmaking mess?”
I laughed. “Of course not. I just don’t want Melissa to miss out on Trey; he’s a gem. Whereas Channing Robison is a lump of coal.”
“Very shiny coal with cheekbones that could cut diamonds,” she noted.
“And an ego that could smother a canary.”
Kendra rolled her eyes. “I think we’ve taken this mining metaphor one step too far.”
“I agree. What do you think of the Secret Book Santa idea, though? Seriously.”
“I love it. You should also encourage people to donate books they overhear someone saying they want to read so people get surprises even if they aren’t signed up on the wish list.”
“Definitely!” I would have Elmira decorate the wish list sheets. My spine tingled at the thought of the donations and how the receivers would feel when they got the books they wanted . . . or a book they needed but never even knew they wanted.
My relationship with the library had started to deepen the way that comes from knowing your loved one well. Each time, before I entered, I would stand in my kitchen and peek through the sunroom door. The faint lemony scent that had been there when I moved in had now been fully replaced by the smell of old paper. Each hand that touched a book, that gently flipped the pages or pressed them down so the spine would lie flat or even bent the paperback around itself . . . each of these acts of devotion would release the delicious secret scent inside.
The Chatsworth Library, meanwhile, was completely on hold. Geraldine had told me that funding for repairs had run out before they could
put in modern heating and air-conditioning. With school ending and summer vacation on the way, it didn’t seem as though anything would happen before the fall.
“You all right?” I asked Shep. He was staring out the window in the library, head cocked to the side like he was listening for something.
“Oh, yeah, sure.” He quickly looked away.
I shivered, doused with a cold wave of déjà vu. This wasn’t the first time Shep had acted twitchy lately. Or the second. After weeks of being nearly inseparable, my time with Shep suddenly became more rare once summer hit. It was always really busy for him. He loved boats like I loved books. He even built little ones. (Little as in for a couple people, not as in the toy variety.) There were his trips to go sailing and his work on a new boat he was thinking of selling, plus my shuttling from Mackie and Jeff’s to see Terabithia and trying to keep up the lending library. Now that it was summer and I didn’t have school, I had extended the hours to 10:00 a.m.–7:00 p.m. Monday through Thursday and 10:00 a.m.–3:00 p.m. on Friday and Saturday.
“Is something wrong?”
“Nope. Should I wear my khakis on Friday?”
Okay. Guess he didn’t want to talk about whatever was bothering him. It didn’t seem worth pushing it; our relationship was still too new. I wouldn’t be the nosy nag no matter how curious I was. Most of our time together was as delicious as anything I ever could have dreamed up in all my rom-com-inspired fantasies, so it seemed better to let him open up when he was ready and in the meantime enjoy every second we spent together.
Shep and I had planned a Friday-night fancy date—a wine tasting and gallery tour followed by dinner at a new French restaurant called L’Epicure. A few of the old stores on the main street of Chatsworth had closed as leases went up, and in the past few years some new owners from Boston and New York had opened art galleries, turning a part of the town center into a little cultural destination. It had already been that way when I had arrived last year, but I had barely visited any of them yet.
I took extra time getting ready, straightening my hair before curling it and donning a new rose-colored dress with the most divine little darts near the waist and the faintest hint of ruching on the sleeves.
Shep’s eyes lit up when he saw me.
“You look beautiful,” he said, kissing my cheek, lingering to take in my perfume. I kissed his neck.
“So do you,” I said into his collar.
“You ready?”
The first gallery had artful black-and-white photos of wild animals. The second had bright Miró-style abstracts. The last had breathtaking panoramic views of various places in South America so vivid you could almost smell the fires burning on the pampas or feel the air grow colder as you rose higher in the foothills of the Andes. Shep looked utterly rapt.
Over caramelized figs with Gruyère and balsamic drizzle on puff pastry at L’Epicure, Shep said, “What a coincidence, seeing those amazing pictures of South America tonight.”
I felt a chime of fear remembering his vacant look over the past few weeks instead of his kindled-from-within one now.
“What’s that?” I asked cheerfully anyway.
“Those photos of South America. The Amazon. It’s my dream to go there. Just think of what I could learn about building boats.”
“That would be amazing,” I agreed, silently subtracting the dengue fever and oversize bats that could carry you off into the jungle before you could scream help.
“I want to make it happen soon. Wouldn’t it be amazing?” Shep asked. He was clearly not listening since I’d just used the same word.
“Totally,” I assented.
“So you would go with me?”
“Oh, um, sure,” I said, conjuring up visions of being tangled in the sheets in a bed with one of those diaphanous (but still highly protective) mosquito nets.
“You know what would be even more amazing?” he steamed on.
“Hmm?” I said, sopping up the last of the balsamic drizzle with a piece of brioche.
“Living there for a few months. You know, having a home base, being able to travel and see all the natural wonders . . .”
I froze. A few months? Not just for a vacation? Shep continued listing pros until he noticed my nineteenth-century-photograph posture.
“Do?” he asked quizzically.
“I wouldn’t want to leave my family . . . or . . . or . . . Terabithia . . . ,” I stuttered, afraid of crushing his dream for us. But I couldn’t help it.
“Oh, yes, of course,” Shep backpedaled. He looked like a kid who had gotten pink bunny pajamas for Christmas instead of a Red Ryder BB gun.
My stomach sank. Shep’s heart was somewhere else—somewhere I couldn’t follow him. He’s going to leave, I thought. Just when I finally found him, he’s going to leave.
—ELEVEN—
June 2008
Mackie’s eyes were red when she opened the door to me a few days later. I had become accustomed to it in the two months since Sullivan’s death and never said a word, just gave her a hug. I missed Sullivan so much, too, but I didn’t want to add to her parents’ burden.
“Dada! Dada!” Terabithia was shouting my “name” from the other room. It was the come-hither shout, not the here-I-come shout.
“He’s playing with blocks. Go on ahead, and I’ll get us some lemonade,” Mackie said. The phone rang. “Excuse me.”
Each time I built a tower of blocks, Terabithia would giggle and clap. Then, with a twinkle in his eye, he’d sweep the tower with his arm, sending blocks cascading across the mat.
“Yes, yes, I understand,” Mackie was saying, her voice level even though I could see her wiping a tear away as she stood in the door watching Terabithia. “I’ll speak to Jeff about it, and we’ll be back in touch in a day or two. Okay, thank you. Bye-bye.” Mackie stared at the phone for a long time after hanging up.
Why was Terabithia grunting now? Oh, because in my distraction I had stopped stacking blocks for him to knock over. He was like a pint-size foreman bent on destruction.
The sounds of pouring and the clink of ice cubes filtered in from the kitchen. Gripping a glass of lemonade, Mackie sat down on the couch and watched us, sipping quickly. Boo’s round little arms pushed off the ground, and he toddled over to her, reaching for the glass.
“Oh, honey, I’m so sorry,” she exclaimed. “How rude of me to forget all about you two.”
She returned with a sippy cup of milk for him and a tall glass like hers for me. Condensation sparkled on the sides, and a few torn mint leaves lazily circled the ice. We all drank in silence except for the occasional click of the cup against Terabithia’s new teeth.
When he was bathed and tucked into bed, I asked Mackie gently, “What’s going on? If you want someone to talk to about it . . . I mean, besides Jeff . . .”
She waved my concerns away. “I’m happy to tell you; I consider you part of our family now.”
Wow. Part of their family.
“Jeff and I aren’t young like we used to be . . . obviously. I mean, we’re in pretty good health—knock wood—for our age . . . but full-time care for a baby . . .” She paused, then started again. “We’re in our midseventies. He needs a hip replacement in the next year, and he’ll be recovering for more than a month. His angina has gotten worse, and the doctor says he has to find a way to reduce his stress levels. And with my eyesight being what it is, I can’t drive anymore. The fact is, as much as it guts me to say it, Terabithia would be better off in a household with younger caregivers. I haven’t slept more than three hours a night since Sullivan died. First, I was up all night worrying about how losing her would impact Boo. Then, after a few weeks, I started to worry about the impact on him if he stayed with us; if, in a few years, our health worsened when he was still much too young to know how to take care of himself but when it might be too late for him to find a set of parents who would look after him if anything happened to us. We don’t have forever to wait. We have to make the hard choices for Terabithia. Babies ar
e much more likely to be well adjusted if adopted before the age of two.”
My heart stopped. I tried to breathe slowly through my nose. Adopted?
Seeing the horror in my eyes, Mackie burst into tears to my even greater horror. “I know, just the thought . . . of . . . Ter—with other people.”
Now I was crying, too, looking at Terabithia’s door with panic as though someone might already have snatched him away. Deep down, I had known this was a possibility based on Mackie’s and Jeff’s ages, but I hadn’t been able to bring myself to think about it. How could I? Terabithia was going to be sent far away where I’d never see him again.
After a few eternal minutes, Mackie blew her nose and said in a more collected voice, “I don’t know what Sullivan would have wanted us to do. I never thought . . . I never thought my daughter would die before me.”
I held up my hand, jumping to my feet. “I’m sorry. I can’t talk anymore right now. I’ll call you tomorrow.” I gave Mackie a quick hug, then sprinted away without missing the look of surprise and hurt in her eyes.
I had to get out of there. I didn’t want to say something I would regret. Like, “How could you think Sullivan would want her baby to end up with strangers?” I knew it was unfair. But I couldn’t help feeling that way.
I called Mackie the next morning. After Terabithia grunted for the phone twice and playfully hung up both times, I got Mackie long enough to say, “I’m so sorry for last night. I was being selfish and, frankly, panicking at the thought of losing him. You and Jeff are doing the right thing.”
Did I really believe that? For the rest of the weekend I wasn’t able to stop thinking about what she’d told me.
“Let me handle that,” Shep offered when I dropped the sixth book in a row while we were reshelving. “I’ll finish that stack.” Watching his wrists while he made quick work of the rest momentarily distracted me.
“Hey, Do,” he said later when we were washing dishes. “Why don’t we switch? I’ll wash, you dry?”
The Lending Library Page 13