by Nancy Moser
Yeah, right.
Lou had been big on giving it up to Jesus. Can’t pay the bills? Give it up to Jesus. Lou’s boss treating him unfairly? Give it up to Jesus. Justin needs tubes in his ears? Give it up to Jesus.
Yes, in these instances everything had turned out for the best, but it galled Merry that Lou could make it so incredibly simple. Such a faith seemed naive and immature. Shouldn’t believing in one almighty God, Creator of heaven and earth, be complicated and hard?
Faith was hard. There was no way Merry could find any good in her family dying. And if she was a woman of faith, shouldn’t she be able to do that? Think a certain thought, pray a certain prayer so it would all make sense? And where, oh where, was the promised comfort of Jesus’ everlasting arms?
It was God’s fault. If He loved her so much, He’d make her faith strong. He’d grab her from the pit and pull her into His arms like a father pulling a petulant child into his lap, rocking and making soft noises until the child finally relaxed and accepted the love he needed and longed for.
She threw the remote to the floor. She had to quit passing the buck. It wasn’t God’s fault. It was hers. Everything was her fault. She was a failure on every front. She had been a mediocre wife, a passable mother, a reluctant friend, an average librarian, and a doubting, bitter child of God.
She mentally gathered the smothering feelings, as if they were bed linens she needed to wash clean, and stuffed them into the back of her mind to deal with later. She pushed herself off the couch. There was only one thing that could make her feel better.
It was nearly dark, that gloaming time of day when the eyes had trouble focusing in the half-light. Better true dark or true light than this ambiguous in-between.
Merry stumbled through her garden to the place of her relief. The shrine—her secret shrine. She was glad it was tucked into the far corner of her fenced yard, hidden from view by a row of huge lilac bushes. People would never suspect an abandoned shed contained a place of mourning. They’d never understand her need to remember when they all thought she should forget. Maybe if she hadn’t moved to Steadfast, had stayed near the place where Lou and Justin were buried, she wouldn’t need a shrine. A place to visit, connect, and grieve.
She shoved open the rickety door, flicked on a flashlight, and found the matches. She lit two candles so she could turn off the artificial light. The wavering flicker reminded her of Christmas Eve church services, when only candles lit the holy place.
The walls of the shed were covered with ancient shelves and hooks for rakes and brooms. Merry wasn’t interested in what was above, but what she’d created below the trappings of the shed. She’d carved out a clean corner and placed a rag rug on the clapboard floor. She sat on it now, drew her knees to her chest, and looked upon the two crosses on the wall. She’d created them from fallen branches in the yard. She smiled at the photos of her family. Lou standing in front of his new truck. Justin showing off a fresh haircut. A picture of the two of them displaying their fishing catch.
Merry’s eyes did inventory. One picture was gone.
She turned on the flashlight and swiped its beam over every corner. The picture was gone! Someone had taken it.
She shivered. This place was secret! No one knew about it. And even if they did, who would take a picture of herself and her son at a baseball game? Why would they do that? How dare they do that!
She rubbed a hand over her face, trying to collect her thoughts. When was the last time she’d been here? A week ago, on the seventeen-month anniversary of the crash. The picture was there then.
A sudden weariness fell onto her shoulders, like a pack too heavy to carry. She flipped off the flashlight and toppled over on her side, curling into a ball. She pulled Justin’s stuffed monkey to the place beneath her chin. The flowers from her last visit were wilting, and she chastised herself for not bringing replacements. She didn’t have the energy. She plucked one of the daisies and spun it near her nose. Its fragrance was bitter.
As was her heart.
Jered belched loudly as he drove around the square on his way to pick up Darrell and Moog. He took the final swig of a beer and tossed the can behind the seat just as he spotted his father tiptoeing down the steps of the library. How strange.
His father drove away, and Jered pulled into the vacated space out front. He looked at the library. It was completely dark. So why was his father sneaking around its entrance? What was he up to?
Jered put the truck in park but left the engine running. He ran up the library steps and stopped short when he saw a vase of flowers. They looked like the kind they had in their backyard.
He plucked a note out of the stems. Merry, I won’t give up on us. Bailey.
No way. His dad was two-faced, conniving, selfish, lustful—
His dad didn’t deserve Merry. If she ever agreed to go out with his dad… The thought was disgusting. Merry was his friend. His dad couldn’t have her.
He crumpled his father’s note and stuffed it in his pocket.
Thirteen
Friend deceives friend, and no one speaks the truth.
They have taught their tongues to lie;
they weary themselves with sinning.
JEREMIAH 9:5
MERRY AND BLANCHE PULLED INTO the library parking lot at the same time. Merry got out first and opened the door for the older woman.
“Morning, Blanche. I should give you an award for always being my first customer, but aren’t you a bit early?”
With a groan, Blanche swung her legs out of the car. “I woke up early, so decided I might as well get a jump-start on my e-mails. And as far as the award, cash is always appreciated.”
“Sorry, fresh out.” They started up the walk. Merry stopped at the foot of the steps, not quite registering what she was seeing.
A vase of flowers.
“Wow,” Blanche said.
“Wow,” Merry echoed. But her wow came from a different center of response. She stared at the flowers. How could something so beautiful bring back such bad memories?
“Aren’t you going to get them?” Blanche started up the steps. “If you don’t want them, I’ll—”
“No!” Merry reached them first. “I want them.”
“I would think so.”
Merry ran a finger along the perfect petals.
“Who are they from?”
Merry rotated the arrangement, looking for a card. “There’s no note.”
“Oooh…a secret admirer—or maybe it’s the library ghost.”
“Maybe they’re not even for me.” Merry held the flowers in one hand while negotiating the key to the front door.
Blanche pushed the door open for her. “Ah, you’re probably right. There are so many people working at the library.”
Merry flipped the lights and set the flowers on the front counter. “Maybe Ivan sent them for you.”
Blanche turned the vase so the best side faced the room. “If that man ever got the notion to send flowers, he’d send them to my house, not to the library. Face it, Merry, these are for you.”
“I wish they had a note.”
“Nah. This only makes it more interesting.” Blanche put a hand beneath a blossom. “But I’m mad at you.”
“Why?”
“You’ve been holding out on me. I didn’t know you had a boyfriend.”
“I don’t.”
“Wanna bet?”
Merry started when Sim and Claire came into the library through the storeroom. They stopped.
Merry’s heart skipped a beat. She hurried behind the counter as if nothing were amiss. “Sim, you have got to quit coming in to work early. You make me look bad.” She turned to Blanche. “I gave Sim a key since she’s such a good worker.”
“A workaholic at such a young age. I’m impressed.”
Sim helped change the subject by pointing to the flowers. “Where did those come from?”
Blanche answered. “Merry has a secret admirer. There wasn’t a card.”
&
nbsp; “They’re beautiful.” Claire moved close. “I bet they’re from Bailey.”
“Not hardly. Not after I rejected him again.” Merry pulled the stem of a daisy into a better position. “Besides, I don’t think anonymous flowers are his style. If he sent flowers he’d make sure I knew he sent them. There’d be a neon sign so he’d be sure to get credit.”
Blanche flipped a hand. “Then that settles it. It’s the library ghost.”
“Merry!”
She looked up from checking out Mrs. Griswold’s books on gardening to see Stu Noxley from the Steadfast Beat striding toward her. It was obvious by his gait he was not here for books.
“Shhh, Stu. This is a library.”
Stu looked left, then right, as if just realizing that fact. “Oops. Sorry.” He put a hand on the counter. “I’m here on official business.” He pointed to the camera around his neck. “I got a lead on your library ghost, and I’ve come over to do an article on it, him, her… whatever. Wanted to take a few pictures too.”
She did a double take at Mrs. Griswold, whose mouth had formed an O. “An article?”
Blanche came running, rubbing her hands together. “Yee-ha! It’s about time we got some action in this town.”
“The whole town’s talking about the ghost,” Stu said. “I’m not too late, am I? I mean, the ghost is still doing its stuff, isn’t it?”
Blanche pointed to the flowers. “You bet! The ghost left flowers on the front step this morning.”
Merry let her frustration out on a huff. “Stu, I don’t think this is a good idea. It’s not a ghost at all; there’s no such thing. It’s just someone doing nice things without taking any credit.”
“Now that is a big deal.” Stu readied his pad and pencil. “So what’s this about love notes and licorice?” He raised a finger, then jotted down the words. “Oh, I like that. ‘Love Notes and Licorice.’ Alliteration is great for headlines.”
Merry put a hand to her forehead. “Who told you about the—?”
He tapped a pencil on his pad. “I have my sources. Come on, Merry. You know the supersonic speed of the Steadfast grapevine. It’s to your advantage to give me the correct information.”
“But there’s no information to give.”
Blanche slipped a hand through Merry’s arm. “Merry will be happy to give you an interview. And me too, Stu.”
Mrs. Griswold raised a hand. “Me too. I thought I saw the library ghost once back when I was thirteen. I was in the corner back there—” she pointed to the corner near Harold’s chair—“reading an Agnes Turnbull novel, when suddenly I saw a smoky apparition float by.”
“Now we’re getting somewhere!” Stu looked at his watch. “If I make the four o’clock deadline, I can get it in tomorrow’s edition. I’ve got the one-hour photo place primed and waiting.”
Merry waved him off. “I think this has gone far enough. Let’s stop it right—”
“Getting greedy on me, Merry?”
“What?”
“Trying to keep the library ghost all to yourself?”
“That’s ridiculous.”
“Then why not cooperate?”
She thought back to the fiasco after the plane crash. “No offense, Stu, but I’m not too keen on the press.”
He leaned toward her, and she saw the broken blood vessels in his nose. “Hey, I know you got burned, but I’m not like that. I won’t camp outside your house or delve into your love life.”
Merry’s shoulders straightened. “I was not having an affair with George Davanos!”
Stu flipped a hand. “Never said you were. That’s old news.” He put an arm around Mrs. Griswold’s shoulders. “I just want a local story. There’s no harm in that.”
“Come on, Merry.” Blanche nudged her. “It will be fun.”
Mrs. Griswold’s head bobbed eagerly, like a child trying to cajole her parents to let her go to the circus.
Merry was surrounded. But she hoped Mrs. Griswold wouldn’t get her circus.
Sim was in the middle of helping a six-year-old find the Curious George books when she noticed Merry talking to some guy with a camera. The man was taking notes and pictures. What were they up to?
Since Ivan wasn’t a part of the mix, she went over to him. “Ivan? Sir?”
He grunted.
“Can you tell me who that man is, talking to Merry?”
Ivan looked over his shoulder. “Oh. Him. Stu Noxley. He runs the paper.”
“Why is he here?”
“Probably going to make a front-page story about someone who owes a buck on overdue fines. Stu can make mud out of orange juice.”
Blanche rushed over, her arms waving. “Come on, you two. Stu’s doing an article about the library ghost. He may want to interview you.
Ivan’s head moved side to side. “Uh-uh. No way. If you let Stu have that story, the next thing you know we’ll have ghostbusters in here, messing with the peace and quiet.”
Sim found it hard to swallow. “Why would he want to do an article on the library ghost?”
Blanche was pinching her cheeks like Sim had seen Scarlett O’Hara do in Gone With the Wind. “Not much news in Steadfast, Sim, unless you count Mildred Hannigan getting a joke printed in Reader’s Digest. You take what you can get. And this is big.”
“But how did he find out?”
Blanche’s shrug was half-hearted. “The main drawback of living in a small town is the speed and degree of its grapevine. News travels fast. If you aren’t careful, it’ll come back and whip your backside before you finish telling it in the first place.” She smoothed her flowered top over her ample hips and looked at Sim and Ivan.
They looked back.
She rolled her eyes and fluffed her hair. “Fine. You two be party poopers. I plan on being famous. Ta-ta.”
Sim’s heart beat in her throat. If they figured out she’d done the ghost stuff, then there was a chance they’d find out she and Claire lived in the library, and they’d send her back to Kansas City.
“What’s wrong, girl? You look like an animal caught in a trap.”
Close.
Claire sat at her table and watched the pandemonium at the front counter. Everyone who had been in the library when the newspaper man came in was now vying for his attention, all talking at once. Her mind swam with what-ifs. If the reporter wanted the truth, it was up for grabs. The attention and scrutiny were worrisome. How were she and Sim going to slip in and out after hours with a crowd of ghost-watchers on the prowl?
Harold hung back on the edge of the group. His face was contorted. Then he shook his head, hugged a book to his chest like a shield, and scurried out. It wasn’t good. Stu was scaring off the regulars.
Sim came beside her, her eyes locked on the crowd. “What are we going to do?”
“What can we do? It’s like stopping an avalanche.”
“But I didn’t send those flowers.”
Claire did a double take. “No one said you did. Why—?”
“I was the one who gave Harold the licorice and I wrote the love notes.”
“Why did you do that?”
She shrugged. “But now…”
Now the truth didn’t matter. Claire watched the crowd. “I’m sure the ghost is getting credit for all sorts of things. The legend has been reawakened, and there’s no way the town’s going to let it go back to sleep.”
“It’s crazy.”
“Absolutely.”
“I want them to leave.”
“Dream on, kiddo. The town was dying for some summer excitement, and this is it.”
“If only I’d taken credit for the notes and stuff, not done it anonymously.”
Claire put a hand on her arm. “Your heart was in the right place. Not many people do good deeds without wanting credit.”
“But it may ruin everything.”
“Hopefully not.”
Bailey came in the door. His eyes scanned the crowd at the front desk as he joined Sim and Claire. “What’s going on?”
<
br /> “Your basic feeding frenzy,” Claire said.
“About what?”
“That newspaper guy got wind that the library ghost was doing good deeds and—”
“That old tall tale? That’s ridiculous.”
“Tell them that.”
They watched as Stu juggled the attention of the ghost-sighters. Blanche got pushed and nearly knocked the vase of flowers off the counter.
Bailey flinched. “My flowers!”
Claire turned to him. “Your flowers?”
“Merry’s flowers. The ones I left for her. Maybe I should go rescue—”
Claire laughed. “They’re not from you anymore, Bailey. They’re from the library ghost.”
“What are you talking about?”
“You should have put a note on them. They’ve been attributed—”
“I did put a note on them!”
Claire shook her head. “It must have blown away. No note. No credit.”
He took a step toward the counter. “That’s absurd. I’m going up there and tell Merry the flowers are from me.”
“You do that, Bailey. It’s been nice knowing you.”
He stepped back.
“Wise choice.”
His breathing was labored, and Claire felt sorry for him. He was a little arrogant and snooty, but he had brought Merry flowers. That always earned a man extra credit.
He shoved his hands in his pockets. “Forget this. I’m going to work.”
“Want me to tell Merry you were here?”
He shook his head. “No thanks. One-upped by a ghost. I can’t win.”
“I have never been so ready to close as I am this evening.” Merry got out the key to the library.
Sim peered through the front windows. “Should we make a show of leaving? Or do you think it’s safe to stay in here?”
Merry looked over Sim’s shoulder. “There’s no crowd, but I see people in the square looking this way. There is definitely a buzz in Steadfast.”
“And the article’s not even out yet.”
Merry made a decision. “You two have to stay with me tonight.”
Claire turned surprised eyes in her direction. “But you said you didn’t have room.”