I couldn’t go inside.
I walked away.
I put one foot in front of the other foot, over and over until I was around the block. Then I sent him a text.
He replied instantly.
I put my phone away.
Wrong. Wrong wrong wrong. I should have done every single thing differently.
Big surprise.
Chapter 17
The latest Monthly Anonymous Donor check came with this typewritten note:
I’m pleased to see the library’s efforts to work both with and around the system. Keep up the good fund-raising work. And maybe check out Dr. Howard Lampoor’s book Effective Moneymaking—it might give your team some ideas.
Bossy. I laughed. And ordered the book.
Pulling boxes of local history from the basement to the periodicals room had become something of a routine for me. I was getting adept at grabbing a box, running things through the scanner for a couple of hours at a time, and clearing things up when I was done. Occasionally even clearing up before I was done, on the rare chance that someone would come in and want to use the room.
One afternoon, I sat in a patch of sunlight coming in through a long and narrow window and sorted piles of handwritten letters into two scientifically ordered stacks: readable and totally unreadable. The unreadable pile grew faster than the other one.
One bundle of letters was tied with a faded ribbon. When I untied it, I discovered it had once been pink, but now it was mostly dust-brown. The letters were written to someone named Evelyn (sometimes Evie) from someone named Walter (sometimes Walt). Walt(er) had lovely handwriting, and for about one minute, I regretted the impersonal device I used to communicate with men. I unfolded the beautiful envelopes to discover gentlemanly words of affection and tenderness. Evelyn had saved all these words. Cherished them. I would have cherished them, too. Whoever cherished a text message? Then I remembered that I was completely unwilling to live without the internet and decided that I’d be fine without handwritten letters.
But Walter was a charmer. I read through the one-sided conversations and wondered if he’d kept all her letters. Where were those letters now? The envelopes didn’t have addresses written on the fronts—at least nothing still readable—but the letters inside held clues that pointed to pieces of my town that had been sites of intrigue and romance in 1930. Their story unfolded one envelope at a time, and before long, I realized that Evelyn lived in the Greenwood house. Evelyn Greenwood. I wished for a photo, but I was unwilling to set down the letters to go digging for one.
In one letter, Walter mentioned “sparking” behind Evelyn’s parents’ house. Sparking! Like antique making out. He said he was sure that the Simmons Spinsters were watching from the second floor of the tall house next door.
The tall house next door to the Greenwood place? That was my library. I was inside that very house this very minute. I felt shivers run through my whole self. I wanted to know who the Simmons Spinsters were. Old sisters? Here? Had a pair of old ladies watched Walt and Evie sparking from the picture book window?
It became easy to understand how someone could get intricately involved with the history of strangers’ lives. I read through Walter’s side of his courtship of Evie, his decision to go to college, how he hoped she’d wait for him. There was the almost-proposal: “Evie, my life is full of all the important things, but none of them means anything without you. Like taking a photograph of a beautiful sunset, it’s all there, but without color. Only gray and white. Will you please consider making my life complete by shining your precious light on everything that matters to me? Would you be the gold to my silver?”
I dug through the box to find more, but the rest of the papers were water damaged and moldy.
I wondered if Google could help me figure out if Evelyn Greenwood ever married Walter. I’d have to check. A tiny voice at the back of my head suggested that Mr. Greenwood would certainly be a better source than the internet, but I told that tiny voice that I’d take my chances with the impersonal web and stay away from the scary neighbor man.
Chapter 18
Eleanor Richtenberg
beloved children’s author
of the Grimsby the Grumpy Glowworm books
will be appearing at the Franklin Public Library
Thursday, October 26th
5:00 to 6:30 pm
Ticketed reception to follow
The image of Eleanor—my new BFF, obviously—gazed benevolently from the poster, Mona Lisa-esque and slightly mysterious. She had a bad case of 90s hair, though, if I was being honest. I’d done a Google search for a better shot, but every image of her on the internet was the same photo. I guess they call that branding. Grimsby glowered from the borders of the poster, his tail end printed in shocking green.
It was a good job, and I gave myself permission to feel proud of it.
I ran my sleeve over the glass beside the library door, wiping away a smudge. Slipping inside, I felt a rush of canned air. The warm-then-cold October weather was causing havoc for the air-conditioning.
“Greta, I’m glad you’re here.” Glasses perched on nose, Julie practically shone with excitement. I would never, ever get tired of hearing her say those words.
“What’s up?” I asked her.
“Look at these numbers.” She stabbed her fingernail toward the monitor. It was the ticketing website. We’d already sold 413 tickets to the reception.
I stared at her, my mouth open. “Is that right? Can that be right? That many?”
She shook her head, but apparently she didn’t mean “no.” A little laugh with an edge of panic blew out on a breath. “I know. We’re going to need a bigger venue. We certainly can’t fit that many people in here at the same time. Even if we moved out all the books.” She reached into her desk drawer and pulled out her bag of gummies. Without saying anything she handed me the bag. I put two into my mouth, whole.
“How much—I mean, how many—I mean, will more people buy?” I stammered. This was insane. The tickets bought these people seats to a free event and an hour of mingling, punch and cookies after, with the chance of talking to Eleanor Richtenberg. And now, with that many people crowding around, the chance of any actual talking looked pretty slim. If sixty people came, they could, theoretically, each have a minute of her time. With six hundred people? Six seconds each. Was that right? My brain squeezed.
I felt an insane giggle start to climb up my throat. My nose itched. Cheeks flamed. This part of the plan was working. This was really going to happen. We were going to have to find a new place to hold this party, because everyone—everyone—wanted to come.
I texted Will.
Two minutes later, he answered.
When I sat down to make some calls, I had no idea that chair would be my real estate for the next two hours.
When I called a local church, they asked for a three-thousand dollar deposit to use their auditorium. I laughed out loud before I thanked the lady in my most polite voice and hung up.
I dialed the next number. “Hello. My name is Greta, and I’m looking for a place to hold a charity event. How many people does your great hall hold?”
“We’re booked every day for the next three months.”
“Hello, I’m calling from the library.”
“We returned those books months ago. Check your shelves.” Click.
Okay.
“Hi, there. If your reception hall is available, would your management be willing to discuss donating it for a weeknight? We’re putting on a charity event and need a larger venue.”
“Seriously? No.”
All right, then.
“Ridgecrest, this is Grant.”
“Hi, Grant. May I please speak to a reservations manager?”
“You can certainly speak to me.”
“I’m calling from the Franklin public
library. We have an event in a couple of weeks, and we’ve sold a few more tickets than we planned. We need to find a different, larger, place to hold it. Is there any chance we could get a deeply discounted rate on a room rental?”
I held my breath.
“Are you talking about the Richtenberg reading? I bought tickets to that.”
“Awesome. I mean, thank you. Yes. We’ve sold more than we expected, so we need a new plan, but paying for a venue isn’t exactly part of our budget.”
Grant from Ridgecrest said, “I loved reading those Grimsby books to my kids when they were little. That’s a great event you’ve planned.”
“Great. Wonderful. Thank you again. So, can we talk about availability? And price?”
I held my breath again.
“We have a room that will comfortably hold a hundred and fifty people. How does that sound?”
“About five hundred short.”
“Wow. Really? That’s amazing. Way to go. Okay, well, the Regency Room will hold lots of people, but it’s not cheap. What’s your budget?”
“Pro bono.”
Grant paused. “Pardon?”
“It means free.” I think I was muttering.
“I know what it means, I just wondered if I heard you correctly.” He cleared his throat and didn’t say anything for a minute. Maybe he was waiting for me to change my budget. Not likely.
“We can certainly talk about giving you a room for free if you make a food order.”
“We’ve already got a bakery set up to deliver cookies and punch.”
He cleared his throat. “We could give you a deep discount on the room if we arranged a sit-down meal for your audience.”
I hadn’t thought about that. “What does that cost?” Maybe we could build that in to the price of the tickets.
He told me his price range. It was so much more than I’d planned to charge for a ticket. Yikes. We were trying to fund-raise, not take out a loan.
“I don’t think we can afford this.”
“Sorry. I understand. If you want the room, you need to buy the food. It’s pretty standard policy in my business.”
“Who can I talk to about changing that policy for the one night?”
Grant laughed.
I took a deep breath and hoped I sounded like a non-idiot. “I’d really like to keep talking about this. Is there someone else available now for me to ask?”
“Remind me your name?” he said.
“Greta.”
“Okay, Greta. Here’s the thing. We can’t give you a room for free. But we absolutely support your event. When you find a venue, plan on us donating chairs.”
Chairs? I hadn’t even thought about that being an expense.
“I really appreciate that. I’ll be in touch.”
When I hung up, I wanted to crawl into a ball and hide under the desk. Instead, I found Julie, told her we were no closer to a venue (but free chairs!), and took a lap around the fiction stacks.
Julie was on the phone, but standing, when I got back. Battle position. I wondered who was complaining about what.
I walked around the desk and picked up some picture books to shelve. She still stood, her back to me. I wondered why she didn’t take the call in her office if it was so private.
“Mm-hm. Mm-hm. I see. No, that won’t be a problem. Of course.” Her voice was polite, but sounded brittle, like she was in danger of cracking. “I appreciate this information. Thank you very much.”
When she hung up the phone, she rubbed her neck, like the muscles had been working really hard.
“How’s it going?”
She laughed, but it sounded more like a sigh.
“I’ve received some information about our special guest.” Her tone was even—maybe too even. It sounded unnaturally free from stress. Rigidly toneless.
“Oh, good. It freaks me out when I don’t hear from the publicist for a week.”
Julie cleared her throat and straightened the paper she’d been writing on. “Ms. Richtenberg has a few additional requests for her visit.”
“Sure. Whatever we can do to make her comfortable, right?”
Was that a snort? Surely I heard wrong.
“Of course. Her comfort is paramount.”
That was a weird thing to say. I smiled. “How can I help?”
“Bottled water from Switzerland?” She said it like she wasn’t sure she was really asking for a thing.
“Okay. I can find that.”
She looked back at her handwritten list. “Green food.” She managed to put an audible space between “green” and “food.”
“Easy. Is she vegan or something?”
She looked at me and then away, quickly, like I would do if I were trying not to roll my eyes. “Not like that. Actually, not anything like that. Green M&M’s and green Skittles. Green sugared cupcakes. Green Jolly Ranchers. Apparently she eats apples, but only Granny Smith, and only in the fall when they’re fresh.” Her voice got higher with each item on the list. She flushed red, took a deep breath, and blew it out.
“I’ve had some calls,” Julie confessed. “Some helpful calls. And some emails. Quite a lot of emails, actually, from bookshop owners. Other librarians. I’ve ignored most of them on principle. You know, I don’t really do gossip. I don’t say it, and I try not to hear it. But I spoke to Ms. Richtenberg’s agent and her publicist, and maybe all those helpful people weren’t being cruel. Maybe they were being kind. To warn me what we’ve got coming to us.”
She dropped her voice even farther. “They say she’s impossible.”
I chose to ignore her pronoun. “This isn’t impossible. I’ll get everything on the list. I’ll order stuff online if I have to. Don’t worry.”
“Oh, Greta. I’m so glad you’re here.”
Again with my favorite words and the warm flood of relief.
Chapter 19
When I went in to Beans the next day, there was no line. My favorite. As soon as I opened the door, Mac made eye contact. My stomach jumped, and I couldn’t hide my smile. He waved. It seemed like he was leaning toward me, even though I was practically still outside.
I loved when he leaned toward me.
He took a quick look at his phone in the time it took me to walk to the counter, then he stashed it in his white apron pocket. His shirt said, “Hey, Angle. Did it hurt when you fell from heaven?” Angle. Not Angel.
I laughed and gestured to the misspelled shirt.
He nodded and patted his chest. “I love the angel one.” He leaned more. “Is that you that smells so good?”
I believe the word I was looking for was flabbergasted. Partly by the compliment, but mostly by the possibility that he didn’t know his shirt was spelled wrong. “No. It’s almond muffins.” I pointed to the display case.
He shrugged. “Hot chocolate?”
“Yes, please.”
He turned and poured. I stared. I thought about bringing up the angle/angel thing, but I wasn’t sure what to say. I didn’t say anything.
When he handed me the mug, I cradled it in my hands with no intention of moving until I had to. “You don’t happen to own a huge auditorium or reception hall, do you?”
He looked at me like I was nuts. Because obviously I was at least a little nuts.
“Drink your chocolate. I have work to do. You’re always distracting me. You”—he tapped the end of my nose—“are bad news.”
“That’s what they all say.” I drew in a shaky, almost-laughing breath.
“Go sit at that table over there. The red chair. Then I can see you from any angle behind the counter.”
I laughed, pointed at his shirt, and said, “Angle.”
He looked confused. I dropped it.
I sat in the red chair where, as it happened, he could totally watch me from all around the count
er. I felt the back of my neck prickle with happy chills whenever we made eye contact. There was a lot of eye contact. And a lot of happy chills.
The cocoa was gone too soon. I walked back up to the counter before I left, getting back in line. The man in front of me was an adorable old guy, bent over a cane. I heard him order. “My wife likes caramel coffee. Do you make caramel coffee here?”
Mac said, “You bet. What size does she want?”
“Oh, give me the biggest one you’ve got. She’s worth it.” He chuckled to himself like he’d let Mac in on the secret of the universe.
After he paid, I leaned over the counter and said, “That guy was adorable.”
Mac nodded. “He’s my new hero. You’re worth it, too. Want a huge coffee to go?”
I made a face.
“Just kidding,” he said. “I know you don’t like coffee. But you’re worth a huge hot chocolate any time.”
“That’s sweet. I’ve got to go.”
He leaned over the counter and kissed my cheek. “Have a great night.”
Well, that kiss helped.
Once I hit the sidewalk, I texted Marigold.
It only took her a minute to respond.
Exuberance? Right. Okay.
I sat down beside Julie’s chair. “I sent you an email with all the numbers. It turns out that nobody in this town has a venue both big enough for our event and free. The movie theater on East Pearl would consider letting us rent from them, but we’d have to use their concessions and move it to a Wednesday night. Imagine Ms. Richtenberg’s response to that. Remember the ‘no overwhelming scents’ clause?” I laughed. Julie didn’t. I decided to move on. “I know we could always try something in Columbus, but I really want this to be a Franklin event. So here’s what I suggest. Let’s do it here. Outside. In the lot.”
Check Me Out Page 13