by Teri Harman
Huddled in the medieval basement of the library, Matilda tried to get control of her tears. Lately, they unexpectedly attacked, fierce and demanding. She’d barely made it to this dark corner behind several shelves of forgotten books before the sobs exploded.
An orphan for a second time, Matilda felt Jetty’s loss deep in her bones. Her parents had died when she was too young to grieve them, too young to understand the loss. Now, it felt like Jetty’s death was also theirs all over.
She was alone.
Matilda slapped the stone wall and felt a ping of pain where the ring on her finger connected with the hard surface. She blinked at the simple single diamond gold engagement ring.
I’m not alone. I have Parker.
It didn’t bring her any comfort. Jetty’s words had attached themselves to her thoughts, digging holes in what she’d once thought was solid logic. Is he your Frank or your Enzo? Jetty had whispered on her deathbed, leaving Matilda not only alone but also confused.
I love Parker. We are getting married. Everything will be all right.
More tears welled in her eyes.
She brushed them away and turned to look at the shelves. Most of the librarians hated coming down into the basement with its one-hundred-year-old stone walls that smelled faintly of dirt and decay, its eerie shadowy corners that watched everything, and the poor, forgotten books. A book graveyard, creaky and damp. Some in town even whispered stories to the children about ghosts that shuffled the library basement on dark, moonless nights.
Matilda loved it. The thrill of the bizarre, the mystery of things time had forgotten. She’d never admit it, of course, but sometimes coming down to the book graveyard was as exciting as things got in her small town life.
But today she found no thrill or comfort. The walls and shadows only seemed to pull her deeper into her despair.
“Matilda!”
Matilda jumped at the gruff sound of Beverly Wilson’s voice. Beverly came around the shelves. She was wide, tall, and her feet pounded too harshly when she walked. Atop her broad shoulders sat a too-masculine face, square and made more severe by the way she pulled her dull brown-gray hair back into a bun. The forbidding fictional librarian in the flesh, Matilda often thought.
“What are you doing down here? I’ve been looking for you for ten minutes.” Beverly crossed her arms over her large chest.
“Uh … yeah. Sorry,” Matilda stumbled, trying to wipe the tears away as casually as possible.
“Well, you know I don’t tolerate sneaking off when it’s not break time.”
Matilda nodded slowly. Her eyes were puffy and no doubt as red and veiny as plum flesh. “I just needed a quick minute.”
Beverly scowled and then raised her eyebrows. “What are you waiting for? Your minute is over. It’s Saturday, and the line at the circulation desk is like Estelle’s when the donuts come out.”
Matilda jumped. “Sorry.” At least Beverly wasn’t coddling her like everyone else in town. As if her grief had turned her to thin glass. Even if it were true, something about Beverly’s gruff normalcy was bolstering. Matilda gave one last sniff before marching past Beverly and up the stairs.
n
“Is Parker picking you up today?”
Matilda didn’t hear the question. For the past fifteen minutes, she had been sitting at the circulation desk staring at the cover of A Secret Garden, thinking about Jetty’s garden, which she would have to plant alone this year. Her eyes ached. She felt new tears brewing.
“Hello? Matilda!” A thin, long-fingered hand waved in front of her face. “You look like you want to eat that book.” A bubbly laugh.
Matilda blinked several times and looked up at Thea Nichols, the lowest librarian on Beverly’s totem pole, directly under Matilda. Thea laughed again, a tinkling sound, and sat in the chair next to Matilda. “Haven’t you read that already?”
Matilda blinked once more. “Uh, yeah. A few times.”
Thea pursed her pink glossy lips. She leaned forward to look at the book again as if to determine why Matilda found it so fascinating. Thea was nineteen and had white-blonde hair cut into a choppy pixie, which matched her slight build and Greek-goddess face. She wore ripped jeans and painted her nails black—about as rebellious as was tolerated in conservative Silent Fields, Kansas. “You were supposed to re-shelve it, like, a while ago,” Thea pronounced. Then after looking at Matilda for a moment, her expression softened. “Want me to do it?”
“No, no. It’s fine.” Matilda picked up the book and stood. “Be right back.”
Matilda rounded the half-moon mahogany circulation desk, which sat in front of a fan of ceiling-height shelves, several deep and fat with books. The library was an impressive specimen, built when money was easy for the small town, in the days when the limestone quarry was the biggest, most profitable in the state. Carved double mahogany doors, taller than a man and extra wide, opened to the large main room with its polished limestone floors and grand Victorian chandelier. The chandelier had come all the way from London. And every two years, the library closed for a whole day so that the librarians could polish every crystal and every inch of gold plate. Matilda loved that chandelier. It had a presence, like a dragon watching over the castle.
To the left of the circulation desk stood an elegant dark-walnut curved stairway, which led to the second floor where more books resided. This library was the jewel of Silent Fields, Kansas, placed right in the center of town, and every resident treated it like a chapel. To Matilda it had been a second home, an escape, a haven from the first moment Jetty led her toddling self into the children’s section, hand in hand, to snuggle in a quiet corner and turn the pages of picture books.
When Matilda returned to the desk, Thea, picking nail polish from her thumb, asked, “So is Parker coming or not?”
Matilda looked up at the clock, her eyes pulling wide. Where has the day gone? “He’ll be here in about five minutes.” The thought made Matilda even more exhausted than she already felt. But why would it? She should be excited to see Parker.
“It’s cake today, right?” Thea asked, still focused on her thumb. “I think it’s good you are getting back into planning the wedding instead of dwelling on … other things.”
Matilda looked at her. Thea was so carefree, so confident, and more often than not completely lacking in tact and sensitivity. She walked around the library with the hip-swinging stride of a diva, unfettered by the minions around her. Next to her, Matilda often felt like a fatally shy Hobbit, but when she said stuff like that Matilda remembered Thea was just a naïve girl. “Uh, oh yeah. Cake. At Estelle’s.” Matilda had nearly forgotten she and Parker were picking their wedding cake today. Wedding cake … Jetty was supposed to make the cake.
“Sounds so fun. And free samples of Estelle’s cakes—to die for. Can’t wait until I get married.”
Matilda looked at Thea like she’d said something unintelligible, but soon turned away, her grief tugging hard on her attention. She fingered the edge of the desk. Picking out wedding cake should be exciting and a good distraction. She should be antsy to get to Estelle’s. Right? But all she could think about was crawling under the covers of her bed.
“And the handsome prince arrives.” Thea finally dropped her thumb and looked to the main doors.
Parker strode in with his wide smile, wind-blown hair, and flushed cheeks. Matilda often thought he walked that line between handsome and too good-looking. He could have been a movie star if he’d been born somewhere other than the forgotten east corner of Kansas. In high school, his wheat-colored hair, always a little too long, and radiant blue eyes, clear like water, had made him the object of every girl’s attention and desire. Matilda had admired from afar as well, never imagining that the school heartthrob would one day fall for the girl who was only five feet tall and always carried a book. Sometimes two books, just because it made her feel safer somehow.
Parker had never said a word to her in high school. They’d gone to different colleges, and both had
returned to Silent Fields to start their careers. The first real interaction they ever had was when he’d strolled right up to her at The Mad Hash Diner two summers ago and asked her to dinner. They were twenty-three then, but when he’d smiled his dashing, square-jaw smile at her, she’d felt as giddy as a sixteen-year-old. Matilda couldn’t help but feel a sense of triumph, like she’d won some kind of contest.
Did she still feel that way? Was that the right way to feel about the man you chose to spend your life with?
Parker had his hands in the pockets of his Dockers, the collar of his black peacoat turned up like Cary Grant, and a red knitted scarf at his neck. He sauntered forward. Matilda and Thea both stood. Parker offered his smile first to Thea. “Hey, Thea,” he said easily. Matilda frowned. Why did it suddenly matter who he said hi to first? He was simply being polite.
“Hey, Parker. Still snowing?”
“Yep. I don’t think it’s ever going to stop.”
Thea laughed, a little too loudly. “So much for spring.”
Parker turned his attention to Matilda. “Ready to go?”
Matilda tried to stop frowning. “Yeah,” she said, looking away. She corralled her things into her purse. The bag was a vintage piece: 1960s Chanel, black quilted leather, found at her favorite antique shop. She put the gold chains over her shoulder and stepped around the desk.
“Have fun picking a wedding cake,” Thea called, her eyes still on Parker. Matilda frowned again. Thea’s confidence made her a serial flirt, but it had never bothered Matilda until this moment.
Parker put his arm around Matilda’s waist and called over his shoulder. “Thanks! We will.” Turning back, he kissed her temple. “Hi.”
“Hi.”
“How are you feeling today? Was it hard to be back or was it helpful?”
“I’m okay,” she lied. “It was good to be back and have things to do. How was your day?”
“Great day. I came up with a new slogan for the mill. Should really help with sales.” Parker worked as marketing director for Wood Craft, a custom cabinet mill and Silent Fields’s largest employer. When the quarry started to lose business to other quarries in southeastern Kansas, the cabinet factory had moved in and saved the town. Parker was determined to keep it growing.
“Good. That’s great,” Matilda said numbly. She felt the weight of grief, felt its strange heat inside her rib cage. She wanted to cool it by running away, by hiding from it in sleep. But she couldn’t cancel the wedding cake decision; she’d already put this off twice because of Jetty’s illness. And Jetty wanted her to move forward.
Isn’t this forward?
A few minutes later they were brushing the snow off their heads and shoulders in Estelle’s warm bakery. Estelle, a gorgeous African-American woman in her mid-fifties ran over from behind the counter. Her braided hair was slightly dusted with flour and her apron dark with chocolate. “You finally made it!” She hugged them both. No one smelled as good as Estelle. “Come on back to the wedding room.”
Estelle led them to a small office where there was a short desk, three chairs, and pictures of cakes covering every inch of wall space. She flopped open a giant binder. “Now, you two go through and look at all the pictures. We can recreate anything you see or mix and match for something custom. Take your time; I’ll check back in a bit. And bring samples!”
Matilda sat in one of the chairs, keeping her purse on her lap. Something about the weight of it felt necessary at the moment. She frowned at the cakes on the walls. Parker started to turn pages.
“So what are you thinking?” he asked. “This one’s nice.” He pointed to a white three-tiered cake with silver lace fondant around the edges.
Matilda leaned in to see it. “Very pretty, but a little traditional.”
“I thought you liked traditional.” Parker flipped more pages.
The comment annoyed her, but when she thought of all the decisions they’d made so far, Parker was right. White church, June date, princess gown, long veil. All the safe, predictable choices. “How ’bout that one?” She pointed to a chocolate ganache cake with three tiers, but pentagon shaped and suspended on a spiral stand. “We could put real roses on it. White ones.”
Parker frowned at the picture. “A chocolate wedding cake? I don’t know.”
“It’s beautiful. And … fun.” Suddenly, she wanted nothing more than that cake.
“It’s a little out there. Don’t you think?”
“No. What’s wrong with something a little different?”
“It’s not our style.” Parker turned the page.
Matilda blinked, anger rising in her throat. She wanted to yell at him, or maybe claw each of the stiff cake photos from the wall and rip them to shreds. She wanted to storm out of the shop.
Whoa! Stop it.
She’d never been mad at Parker before, never wanted to destroy something beautiful. What is wrong with me? Her head began to pound, her purse felt like a stack of rocks on her lap. Stop it. Get control. But she couldn’t seem to calm her heart and the pounding in her head only increased. She stood abruptly; Parker jumped. She said in a rush, “Uhh … the white with silver lace. That’s fine. I really have to go.”
Parker stood, putting a hand on her arm. She looked over at him. Parker was only five foot six, short for a man, but people never noticed because of his looks. “Hold on. What’s wrong?”
“I’m sorry. I thought I could handle this, but I can’t. I don’t feel good. I’m so tired. I just need to go home and sleep.”
“Is this because of Jetty?”
Matilda pressed her teeth together. She hated him for asking that. She met his eyes and knew he could see the anger spark in hers. He blinked and leaned away slightly. “I need to go home,” was her only answer.
Parker picked up his coat. “I’ll drive you. My car is at the library.”
“No, no,” she said, stepping to the door. “I’ll walk. You stay and get things arranged with Estelle. This needs to be done. I’m sorry.”
“Okay,” Parker said, eyes narrowed in concern and confusion. “Want me to come over later?”
Matilda avoided his eyes. “Not tonight. Okay?”
“Okay.” He didn’t hide his disappointment.
Without another word, Matilda was gone.
Matilda
Matilda woke at two-thirty in the morning to the smell of smoke. She flipped over and sat up, breathing hard and choking on the cords of smoke rising off her quilt. The quilt Jetty had made her years ago out of a kaleidoscope of red fabrics.
With a strangled yelp, Matilda beat at the blanket. But there was no fire. Only smoke. She watched it dissipate and tried to reason where it had come from. She looked around the room—nothing out of place. It was chilly, as it always was this time of year since the radiant heating in the old Victorian cottage wasn’t the most efficient source of warmth. But nothing was on fire.
Did I dream it? She sniffed the air, the smell almost gone now. A nightmare? All imagined? And yet, she remembered what Jetty had told her about her grief for Enzo starting the curtains on fire. Of course that wasn’t real, that was just Jetty’s colorful way of describing things, of telling stories. My burning grief …
Matilda pulled Aunt Jetty’s favorite threadbare shawl from the bottom of the bed and wrapped it tightly around her shoulders. The shawl smelled like Jetty—sage and vanilla—and it made Matilda feel empty inside. She turned to a picture on her nightstand of her and Jetty sitting on the porch swing, laughing. It’d been taken the summer after high school. Jetty’s wild, curly orange hair was blown away from her round face by a hot breeze, her head thrown back and mouth open wide. Perfectly Jetty. Photo-Matilda looked up at her, her long, straight black hair pulled into a high ponytail, her dark eyes adoring. They both wore cut off shorts and tank tops, no shoes.
“I wish you were here,” Matilda whispered, her throat tight. “I don’t know what to do.” Matilda closed her eyes with a sigh. Because she did feel like she needed to do something,
to act. Jetty’s death had left her feeling not only alone, but trapped. Nothing felt right. Not Jetty’s crazy Victorian house with its tiny rooms, Jetty’s paintings hung on the walls, and colorful exterior. Not the library Matilda loved so much. Not her beloved little town of Silent Fields. And not Parker, the man she was supposed to marry in a month and a half.
Everything was wrong.
“What do I do?” she asked the picture again as she set it back in place.
Matilda slipped out of bed, put her feet in her slippers, and went to the window. The snow was still falling. A late-spring snowstorm.
Jetty’s story about leaving Frank to find Enzo played in her head. What a brave thing Jetty had done. To leave in search of something more. To leave the shallow end to jump off the diving board.
Could I ever do that?
I should do that.
A frightening feeling swelled in Matilda’s gut, a potent desire to jump from the high dive. The air left her lungs. She leaned forward to grip the wooden window frame. It was foolish, childish, to think running away would solve anything. Her grief would not stay behind. She couldn’t leave.
Matilda turned slowly to look at her red-and-white patchwork quilt, made by Jetty’s hands. She couldn’t think clearly; suddenly she wanted too much. She wanted those things Jetty had talked about. Running in the rain. Seeing new places. New people. A love that made the grief go away. A love that filled her with passion, not polite friendship.
I want that.
The statement was simple, but the ramifications sadly complicated. Leaving the shallow end had consequences. So many things could go wrong with an impromptu dive into the unknown. You could drown in all that want for more.
She wanted things, things she denied herself. All her life, she’d held back, acted cautiously. Was it because she’d survived the car crash that killed her parents? She’d always felt an undercurrent of need to be careful for their sakes. But Jetty hadn’t been afraid to jump, and she’d found Enzo. She’d been happy, if only for a brief time. So was it real or fiction? Was it possible there was a man somewhere in the world she could feel that way about? Her own Enzo? Jetty had advised her to find someone to love. Was he out there? Someone better for her than Parker?