Emily’s cheeks were going to become permanently stained with red. “What a disaster.”
Jessie winked and walked Emily to the door. “In the kitchen maybe, but your little fans improved my bottom line.”
Emily managed to keep the tears at bay until she was out of sight of the bakery. She swiped a hand across her wet cheeks. It was stupid to be so upset. Except a baker’s assistant could now be added to the list of things at which she couldn’t do. Depression sat heavy on her chest.
She looked up and down the street, wondering what to do now. She could go back to the bed and breakfast where she’d been staying. Better yet, she could pack her bags and head out of town.
Good idea, except her car still resided in Fred’s garage. Shockingly, parts for expensive foreign cars were not abundant in Covington Falls, so unless she wanted to hop on a bus, she couldn’t leave. She didn’t think buses allowed cats, in any case, and she couldn’t leave Wordsworth.
Another alternative was to climb into bed and not come out for days. Refuse to shower, eat nothing but dry cereal out of the box, and mutter about eight-legged sea creatures. Have a real breakdown. All the best authors had one at some point. She’d be joining elite company.
“Sounds like a plan.”
She went in the direction of the bed and breakfast. She reached the park at the intersection of Main Street and First Avenue. To her right, City Hall guarded over the good citizens of Covington Falls like a benevolent uncle. Opposite the hall stood an imposing gray building with stone columns. The library.
All thoughts of breakdowns disappeared.
Almost in a trance, Emily’s feet took her across the park and up the steps.
Heaving open the heavy oak doors, she took a deep breath. Despite the ache in her heart, she couldn’t help smiling. No matter where they were located, libraries shared a common smell. A combination of dampness, aged paper, and leather, mixed with the hint of lemon from years of polishing wooden tables. She wandered past the front desk. Metal shelves stretched above her head, marching in neat columns to the back of the building. In heaven, Emily picked a row and started down.
At the end of the first one, she rounded the corner and found herself nose to chest with a woman holding a huge leather-bound book. They both gasped.
“Sorry,” the woman said with a laugh.
She towered over Emily and had wild corkscrew red hair, shimmering blue eyes and a figure to die for. Emily’s mind conjured up images of Amazon warriors and Greek goddesses.
“You all right?” the Amazon asked. “I didn’t crush your foot, did I?”
Emily shook her head. “No.”
“Sorry again. I’m Julia Richardson, by the way.”
“Emily.”
“Nice to meet you.”
Emily’s gaze hooked on the leather tome. “What’s in the book?”
“I’m searching for a newspaper clipping from 1935,” Julia said, turning to make her way back down the row.
“They still keep clippings bound in books?” Emily asked, falling into step beside her.
A smile flitted across Julia’s face. “Just one of the many charming aspects of life in Covington Falls. To their credit, the folks here are trying to scan the old newspaper issues to digitize them, but they haven’t gotten to the thirties yet.”
They left the aisle and Julia dumped her burden on one of the tables. She flipped the book open to reveal page after page of articles.
“Why do you need 1935?” Emily asked.
“I have a client who wants to recreate her grandmother’s wedding, right down to the kind of buttons used on the dress. This book is one of my only sources beyond some old, faded pictures.”
“You plan weddings?”
“My sister and I own the business.”
Emily remembered the intriguing window display she’d seen the other day. “Marry Me. Did you decorate the window?”
A wicked chuckle escaped her as Julia sat down. “I did indeed.”
Emily slipped into a chair. “You did a great job.”
“I enjoy doing them, though my sister says one day I’ll go too far.” She took her first good look at Emily. “You’re new in town, aren’t you? I’ve never seen you before.”
“Yes. My car broke down a couple days ago, and I liked it here so much I decided to stay awhile.”
Julia’s eyes widened. “Oh. You’re the author, E.J. Sinclair.”
“You know who I am?”
“Everyone’s been talking about you. You’re working at the bakery, right?”
Oh, why did she have to mention the bakery? Tears threatened to erupt again. “I was.”
“Was?”
“Turns out I’m not a very good baker’s assistant.”
Julia’s head tilted back as she laughed. “I wouldn’t be either. So, what are you doing in here?”
“Hiding out, I guess.”
Julia had started flipping through the news clippings, but at the forlorn answer her head came up. “Hiding from what?”
“From myself. Or maybe from E.J. Sinclair. Or perhaps I hoped to find her again. A library is where I discovered my alter ego after all.”
The search for the vintage wedding dress was forgotten as Julia leaned forward. “I have no idea what you just said, but I sense a good story somewhere in there.”
“I’ve lost E.J. and I don’t know how to get her back,” Emily said, resting her chin in her hand. “I can’t write anymore, and I’ve always been able to come to a library to get reenergized.”
“Libraries have magical powers?”
“For me they do. Think about all the tales contained within these walls. Stories of musketeers and knights and cowboys. Great battles and sea adventures. Those things aren’t just words on a page. They’re alive, right here.”
“Boy, you really like books, don’t you?”
Abashed, Emily cleared her throat. “Sorry, I get carried away sometimes.”
“I can tell,” Julia said, a teasing light in her blue eyes.
“I guess I can blame my grandmother. She used to take me to the library every Saturday when I was a little girl. At first she read the stories to me, and then when I got old enough, I’d read to her. I fell in love with the place as much as the books. I always felt so at home. More than I ever did in my real home.”
“Ah, family drama,” Julia drawled. “Now I understand. Going to the library became a way of escaping whatever was going on in your life.”
“Pretty much. I was in a library the first time I wrote something. A bad short story, but it’s where I found E.J.”
“And now you’ve lost her and what feels like your whole identity.”
Shock had her sitting up straight. “How did you know?”
Julia’s smile became warm and understanding. “I know something about wrapping up your identity in a career, and what it feels like when it’s snatched away.”
“What did you do about it?”
“I realized I’d been hiding behind my businesswoman identity,” Julia said. “I used it as a way to keep people at a distance so I wouldn’t have to care. Eventually, I found something more concrete to believe in.”
“Like what?”
“I found faith.”
Emily wrinkled her nose. “You mean God or something?”
“Not or something. Once I accepted that Christ loved me no matter what I did or the kind of career I had, everything else in my life seemed to fall into place. Of course, I still forget sometimes. I’m a hard case. Or hardheaded as Seth would say.”
“Who’s Seth?”
“My fiancé. He’s a minister, which must be God’s idea of a cosmic joke. What better way to shake up my foundations than by having me fall in love with someone who represents everything I’ve always scorned?”
Emily’s gaze drifted over the vibrant, outspoken woman. “Somehow I don’t picture you as a minister’s wife.”
“I know, right? It’s crazy.”
Judging by Julia’s face, he
r relationship was wonderful. She glowed with happiness. Emily had heard the term before, but she’d never seen the phenomenon first hand. She wondered if Julia’s faith had as much to do with the glow as the minister fiancé. Religion had never played much of a role in Emily’s life. Her parents talked about different practices in academic terms, but they’d never considered adopting a particular faith. Emily hadn’t either. She’d attended services all over the world, in churches and synagogues, and even a Buddhist temple, but more out of curiosity than any real desire to deepen her spiritual life. Now she wondered if she hadn’t missed something along the way.
“Maybe not so crazy,” Emily said.
Julia leaned even closer and dropped her voice. “You should be careful while you’re here.”
“Why?”
“Covington Falls has a way of changing you. No one seems to escape it.”
An icy finger skated down Emily’s being and she shivered. Before she could respond, a tiny woman with tight, steel gray curls approached their table. Gold-rimmed reading glasses sat on the edge of her nose and a beige cardigan sweater rested over her shoulders. A white blouse and navy blue skirt rounded out the outfit.
Librarians. Emily’s favorite people. Her heart melted.
“Good afternoon, Julia,” the woman said in a near whisper used universally by librarians the world over.
“Hi, Ms. Allen,” Julia said, matching the other woman’s tone. “How are you?”
Ms. Allen’s faded blue eyes clouded with worry. “Oh, we are troubled. Elsie threw out her back, bless her heart, and she won’t be able to drive the library van for some time. We’re searching for a volunteer to replace her, at least temporarily.”
“Too bad,” Julia said, with a little mew of sympathy. “I’m sure you’ll find someone soon.”
“It’s so unfortunate,” Ms. Allen said, wringing her hands in despair. “All those poor people waiting for their books. Trapped in their houses with no human companionship. No contact with the outside world.”
A look of unbridled amusement flashed across Julia’s face and she bit her lip, obviously trying not to laugh at the Shakespearean tragedy spun by the older woman.
With great restraint, Julia pulled herself together and laid a comforting hand on Ms. Allen’s shoulder. “I’ll say a prayer for you, and for Elsie of course.”
“Thank you, dear,” Ms. Allen said. “I’m sure the Lord will provide a solution. Such a sweet girl. Our Pastor Graham is so lucky to have found you.”
She patted Julia on the head as if she were a faithful collie and then tottered off.
“Seth will get a call about the van tonight,” Julia said with a deep sigh. “Before you know it, I’ll be on a committee to find a replacement driver. I hate committees.”
The idea struck so fast Emily gasped. Driving. A library van. Perfect. She may have been a disaster in the kitchen, but she could drive. Plus, she’d be doing a service for her temporary adopted community.
“What happened?” Julia asked, reaching over to pound Emily on the back. “Are you choking?”
“I don’t think you’ll have to suffer being on a committee,” Emily said, as she jumped up from the table.
“Where are you going?”
“I’m about to be an answer to prayer.”
Chapter Seven
Nate slammed on the breaks as his truck rounded the corner and nearly broadsided the decrepit, black van perched on the edge of the road. He peered out the windshield and stared in disbelief. Then a reluctant chuckle rumbled through his chest.
Seemed destiny demanded he run into Emily Sinclair everywhere he went.
He pulled in behind the van and stepped out. “You kill another car, Miss Sinclair?”
Emily started gesturing, and Nate knew a storm of words were about to erupt. He couldn’t wait to hear the explanation as to why she was out here in the middle of nowhere.
“It’s my first day driving the library van, and they told me the gears were tricky,” Emily said. “I figured I could handle it. I have driven a stick before — in Italy no less — and if you think those tuna cans they call cars aren’t temperamental, think again. But this thing is way beyond anything the Italians can dream up. I’ve been trying to shift into second all morning because going fifteen miles an hour isn’t getting me anywhere, but every time I tried, it kept stalling and now I think I’ve flooded the engine.”
A hand slapped against her forehead, and she took a deep breath. “I have got to stop spouting nonsense.”
Nate bit the inside of his cheek to keep from laughing. “At least I managed to figure out your problem this time.”
“You must think I’m the world’s biggest spaz.”
“I think you’re pretty cute when you turn into racer mouth,” he said and then wished he hadn’t.
Emily gulped.
Mentally shaking his head, Nate walked over to the stalled van. The keys were still in the ignition. He climbed in and tried to start the engine, but all he managed to produce was a sick coughing sound.
“Yeah, flooded,” he said. “Have to give it a few minutes.”
Emily leaned her arms on the frame of the open window. “That was my plan.”
“You can sit in the back of my truck if you want,” he said, as he eased out of the van and slammed the door shut.
“Sure.”
He flipped the tailgate down, and she hoisted herself up. He picked a spot at the opposite end of the bed. No sense in getting close to temptation.
“What are you doing driving the library van anyway?” he asked.
If she noticed he’d chosen to sit as far away as possible without falling off the truck, she didn’t comment. “It’s my new job. I take books to homebound people all over town.”
“What happened to the bakery job?”
Her nose wrinkled. “Baking wasn’t my thing, you know?”
How could a woman scrunching up her nose be sexy? And why was he noticing something like her nose anyway? He tried to concentrate. “I know.”
A grimace twisted her lips. “You could at least pretend to be surprised.”
“I saw you at work. Twice.”
“You distracted me the last time,” she said with a little huff.
And what a distraction it had been. He hadn’t had a decent night’s sleep since. “Yeah.”
Her blue eyes widened and her breath hitched. Before he did something stupid, like reach for her, he jumped down to the ground.
“So, what happened to make Jessie finally pull the plug?”
“Why do you assume she was the one who—” She stopped and snorted. “Who am I kidding? It was only some smoke in the end. Unfortunately, I didn’t get the alarm off before the firemen came.”
An alarm of another sort went off inside his chest. “Firemen! Emily!”
“It’s all right. I wasn’t hurt,” Emily said. “I got caught up in an idea, and I had to write it down. Before I knew it, the oven was spewing smoke like a fire-breathing dragon with a head cold.”
“You were writing?”
“I was trying to anyway.”
“I thought you said you couldn’t write anymore. No more ideas. Isn’t that the whole reason you decided to stay in Covington Falls and become a baker’s assistant?”
“Oh, I get ideas, they just don’t go anywhere,” Emily said, making a sound of disgust. “I can think of a beginning, but then I get stuck.”
“Maybe you’re trying too hard,” Nate said. “I always get confused when I’m frustrated. If I just try and relax the words… I mean, everything… is much clearer.”
“Believe me, I’ve tried relaxing. Yoga, meditation, I’ve even been hypnotized. Nothing works.”
“Why are you so worried? I saw the way Kara Baker and those other girls reacted to you. And then there’s my brother. He got excited over a book about a fairy princess.”
Her mouth twisted. “A warrior fairy princess.”
“Whatever. You’re a famous writer. A successful one. If
you’re able to travel all over the world taking odd minimum wage jobs for fun, you must not be hurting for money.”
“You don’t understand. Money and fame don’t mean anything to—” She bit her lip.
Nate took a step closer, even though he knew it was dangerous. “They don’t matter to who?”
She let out a deep sigh. “My family.”
Okay. Family issues he could understand. “They aren’t proud of you?”
“Writing books for children doesn’t exactly garner respect, unless you’re writing about weighty social issues or winning Newberry Awards. I write stories about grand adventures and fantasies. They don’t have any redeeming social value. They don’t comment on the ugliness of the human condition or enlighten anyone. They don’t have a real purpose other than to entertain.”
“Sounds like a quote.”
“From my mother.”
For a moment the sparkle left Emily’s eyes, like a candle had been blown out. Anger rose in Nate’s chest. What kind of mother would make her child feel so ashamed of herself?
“No disrespect, but your mother is an idiot,” he said.
Her eyes nearly bugged out.
“Sorry,” Nate muttered. “I shouldn’t have said anything.”
A gurgle of laughter bubbled up. “It’s okay. I’ve probably said worse, or at least thought it.” She sobered and her grin disappeared. “You don’t understand. My parents are important. Celebrated literary geniuses, in fact. Have you ever heard of Vanessa and Clayton Sinclair?”
“No.”
“Right, I forgot. You don’t read much,” Emily said. “My parents have written ten books together. Great books. The kind literary critics slobber all over themselves in their praise. They’re both college professors, too. They’re respected. My siblings followed in their path. My brother Virgil has been compared to Hemingway, and my sister Charlotte is so smart it’s almost scary. She went to college when she was sixteen. Graduated in three years. Then she wrote a philosophy book when she was twenty. Her book is being used on college campuses all over the world. She’s been compared to Nietzsche.”
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