“Nope.” She waved a hand at a passing pedestrian. “But I’m bringing them some pies. It’s an event. A town event.”
“Not a town event. It’s a protest, that’s what it is.”
“They’ll need food.” Starla was adamant.
But before she moved on with her coffeepot, she winked. Only three guys in town got the wink, and Boone was one of them. The other two were Hank Davis and Chief Scotty.
He needed that damned wink. Something was about to go down. But hell if he was gonna yell timber.
CHAPTER SIX
Two hours to go to the sit-in. Cissie wasn’t sure who would show, but all afternoon, food had been coming in from her regulars and some not-so-frequent patrons. So that was promising, wasn’t it? None of them had given her a solid answer about whether or not they were attending the actual event, but she was hopeful—and pleasantly full. A too-tempting slice of Starla’s famous rhubarb-raspberry pie had seen to that.
“A sit-in is a form of civil disobedience, which is when you stand up to your government,” Cissie explained to a pair of sweet, soft-spoken teenage girls who’d brought in a dozen Krispy Kreme doughnuts and a plate of chicken salad sandwiches from their mamas. The girls loved the library’s dystopian near-future young-adult fiction collection (Cissie still couldn’t say that in one breath).
“Oh. My. God,” said one of the teens. “Civil disobedience is what happens in Fracture the Universe. So this sit-in should be cool!”
“Maybe sabers will be involved,” said the second one.
“Or hoes.” The first one’s eyes gleamed. “I just wish we had viscous radiometric gel to help out. Too bad it hasn’t been invented yet. An ounce of it can take out whole armies.”
Cissie turned her wince into a helpful smile. “No, tonight’s gathering is a peaceful protest. We stay here after hours and say we don’t like the library being moved.”
“Oh,” they replied in unison, their shoulders drooping.
Cissie felt like a failure of a rebel at that moment, but she was quickly distracted when Frank and Becky Lee Braddock walked in.
She immediately noted that Boone’s face was the perfect blend of his parents’. He had his father’s square jaw, dark brown hair color, and brown eyes, along with his mother’s prominent cheekbones, thick lashes, and straight nose. If he got his mouth from either one of them, Cissie couldn’t tell. Becky Lee’s was thinned out. Frank’s was scrunched up.
Boone’s lips were wide and sculpted. Sensitive. Maybe even soft. But that was just Cissie’s guess. She’d hardly been near him for years. Yesterday, she’d noticed how expressive his mouth was as he’d listened to her. If she hadn’t been so angry and upset, she might have been flattered that everything she’d said he’d reacted to without even having to use words.
Kind of like when she poked Dexter’s belly, and the cat turned to grab her finger. There was something charming about two separate beings who really had no place together joining up for a moment.
Yes, she hadn’t cared for Boone’s opinions about the library, but at least she didn’t feel invisible around him. She felt connected. She wasn’t sure what it was, exactly, but it came from the same space as that sharp-clawed paw with its soft pads, curled possessively around her finger. Maybe that was why she craved him coming back.…
Would he tonight?
Or would he stay away?
Out of the corner of her eye, she watched Frank’s burly chest visibly expand beneath his navy blue golf shirt with fancy gold embroidery on the chest pocket. He was a tall man, even taller than Boone—maybe six-four, and he wore his tan slacks well. No gut hanging over his fine leather belt, and his arms were well muscled.
Becky Lee’s dainty chin came up a fraction of an inch, and her hands grasped her chic ivory handbag even closer. She was dressed for the country club in her silk emerald blouse, pearls, straight skirt, buttery pale ivory boots, and the fluffy ivory wool shawl draped around her shoulders.
Uh oh.
They weren’t here to browse the bookshelves. And they certainly hadn’t brought food.
“So will I see you tonight?” Cissie asked the two girls. Her heart pounded, but she managed a warm smile.
One of the teenagers shook her head. “Project Runway’s holding a marathon, and I have algebra.” She inhaled a gulp of air. “But about Fracture the Universe, Miss Rogers, didn’t you love when Penday stabs World Leader Number Four through the heart with a poisoned barb she pulls out of her metal corset?”
“Oh, yes,” said Cissie, nodding. “That … that was splendid.” She did love reading the books her teen readers read.
The girl beamed. “I can’t wait for the next one in the series.”
“I know, right?” said the other one shyly, then looked at Cissie. “If my mother will let me, I’ll try to come. How long will this sit-in run?”
“I don’t know,” said Cissie. “Maybe all night.”
“I wish tomorrow weren’t a school day,” the second girl said, her braces glinting.
“Yes, my timing wasn’t great.” But Cissie didn’t know when timing would be good. You couldn’t hold a sit-in during business hours, or it wasn’t a sit-in. Friday nights were football nights. Saturday night was date night, not that she had a clue about that. But the bowling alley, movie theater, and the few restaurants were buzzing. And a lot of Kettle Knobbers went to church the next morning.
She said her good-byes to the girls and mentally shook herself out. This was her space. She knew who she was at the library. She had to approach the Braddocks and find out why they were here, not run and hide behind the shelves.
Becky Lee, whose auburn hair was straight and cut in a long, shiny bob, approached. “Miz Rogers?”
Her twang was a little like a banjo string strung too tight, but Cissie focused on not letting herself be scared. She had no reason to be.
“Mrs. Braddock. Welcome to the library.”
“Thank you.” Becky Lee flashed a polite smile.
“I’m Frank Braddock.” Boone’s father’s introduced himself in a booming voice.
Cissie curled her left shushing finger into her palm. “Hello. Cecilia Rogers. Please call me Cissie.”
He pumped her hand once, his rings digging painfully into her flesh, but she refused to flinch.
“How can I help you?” She really wanted to help the two of them out the door, if she was being perfectly honest. “Are you looking for a specific book?”
“No, sirree.” Frank’s voice dipped so low, Cissie felt her rib cage vibrate. “We’re here to talk about this proposed sit-in.”
Becky Lee gave a slow shake of her head. “That’s not the way we do things around here.” Her words and deceptively soft tone could have come from The Godfather.
“There’s a first time for everything, right?” Cissie didn’t sound very convincing, much to her chagrin.
The couple exchanged a meaningful look.
“I’m just trying to make a point,” said Cissie, wishing she could channel the dystopian female heroes her teen friends loved. “We don’t need to move the library. We shouldn’t. It’s not a good idea for a lot of reasons. I’d love to sit with you and talk about them. Or you could join us this evening at the sit-in for an in-depth conversation.”
Then Becky Lee adjusted her purse. “Miz Rogers—”
“Please call me Cissie.”
Becky Lee hesitated. “Cissie,” she finally said, “our son Boone is mayor here.” Well, duh! “And when he makes a decision, it’s in the town’s best interests.”
Was Cissie supposed to nod happily and agree to everything they said? What kind of world did they live in?
And why was she nodding happily at everything they said?
What was her problem?
She stopped nodding. “Maybe Boone thinks it’s right to move the library,” she ventured, “but I don’t.”
There. Finally.
She hadn’t been exactly forceful. But it was better than nothing.
&
nbsp; The Braddocks merely stared at her.
“Now let me tell you about mine and Frank’s dedication to this area,” Becky Lee started up again.
She went on and on about how beautifully and carefully they’d developed different mountain properties. Two more patrons came in while Becky Lee spoke. Cissie was dying to get to her customers, but Becky Lee kept going. Frank grunted his approval every now and then when his wife used phrases like quality of life and impeccable taste and or words like family, resources, and dedication.
Finally, Becky Lee was quiet.
“Thank you for coming in.” Cissie had no idea what that speech had to do with the library, but she refrained from saying so.
“It was our pleasure.” Becky Lee didn’t look pleased.
Frank outright glowered at Cissie. “Let’s keep Kettle Knob a happy place where nothing goes wrong. Have you ever noticed that about this town?”
“Yes, it is a happy place,” said Becky Lee with a fake smile.
“I, um … I’m sorry.” Cissie stuck out her thumb in the direction of the front desk. “I have to go. Someone wants to check out a book.”
She couldn’t wait to get busy helping that person, to get back to the safety of her big desk and those manila cards with the blue lines. When she looked up again, Frank and Becky Lee were gone.
CHAPTER SEVEN
Cissie waved good-bye to her last library patron at 4:55 p.m., and then she remembered: She wasn’t going to lock up. She was staying there. In protest. To express her outrage.
Too bad it was so quiet.
But then Sally and Hank Davis showed up with a little boy in tow, three sleeping bags, and three pillows.
“Oh, I’m so glad you’re here!” She took their stuff and stashed it behind the desk. Then they had a four-way hug.
“Boom,” Hank Davis shouted. “Boom!”
“Exactly,” said Cissie, knowing in her heart that per capita she had the loudest library on the East Coast.
“Dow Jones industrial average,” Hank Davis added to show off.
“He’s gonna watch Frozen with Charles,” said Sally. “Remember him? My sister’s kid.”
“Of course I do,” said Cissie. “Welcome, Charles.”
Charles stuck his thumb in his mouth and glared at her. He was the most surly five-year-old she’d ever met. He even had a five o’clock shadow, unless that was a bunch of Oreo cookie crumbs.
Yes, she saw a pack of them sticking out of his pocket.
“Maybe the legend will work and somebody sexy will come over the threshold tonight.” Sally wiggled her eyebrows. “If so, I’m ready for him.” She leaned over and whispered in Cissie’s ear, “I got me a special nightie in my purse.”
“It can’t be very big if it’s in your purse.” Cissie tried to peek.
Sally pulled it back. “It’s not. It’s teeny-tiny. Actually”—she was in whispering mode again—“it’s a thong.”
“You can’t seduce someone in the library,” Cissie murmured, “and in a thong. Especially with Hank Davis and Charles here. You’re going to have to sleep in your regular clothes. And who are you expecting anyway?”
“Who knows,” said Sally happily. “This is the best night of my life.” She twirled. “We’re in the library when it’s closed. It’s not like the Greyhound station, which is open twenty-four hours a day. This place has standards. This place is off-limits at night.” She paused. “Maybe for good reason. Maybe it’s haunted.”
“Boom boom,” said Hank Davis.
Charles grabbed his hand. “Let’s go.” He dragged Hank Davis over to the children’s section.
Sally’s gaze grew wary. “I hope it’s not haunted. So many years have gone by. What if someone a long time ago forgot to return his library book, and now since you’re here when he walks at night, he’s gonna come give it back?”
“I’ll say no,” said Cissie. “He can keep it.”
“Why do ghosts wear clothes?” Sally asked. “Shouldn’t they be naked after they die?”
“I have no idea. But look!” All at once, Mrs. Donovan, Mrs. Hattlebury, and an entire Amish-looking homeschooling family with five kids from the new apartment complex came in the front door. “Welcome!” Cissie said.
Everyone was carrying food, too.
Cissie was prepared. She’d cleaned off both old card tables from the storage room and put them out. “Please, leave everything there.” But the tables were already covered in casserole dishes, cake plates, and pie pans. There was even a cooler of bottled water and Cheerwine someone had dropped off.
“Let’s pull out some chairs,” Mrs. Donovan said.
So they did and put all the food on them, Sally making comments about every new dish: “Now that’s one I’m gonna try!” “What the—?” she said about another one.
“Marinated tofu chunks,” said the Amish woman, “mixed with the ancient grain freekeh.”
“I’ll say it’s freekeh.” Sally chuckled.
One of the toddler Amish children starting sticking her fingers in some banana pudding.
“She’s so smart.” Mrs. Hattlebury gently pulled her fingers out and handed her over to her mother. “That’s my banana pudding. Made with a secret ingredient.” She winked.
“We don’t do refined sugar,” said the Amish woman. “And we’re not Amish, in case you’re wondering. We’re part of the homestead movement. We brought a tent.” She indicated the large green nylon bag on her male partner’s back.
“That’s so interesting,” Cissie said weakly. “I’m touched that you came to the sit-in. Thank you. Please feel free to … sit. Or stand. Or read books. Or pitch your tent. Somewhere by the magazines, I should think. I suppose we’ll eat in another hour or so.”
The family shuffled off to make themselves at home.
“You use Chessmen cookies from Pepperidge Farm, don’t you, in that banana pudding?” Mrs. Donovan asked Mrs. Hattlebury sweetly.
Mrs. Hattlebury glared at her. “I’ll never tell.” She put her hands on her hips. “How is the newspaper reporter going to be able to tell we’re sitting in? This looks like a party.”
“Well, it’s not,” said Cissie. “It’s a protest. Big difference.”
“I’m not really against the library moving,” Mrs. Donovan reminded her. “I’m here for Laurie. She couldn’t come. The boys both have earaches from all the Play-Doh they stuck in them today. I’m her placeholder.”
“Wasn’t that nice of you,” Cissie murmured, and tried to be thankful she had a placeholder for Laurie rather than be annoyed at Mrs. Donovan for disagreeing with her about the library. “Laurie called and told me.” And Cissie was glad she had. Laurie had sounded sorry she couldn’t be there and promised they’d get together soon. She’d also apologized for her mother in advance.
Nana came in a few minutes later with her sleeping bag and pillow and stopped flat at the door. “Wow! This looks like a party!” She was wearing her red-and-white-striped footie pajamas.
“It’s not,” said Cissie. “But we sure have a lot of food.”
Nana held up a canvas bag. “And Jameson and cigars.” She chuckled in her naughtiest fashion.
“Oh, no,” said Cissie. “This is an alcohol-free, cigar-free sit-in.”
“I thought I’d try,” Nana said. “I did bring the paper plates and plastic forks you asked for.”
Mrs. Donovan and Mrs. Hattlebury had settled in at the front desk and were playing cards.
An hour went by. Everyone kept well occupied. The homesteading kids got to watch Frozen. Their parents quietly read the Whole Earth Catalog. The gin rummy tournament, which now included Nana, was in full swing.
Cissie didn’t feel she could really participate in all the happy activities. She had to maintain the sit-in presence and act serious and troubled—because she was.
But no else came in. Not even a reporter from the Bugler.
“You need to call Edwina,” Nana said.
“I shouldn’t have to call the newspaper editor t
o get someone down here.” Cissie acted nonchalant, but her feathers were definitely ruffled. “This is a legitimate story. Not much happens in Kettle Knob.”
“That’s right. We’re such a happy place,” said Nana, just like Boone’s parents had said.
Cissie eyed her suspiciously. “Do you really believe that? I heard someone else say the same thing today. Or are you spouting propaganda?”
“We are happy. Aren’t we?” Nana laid down three aces on the desktop.
“Yes.” Cissie sighed. “We’re happy.”
What was wrong with her? Why did she not feel happy deep down? Was she really going to be one of those women who needed a soul mate to be truly fulfilled? She loved her job. She loved her friends. She loved where she lived. She was fine.
Another half hour went by. Still no one else came to sit-in. And the newspaper didn’t show. She’d even left a flyer with the local radio station.
“Let it go!” Hank Davis shouted. “Let it go! Let it go!”
Sally came out from the back. “Hank Davis and Charles are hungry. It’s time to eat.”
So everyone ate, and with each passing minute, instead of being happy that her good friends and family had shown up, Cissie fretted.
Nothing was being accomplished.
Nothing.
“But it is,” Nana reassured her when she hovered by the card game and expressed her frustration. “The wheels of justice turn slowly, imperceptibly. Nothing we do is wasted. Every vote counts at every election. Every protest matters.”
“Speaking of elections, we’ve got one in a little over three weeks,” said Mrs. Donovan. “Governor, US congressmen, Kettle Knob mayor, and some school board members.”
“Well, Boone’s got it locked up again,” said Nana.
“I don’t remember the last time anyone ran against him.” Mrs. Hattlebury laid down her cards. “Gin!”
Mrs. Donovan blew out a breath and tossed down her cards. “I brought Scrabble if anyone wants to play that.”
The homesteading family came out, their tent folded up and returned to its bag. “We’re going home,” said the father. “Thanks for dinner.”
“Nothing really happened,” said the mother with a friendly shrug.
Trouble When You Walked In (Contemporary Romance) Page 5