The Bronte Book Club for Hopeless Romantics

by Laura Briggs

  "Maybe some of them will be back next week," I said. "We might have created some true book lovers this summer."

  "You mean they weren't just here for a certificate and an action figure?"

  "You cynic," I said. I scanned in the stack of Raggedy Ann stories and Daniel Striped Tiger's adventures. "Have a little faith."

  "Somebody sounds more like their old self," said Stacy.

  "I was thinking about a friend's words lately," I said. "They gave me a really good scolding for looking at everybody else's problems, and not my own. So I took their advice and looked at mine instead." I didn't have to be specific to know that Stacy would recognize the Hopeless Romantics' plight, and my own among them.

  "So what happened?" Stacy leaned forward, interestedly.

  "Nothing," I said. "But I learned something about myself, and that's the important part."

  "What?"

  "Sometimes it's too late to get what you want ... but knowing what it is helps you see things more clearly about yourself," I said. "I think I've made progress."

  "I think you're nuts." Stacy laughed. "What are you talking about? Did you actually talk to him?"

  "No," I said. "I think he's interested in someone else." I carefully removed a bookmark from one of the tiger books, careful also to keep my voice perfectly normal as I spoke. "The girl Caroline introduced him to."

  "You are such an idiot, Peg," said Stacy. "Cam is crazy about you." She shook her head. "Believe me, that hasn't changed these past few weeks. If that's what you think, you need to look again. I would love for somebody to look at me the way he looks at you, that's all I'm saying."

  I felt a tiny little pounding in my chest in response to this. Was Stacy right, and I had been reading the wrong signals? But she hadn't been in the cafe the other night, either, when he talked about Summer and seeing her again. Sometimes caring could be mistaken for something more serious — like the butterflies in my stomach could be imagined as a reaction to the cool night air, for instance.

  I lifted the books from the desk and left Stacy to see the patrons instead as I carried them to the children's room. The front door opened and Enrique entered.

  "Paige," he said. "Our scaffolding is all packed away. Your roof is quite safe from the rain now." He held up an envelope. "Shall I give you the bill now, or mail it to you?"

  I had a sudden idea. "You know," I said, "why don't you leave it at the desk? My friend Stacy will take it."

  "Whatever you say," he answered, with a smile. He turned towards the circulation desk in the foyer, where Stacy looked up from the computer and laid eyes on him for the first time since our roofing project began.

  I could see from Enrique's face that he was surprised — pleasantly so — as he met the second member of Alice Wilshire Library's staff.

  For a moment, Stacy was actually struck speechless by the sight of him. "Hi," she said, at last. Her tone one that only came from her when she was nervous, and she always described disdainfully as 'owlish,' for some reason.

  Enrique smiled. "Hello," he said. "We haven't met. Enrique Martinez, at your service." He held out his hand, enfolding hers in a grip that I knew was warm and friendly.

  There was no resisting that charming smile, I thought, as I slipped off with my armload of books, so I wouldn't seem like a curious bystander. I crossed one hand's fingers behind my back, just for good measure. Maybe there was still a chance for love at first sight in this world.

  I caught Romeo napping in a square of sunshine on the children's room rug. While he was asleep, somebody had put a bonnet on him from the old Oopsie Daisy doll, which I removed before he could wake up and be aware of this indignity.

  "Sorry about that," I whispered. From between his paws, I drew the princess hand puppet and returned it to the theater where it belonged.

  On Monday, I came downstairs with my teal-colored suitcase, my beach tote bag, and a beach umbrella I had borrowed from Cam's garage, where anything and everything was apparently stored. I was wearing my red and white striped two-piece swimsuit under my orange sundress, and an old paper straw hat I dug out of my closet, to help shade me from the sun and keep my freckles at their current number. One week of sunshine at the Oceania Bed and Breakfast, where the view from my window would be the morning tide — just me, a beach towel, and my soon-to-be-sunburned nose buried in the pages of a good book.

  Beetie looked ready to go as I deposited the suitcase on my backseat, beside a stack of Neil Gaiman novels and a mountain of guilty pleasure B-grade classics. "That's it," I said. "I guess I'm leaving now." I turned to Stacy, who stood on the steps behind me.

  "Good," she said. "Put the key in the ignition and get out of here before I beg you to stay." She was always a little nervous about being left in charge, even with Marina to help her out.

  "You're sure you're okay with this?" I asked. I had already instructed Stacy on feeding Romeo no more than three times a day, and putting the special drops in the water for him. I had shown her where the emergency backup was to the library catalog, just in case the system was somehow fried during the week I was gone.

  "I know everything I need to know, Peg," she said. "Everything will be fine. It'll be the usual crowd of romance readers and interlibrary loan patrons, and a few extra faces during the usual lunch hour, right?"

  "Just double checking," I said. "You'll come hang out with me at the beach on Saturday evening, right?"

  "Um, maybe," she said. "I ... might have plans." She tried to look nonchalant about this. I did my best not to grin.

  "Well, let me know," I said. I climbed into Beetie's driver seat. "I'll call you when I get there."

  "Have fun," she said. "Even if you're basically getting away by driving a few miles down the road. Shouldn't your vacation take you a little further away from this town?"

  "Save the criticisms for when I come back with a sunburn," I answered, starting the ignition.

  "You're wearing plenty of sun block, aren't you? Remember, we light-complexioned people can't survive without it."

  "Bye now." I tossed my tote bag into the seat next to me, where my flamingo beach towel tumbled out, alongside a copy of Charlotte Bronte's next novel, just so I didn't fall behind the rest of the book club.

  "Have a nice time!" Marina was waving from the front door, where Romeo was drowsily draped across her shoulder like a very ratty fur stole. She was the only person he allowed to carry him around in virtually any position — with her, he managed to be a little of his forgotten kitten self.

  Beetie did indeed purr as I shifted her into gear and circled past the library. I passed Susan's Antiques, where the window display held a new supply of Depression-era glass, and the printing shop, where a special on business cards was posted on a sign out front. Just before Hill o' Beans, I passed Mallory carrying a delivery case of coffee down the sidewalk, and we waved to each other. Through the glass of the coffee shop a moment later, I could see Cam; he looked up as I drove past, and I thought I saw him wave, too. I raised my own hand, just in case, even though he probably couldn't see it.

  I wondered if he was going out with Summer soon. I wondered if Stacy was right about it all, and the only thing left was for me to say three words. I like Cam. And not as just a friend, either.

  Next up, the town square, and my turn leading out to the highway just before it. Ahead, the bronze surface of the town's nautical-themed statue in the bright sunlight, the flowers gleaming in bold colors, and two figures sitting on the bench in front of it.

  It was C.J. and Sophy. Between them, a stack of library books, with Sophy pointing to something on one of the pages. The costume books she had checked out, I thought, which were due back today — and C.J.'s tablet computer was sitting beside him, its graphics momentarily abandoned for whatever image Sophy was showing him. For the first time, they both looked passionate about something ... and happy.

  Friends, I thought. That was the best place to start. And who knows? Maybe there was still a chance after all for the last two lovelor
n members of the Hopeless Romantics' circle.

  That meant there was still a chance for me, too. I caught one last glimpse of Sophy and C.J. laughing before I turned onto the next street, sailing past the old houses and bright flower beds en route to the highway. With the window cracked open, I felt the wind ruffle my hair, and imagined that I already smelled the salt air.

  This vacation was definitely overdue.

  Keep reading for a special excerpt from the sequel, The Miss Marple Reading Circle for Mystery Lovers

  Excerpt from The Miss Marple Reading Circle for Mystery Lovers:

  "If we painted these with luminescent paint, they would look great," Stacy said. "We'll turn off all the lights in the sun porch room, and you won't be able to see the strings that way."

  "I love it. Glowing ghosts," I said. "Ghosts were the lights of the dead in Old World lore, so it's only fitting." I dangled another bag just above the children's room doorway.

  "Did I ever tell you about the time I was in Salem, Massachusetts for Halloween?" asked Marina. She was unfolding orange crepe paper pumpkins to decorate the main desk.

  "Salem?" Stacy and I repeated in unison, exchanging looks.

  "That must've been creepy," said Stacy, shivering a little

  "Did you do anything exciting?" I asked. "Visit the gallows site?"

  "I went to a Halloween party — dressed as a witch, of course," said Marina. "It was at a mansion inspired by the 'seven gables' in Hawthorne's book ... I met that brilliant actor from Hitchcock's Vertigo there. Didn't I tell you this story already?"

  "No," said Stacy and I, in unison once more — with emphasis.

  Marina's stories are always colorful. In the past, long before she was in charge of Wilshire Library, her adventures were numerous, international, and exciting, ranging from romantic European streets to dabbling in archeology and art. Now that she was retired from the job I held, she volunteered to help out whenever she had time (and wasn't having today's smaller version of her adventures). She wore her colorful silk caftans and costume jewelry like symbols of her dramatic personality.

  "Well, I was standing in a dark corner, trying to adjust the Vampira-like dress the costume fitter had given me, when someone nearly set his drink on my pointy hat, which I had set on this little table. So I said —"

  The phone rang just then, and Stacy snapped it up. "Wilshire Lending Library, this is Stacy. How may I help you?" A moment later, she frowned. "Sorry, can't help you." She hung up with a disgusted expression.

  "Who was that?" I asked, puzzled.

  "An annoying guy who keeps asking me out," said Stacy. "I told him I have a boyfriend already. If Enrique were the jealous type, he'd have done something about it ... if I'd had the courage to tell him about it, that is." She crossed her arms, an annoyed expression on her face.

  Stacy had a model's gorgeous looks, to the point that nobody had been brave enough to ask her out until recently, despite her friendly personality. Now that one had been brave enough, others were working up the courage to push their attention on her. I sometimes envied her — as a wistful little sigh blew my curly red bangs away from my eyes. Maybe if I tried that lemon juice trick on my freckles from summer....

  "You know what you haven't discussed yet," said Marina, as she propped the last pumpkin beside the circulation desk's computer. "Who's going to be the ghost?"

  Stacy and I exchanged glances yet again — but this time not with excitement. "Umm...I was thinking ... not me?" I said.

  "No," said Stacy. "No — not me. Uh-uh. I hate theatrical makeup. And ghost noises."

  "But I'm supposed to be handing out the candy," I protested. "I'm the one telling the creepy story about how Alice Wilshire's ghost still walks the halls, coming down every Halloween night at midnight from the attic."

  Alice Wilshire had been a lady with a sense of humor, so I knew she didn't mind being tapped from the grave for this totally-fictional ghost story. Kids loved the idea of the library's former owner lurking in the halls ... although the youngest ones tended to steer clear for the first couple of weeks of November whenever the ghost had made an appearance.

  "I could do that," pleaded Stacy. "Just write it out and I'll read it. With heart."

  "You flunked speech and drama class," I reminded her.

  "Marina? You would make an amazing ghost," said Stacy. "I can just imagine you in makeup and one of those gorgeous Victorian gowns. You would be a vision to knock our patrons dead."

  "Did my bit already, dear girl," said Marina. "I'm afraid my girth is a little too wide for the role, even with the dress's girdle. It has to be you."

  Stacy groaned. "What rotten luck," she said. "I'll be glowing white for the rest of the evening. A target for every ghoul in the haunted house, since every other visitor will probably wear black."

  "You can shower in my bathroom before we go," I promised. "Please, Stace. There's nobody else. Caroline would never volunteer in a million years. And the only other friend I could beg to do it is Cam."

  "He might look good in a dress," hinted Stacy.

  I gave her a look. "All right," she sighed. "I give in. Fine. Show me where the dress is."

  "It's in the wardrobe in the old spare bedroom," I said. "The rose room we converted into the historical research room." I gave up on disentangling bats and strings and took the stairs two at a time, with Stacy trailing behind.

  The 'rosy room,' was currently in disarray, since I was raiding the local history files for the sake of my special display downstairs. In its half-finished state, it contained the original blueprints of the Wilshire mansion, and the architect's own journal, as well as old letters and invitations sent to and from the house. I was asking the library's longest-standing and favorite patrons to all write their favorite library memories on special postcards displayed on the decorative board above it, and I was planning to add some old photographs from the collection, which were currently spread out over the rose room's table.

  "Here we are," I said. I opened up the old hand-carved walnut wardrobe surrounded by bookshelves, one that unlocked with a key from the ring in my pocket. "One ghostly girl dress, perfect for a figure like yours. You won't even need a corset."

  "Neither would you," grumbled Stacy. She pulled the dress out — it was a long evening gown with a train and fitted sleeves, sewn from bone-colored taffeta, and bearing slight traces of makeup stain around the neckline and sleeves. "I guess this time we won't have to rent a wig," she said.

  "Like the years I was the ghost?" I said. Red-tinged strawberry tresses were definitely not appropriate for the ghost of Alice. "Looks like we need to have Marina look at the dress's zipper, though." I remembered now why the ghost failed to put in an appearance the last year — I had gotten my slip caught in the zipper's teeth, and pulled it off its track.

  I grabbed a couple of photos I had already decided to add to the display before we went downstairs. I had put masks on the faces of all the portraits on the second floor hall and the stairway, making the original residents and their family members look more mysterious. Regular paintings and prints had been swapped for some fun vintage artwork featuring black cats, harvest moons, and pumpkin people.

  Marina drew her reading glasses from beneath her scarf, then peered at the dress. "A breeze to fix," she declared. "I'll sew it up in a jiffy as soon as I find my costume first-aid kit."

  "One fully stocked with sequins, beads, and extra seam tape?" I said, twitching my eyebrows up a few times, hinting.

  "Be caught dead with a split seam or a glitterless garment patch?" replied Marina. "Absolutely never. You know me too well." She tucked her eyeglasses away, and began putting silly Halloween-themed dust jackets on a few 'dummy' books I had selected. What Every Young Witch Ought to Know, Spells With Toads, Igor's Guide to Assembling Monsters, among the faux titles I had pasted together with ghoulish font and craft paper.

  "Feel free to borrow the dress for the big Halloween party," I suggested to Stacy, who stuck her tongue out at me in return.
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br />   "I think you should reprise the role as the red-headed ghost," she countered.

  "What are you going as for Caroline's party?" queried Marina. I shrugged my shoulders.

  "I don't know. Maybe I'll follow your example and go as a witch. That's what I'm wearing for the open house, after all."

  I tucked the photos in the display case and closed it again. I glanced up at the memories posted above. An elderly patron's spidery handwriting recounted memories of playing hide and seek in the library, while the baker down the block confessed to a first kiss while doing research in the Dewey Decimal 700s. One of the crayon pictures was simply of a littlest patron's favorite toys in the children's book room.

  I smiled. I loved people's memories of the library. There were two or three generations now who shared recollections of their favorite books in the collection, their favorite place to curl up and read among the many eclectic rooms converted into library sections.

  "Why don't you find out what a friend is going as, and match their costume?" suggested Stacy to me. "Maybe Cam's for instance."

  That innocent tone of voice didn't fool me. Ever since this summer, when I was knee-deep in the problems of the Hopeless Romantics, Stacy had been suggesting that our friend Cam had a secret crush on me. It was silly, really ... although I sometimes wondered if I had one on him. The funny butterflies in my stomach had me thinking I enjoyed the time I spent with him a little too much for a simple friendship.

  "Stop being crazy," I said. "He and Summer have a good thing." Summer was the girlfriend with whom our friend Caroline had fixed him up a few months ago, who had seemed perfect for coffee-loving, somewhat-curmudgeonly Cameron McAllen. She was smart, pretty, adored coffee, and had actually convinced Cam to attend the theater now and then.

  "That's not what I've heard," said Stacy, feigning innocence once again. I rolled my eyes, and refused to take the bait.