The Book Charmer

by Karen Hawkins

  “Interested in selling those blankets? I can pay you five dollars each and help you make back the money they cost you.”

  Grace’s arms tightened around the covers. “No, thank you. I’ll need them when I move again. We’re only staying a year.”

  Ricky Bob looked surprised at this, but soon he and Tommy headed back out to the truck while Grace stashed the blankets inside the built-in corner cupboard in the living room. When she finished, she returned to where her table sat, the late-afternoon sun slanting over the gleaming mahogany. She trailed her fingers over the satiny surface, glad to see that it had survived the move unscathed.

  The dining room set had been her first purchase after she’d gotten her dream job. It meant a lot to her, although Ricky Bob was right—it was too big for this room. She placed her hand flat on the glossy waxed surface, the wood warm against her fingers. If she were smart, she’d sell this table and get something smaller. But she couldn’t give it up. She’d given up so much already. Too much.

  A flash of red appeared at the corners of her eyes, and she gritted her teeth against it. It had been years since she’d had to fight her demons. Mama G’s love and calmness, along with the steady drumbeat of success, had done much to banish the red-hot anger that used to consume Grace. But Hannah’s death had brought a hint of Grace’s fury back, and she hated it.

  Daisy ran down the stairs, her tennis shoes bouncing off each step. Grace left the table and went into the sitting room, happy to find her niece twirling at the bottom of the steps, her mood lighter than before.

  From the divan, Mama G tapped her foot as if she could hear the invisible music. “Lord, child, you do like to dance.”

  Encouraged, Daisy danced faster, looking just like her mother, blond and serene. But where Hannah could look right through you until you felt lonely and cold, Daisy’s gaze was personal and direct, even when she was mad at the world.

  Panting from her exertions, Daisy plopped onto the floor beside Mama G. The little girl leaned her head back and, still breathing hard, reached up to touch the sunbeam that poured through one of the front windows, as if trying to catch the golden dust motes that spun in the light.

  Grace smiled, caught in the unexpected peacefulness of the moment. Daisy was a warrior, this child of misfortune whose father had denied her and whose mother hadn’t been able to do more than hug her and leave, over and over again until they’d all been exhausted. But that had been Hannah—she’d disengaged from her pain until there’d been nothing left of her to give to her own child. Or anyone else.

  Ricky Bob and Tommy thumped back and forth through the house, arguing with one another the entire time. They carried in side tables, an armoire, boxes of Daisy’s books, and finally a plump blue recliner that clashed horribly with the vibrant green chairs Mrs. Phelps had left behind. “Please put it here.” Grace pointed to an empty spot beside the fireplace. As soon as the recliner was in place, Grace patted the armrest. “Look, Mama G. Your favorite chair.”

  Mama G didn’t need two invitations. “That divan is as lumpy as a stack of firewood.” She settled into the chair with a sigh of relief, her eyes twinkling as she smiled up at Grace. “You’d think with all the padding on my ass, I wouldn’t need such stuffed cushions, but lord, this feels good.”

  Daisy, who’d brought Mama G’s knitting basket, giggled.

  Even Grace had to laugh. “We all deserve comfortable chairs.”

  Mama G smiled indulgently. But as Grace watched, the older woman’s smile slipped, and she looked around the room as if searching for a memory that had just skittered out of sight. “We are . . .” Her voice, which used to be so crisp and firm, started to quaver, much like her hands. “I used to know this place.”

  Grace patted Mama G’s shoulder. “We’re in Dove Pond at Philomedra Phelps’s house. She just left. Remember?”

  Mama G blinked. “Oh. Oh yes.” She surveyed the room as if seeing it for the first time. “I hope she’ll cook us some spaghetti. I never could make sauce the way she did, although mine’s pretty good.”

  “Your sauce is better than good,” Daisy said. “It’s perfect.”

  The loud rumble of a motorcycle outside caught Grace’s attention. She left Mama G and Daisy talking about the merits of spaghetti sauce and went to the front window.

  Grace pushed aside the lace curtain. Sunlight lit the front yard, gleaming through the trees to sprawl in golden patches on the green grass. The rumble drew closer, and a red-and-silver streak flashed down the street. The bike slowed and then turned into the driveway next door. This must be Travis Parker.

  Grace leaned forward so she could see him a little better. Broad-shouldered and as powerfully built as a cage fighter, the man wore a white T-shirt and jeans with effortless ease. He parked the bike next to his walkway, kicked the stand into place, and climbed off. He removed his helmet and long, dark hair spilled almost to his shoulders, in odd contrast to the harsh lines of his face. Oh great, of all the neighbors in the world, I get Khal Drogo.

  He pulled his hand impatiently through his hair, hung his helmet on his bike, and then walked toward his house. He paused as he neared the door and turned to stare across his yard, as if looking for something. The sunlight hit his face and she caught sight of a thick red scar that ran up his neck to disappear under his five-o’clock shadow on one cheek.

  I wonder what happened? A motorcycle wreck, no doubt.

  He cupped his hands to his mouth. “Killer!” he yelled.

  Killer? Alarmed, Grace looked in the direction he stared, waiting to see the hellhound worthy of such a name.

  The man called again, more loudly this time. But nothing happened, and after a moment, he shrugged and went inside.

  So that was her neighbor. And Killer, too. If that dog comes even close to Daisy, we’re going to have some words. Mrs. Phelps had said Travis Parker was the keep-to-himself type, and Grace could only hope the old woman was right. Judging from the deeply carved lines on his face, the khal didn’t look as if he was what one might call “good-natured.”

  She was starting to turn away from the window when a blue pickup truck pulled into the drive that curled up to the Dove house. Intrigued, Grace pushed the curtain farther back and was surprised to see that the woman who climbed out of the truck wasn’t an ancient crone at all, but was Grace’s age or perhaps even younger. The woman had dark blond hair that was tied in a messy braid that flopped over her shoulder, and she wore a floaty, gauzy dress and sandals.

  She reached into the back seat, pulled out a stack of books, and used her shoulder to shut the truck door. She’d just started up the walk toward her house when she stopped and looked down at the books and began scolding them as if they were alive.

  Grace blinked. Good God. I’m surrounded by loonies. Biker Khal Drogo next door and hippie Hermione Granger in the house after that.

  The woman patted the top book on the stack and started up the flower-lined walkway to her door. She’d just reached the steps when, with a sudden swivel, she looked directly at Grace. A delighted smile broke over her face, and she waved.

  Startled, Grace jumped back and released the curtain, her face hot. As she turned, she found Mama G’s gaze locked on her.

  “See something interesting?”

  “No,” Grace lied.

  “You should go and say hi.” When Grace shook her head, Mama G tsked. “Change never hurt nobody, child. You know that. It’s those who can’t or won’t change who lose.”

  “I’m hungry.” Daisy put down the ball of yarn she’d been winding for Mama G and stood. “I know what I want for dinner.”

  Relieved by the distraction and hoping to extend Daisy’s rare good mood, Grace said, “Let me guess.”

  Daisy smiled, for the moment looking so much like her old self that Grace’s heart lifted. “Okay,” Daisy said. “Guess.”

  “Spinach?”

  “No!” Daisy shook her head and then spun in a circle while Mama G’s knitting needles settled into their familiar
clicking. “Guess again.”

  Grace pretended to think, relishing this moment of the not-angry Daisy. “Boiled eggs?”

  “No, no, no!” Daisy spun a little faster. “Guess again!”

  “Liver and onions?”

  “No, no, no, no!” Daisy tilted to one side, too dizzy to stand as she plopped at Mama G’s feet, panting heavily. “Pizzzzzaaaaaa!”

  Mama G looked up from her knitting. “Pizza?”

  “You like pizza,” Daisy assured her.

  Mama G’s smile disappeared, and she said sharply, “I know I like pizza. My momma used to make the best pies. In fact . . .” Mama G looked around the room. “She and my aunt Penelope would make pies in this very house every Sunday night. Philomedra and I would set the table and we’d have the neighbors over and there’d be wine and— Oh, it was so much fun!”

  Grace’s heart lifted. Perhaps coming back to Mama G’s hometown would do her some good, after all. Here, far away from the tatters of their old life, maybe they could find a new one, a better one, one where the world wasn’t ripped in half by the black hole where Hannah used to be.

  “Pizza, huh?” Grace threw up her hands as if conceding a victory to the others. “Fine. Pizza it is.” With a smile, she went to quiz the movers on the best place to order a delivery. After all the troubles she, Mama G, and Daisy had weathered, they deserved the best pizza Dove Pond had to offer.

  It wasn’t much, but it was a start.

  CHAPTER 2

  Sarah

  Sarah pulled the huge ring of keys from her pocket and unlocked the door of the Dove Pond Library’s book-drop box. She lowered the big metal flap, the heady vanilla old-book scent tickling her nose and making her think of cookies and cake and hours spent under the willow tree in her backyard, reading until the sun slid out of sight.

  Sighing happily, she pulled the books out, stacking them on the rim. She had to lean way in to reach the last one, and the second her fingers closed over the cover, the book spoke.

  Kym Brummer, the book said thoughtfully, as if the name had just occurred to it.

  Kym, the nine-year-old daughter of Miriam Brummer, the principal of Sweet Creek Elementary, was a voracious reader. Sarah looked at the book, which had a picture of a horse with the title My Friend Flicka printed across the top. “I read you when I was in elementary school,” Sarah murmured. “You think Kym might enjoy you, do you?”

  Oh yes, the book replied. She likes horses.

  “We all do at that age,” Sarah said drily as she placed the book on the top of the stack. “She has two books due this afternoon, so I should see her today. I’ll make sure she finds you.”

  The book rustled in thanks.

  Sarah patted the book. How she loved being the town librarian. It was odd to think that just a few short years ago she’d had the worst job in the world, selling ads for the Dove Pond Register. The position had offered little pay and no future, especially for someone who was never comfortable asking people for money. Selling was not her thing. But books? Oh yes. Books were her thing. And although she’d known that for a long time, it had still taken a while for her to figure out where she belonged.

  Four years ago, Dove Pond’s long-serving librarian, eighty-nine-year-old Nebbie Farmer, had walked out of her house without the necessary clothing one time too many. The day after Nebbie’s chilly stroll down Main Street, Mayor Moore and the Dove Pond Social Club threw the biggest retirement party the town had ever seen. Nebbie, pleased by the large turnout, had gotten happy-weepy as people came, hugged her, ate cake, and shared “Do you remember when Nebbie . . .” stories. There were quite a few of these, as Nebbie had never been what one would call a “conformist.”

  After the party, Nebbie’s daughter drove her mom to the nearby town of Glory, where the retired librarian became the newest resident of the vaunted and well-loved Glory Assisted Living Center. Within the first week, Nebbie had joined no fewer than seven clubs and had found two new best friends, both of whom enjoyed sitting in the buff just as much as she did.

  The week after Nebbie’s retirement, Mayor Moore listed the librarian’s job in the classified section of the Dove Pond Register. Sarah, knowing her time at the Register was coming to an end one way or another, had half-heartedly applied. She’d had no hope of getting the position, as she was sadly underqualified; she had no experience and her degree was in poetry rather than library science. But to her shock and wonderment, after a cursory interview, she was hired. Later, while drunk as a skunk at the Fourth of July parade, Mayor Moore had let it slip that she’d been the only applicant.

  Sarah hadn’t cared. She’d gotten the job and loved everything about it—the beckoning smell of the books, the neat rows of shelves, the whispers of a thousand friends who knew her better than her own family. Even the cool, dark basement held treasures, accessible only by the use of two special keys. There, carefully preserved between plastic sheeting, rested the entire dusty history of Dove Pond. As soon as Sarah touched the first ancient document, a land grant dated 1708, which had crackled with age and excitement, she knew she was right where she belonged.

  And now, here she was, four years later, getting ready to open the library doors for another exciting day. Still kneeling, she’d just closed the metal door of the drop box and locked it when a fat black cat rubbed against her ankle, pressing so firmly that she teetered for a precarious moment.

  “Siegfried!” she admonished as she put a steadying hand on the sidewalk. “You should warn a girl.”

  Siegfried arched his back and then began to walk in counterclockwise circles.

  One.

  Two.

  Three.

  He sat back down, meowing plaintively.

  Sarah’s smile slipped and she stood, staring down at the cat. It was the sixth day in a row that Siegfried had turned his counterclockwise circles. And he wasn’t just doing it in front of the library, but in front of each and every door as he walked down Main Street.

  He looked up at her now, mewling loudly.

  “You feel it, too, don’t you? Something is going to happen.” Something good, she hoped.

  And oh, how she hoped.

  Despite the promises Charlotte Dove’s journal had whispered so long ago under the willow tree, the good luck portended by Sarah’s birth had yet to materialize. In fact, to look at the number of shuttered businesses on Main Street, things were rapidly going in the opposite direction.

  The thought made her want to weep. Her beloved town was dying right before her eyes and she had no idea what she was supposed to do to stop it from happening. She looked down the street, noting how the awnings that hung over the once-bustling businesses had, over the years, gone from vivid red to a washed-out pink. The flowers that filled the large cement pots were straggly and tired, while FOR RENT signs hung in every third or so doorway. Even the sidewalk had dulled from a once-blinding white to a worn-looking gray.

  Dove Pond needed the Dove family magic more than ever. And yet nothing had happened to save the town. Nothing! With every passing day, Sarah felt more like a failure. Expectations, even inherited ones, could weigh on one’s shoulders like bags of cement if they were unfulfilled. There were days Sarah’s back ached from it.

  The cat meowed again, louder this time. Sarah moved the stack of books to her other hip for balance, then bent down to pet the poor creature. “I’m worried, too, Siegfried.”

  “That cat is nothing but a pain in the ass.”

  Sarah looked up to see Mrs. Jo Hamilton approaching, her wide-brimmed hat flopping with each step. A widow, she was as wide as she was tall, and closer to ninety than to eighty. As notorious for her colorful wardrobe as for her outspoken opinions, she wore a flamingo-pink suit that set off her ebony skin while a bright blue purse hung from her wrist. She clutched an elaborately carved wooden cane, while a huge, summer-perfect hat sat perched atop her black-dyed hair. Trailing behind her on a red leash was her very fat, very lazy bulldog, who went by the ridiculously appropriate name of Moon
Pie and always had a different-colored ribbon around his neck. Today, he was sporting a bright if bedraggled purple bow.

  Moon Pie stood behind Aunt Jo, panting while he carefully avoided any challenging eye contact with Siegfried.

  “Aunt Jo!” Sarah said. The elderly woman was one of Dove Pond’s oldest residents and had long been a Dove family friend. With a smile so sweet it was impossible to see it without returning it, Aunt Jo was Sarah’s favorite person in the world. “You’re all dressed up this morning. What’s the occasion?” Sarah wished she had hats like Aunt Jo’s. The older woman decorated them herself with a wide array of silk flowers and colorful ribbons. The hats always made Sarah think of fancy teas and the Kentucky Derby.

  “I’m going to church. I’ve been promoted to deaconess and it’s my first official meeting.”

  “Congratulations! When did that happen?”

  “Sunday night. But don’t be too impressed. No one else would do it. I was just the slowest-moving hippo and our new pastor is a damn cheetah. If you hesitate, you’re lost.”

  Everyone had heard about Preacher Thompson, newly arrived at the First Baptist Church. Although he’d been there less than two months, he’d already caused a mountain of upheaval. “I hear he’s a bit unconventional.”

  “If you only knew. He has no appreciation for the history of our church. Why, he wants to paint the whole building bright blue so people will notice it. Can you imagine?” She puffed out her disbelief. “How could they not notice our church? It has a bell.”

  Moon Pie barked as if he agreed. Then, apparently exhausted by that small effort, he dropped to the warm pavement, where he stayed, panting heavily.

  “Blue is my favorite color,” Sarah admitted.

  “I’m not talking about a soft, pretty blue. I’m talking bright, obnoxious blue. Blue the color of a swimming pool at a high school.”

  “Ugh.”

  “I know, right? Now, a nice, light, crisp blue, that I could see. I could support a pale yellow, too. I could even go green, if the shade was right. But bright high-school-pool blue? No.”