“No, no. It’s fine.”
There was an awkward moment, and the silence Sarah had been fighting off fell between them with the thoroughness of a guillotine blade.
Oh God, I’m embarrassing myself. I should just leave. I’ll tell her I’ve had too much coffee. That should wor—
“You have a lot of sisters.”
There was something in Grace’s tone—the tiniest hint of wistfulness.
“There are seven of us. I spent most of my childhood standing in line for the bathroom.”
This time Grace’s smile held some warmth. “There were only two of us and it was a morning fight to get to use the bathroom mirror. I can only imagine how crazy it must have been with seven of you.”
“You don’t want to know,” Sarah said earnestly. She smiled in return. “I’m glad I finally got to meet you. Mrs. Giano said you’ve been working long hours.”
Grace’s smile disappeared. “When did you speak to Mama G?”
That’s an unusual thing to call your mother. “I’ve been by your house a few times, but you weren’t home, although . . .”
“Although what?”
“Your car was in the driveway one of the times I stopped by. I thought maybe you didn’t want to be bothered. Mama G said you weren’t there, though, so . . .” Sarah shrugged.
“I didn’t know you’d stopped by. Mama G . . . She doesn’t always remember things.”
“She was very sweet. Your daughter is nice, too.”
“Daisy is my niece, not my daughter.”
“Oh. Is she your sister’s child, then, the one you used to fight for the bathroom mirror? Or do you have brothers, too?”
“It was just me and Hannah.” Grace’s eyes darkened, and she looked away, her expression suddenly closed off.
Oh dear. Something happened there. Sarah hurried to change the topic. “I saw you looking at the flowers just now.”
Grace’s gaze returned to the planter and her brow creased. “It’s weird, I could have sworn they were purple, but”—she gave an uneasy laugh—“I must be going crazy.”
“No. They were purple this morning. I saw them.”
“I’m so glad you noticed it, too. I thought I was losing my mind.” She reached down and touched one of the yellow flowers. “What type of flower changes like that? I’ll ask Lenny the next time I see him. He’ll know what they’re called.”
Lenny Smith’s official title was Director of Public Works, and he served as the town handyman and gardener. But as talented as Lenny was, Sarah knew he hadn’t planted flowers that would change colors. This was Dove Pond magic.
The books agreed, shifting a little so that she had to grab at the top one to keep it from slipping off the pile.
“Those look heavy,” Grace said.
“They are.” Sarah grimaced. “I was just emptying the book drop box when I saw you, and I forgot I was holding them.”
“You need to get those back to the library. I’ve got to go, too. I’ve hours and hours of data entry ahead of me, so—”
“Don’t go yet,” Sarah protested. In her excitement, she raised her voice the faintest bit.
It was obviously too much. Grace moved slightly. She didn’t take a full step back, but it was enough to let Sarah know she’d seemed too demanding.
The books murmured a warning and Sarah swallowed the words she’d been about to blurt out, about how she’d waited for this day since she was a child of seven, about the ancient journal and its belief that the town would need to be saved and she would be the one to lead the way, about the various signs she’d witnessed in the past week that something big was about to happen, along with a detailed explanation of the Dove family history.
The books were right; now was not the time.
Sarah tamed her wide grin into a calm smile. “I just meant that it’s nice to see someone new in town. You just got here, but I think you’ll like it. Dove Pond is a special place.”
Grace’s gaze drifted past Sarah to the street beyond and there was a hint of regret in her voice as she admitted, “It’s a pretty town.”
Sarah followed Grace’s gaze. It was early-summer warm today, which meant it was neither too hot nor too cool. The sunshine heated the sidewalks and reflected off the curbs, while slightly tattered awnings fluttered in the breeze across the row of storefronts. It was a beautiful day, and Dove Pond was showing her best, if somewhat faded, colors. “Picturesque, isn’t she?”
“Very. It’s too bad I don’t plan on staying long. A year, if that. But I’m sure I’ll enjoy it while I’m here.”
What? Sarah shook her head. “You’ll be here longer than a year.”
Grace cut Sarah a hard look. “No,” she said flatly. “I won’t be.”
The books murmured their disagreement, while Sarah swallowed a sharp answer and had to settle for an unsatisfactory, “Well . . . we’ll see, won’t we?”
She and Grace stared at one another, neither of them willing to bend.
The soft breeze fluttered between them, as if looking for a way to bridge the widening gap. Sarah’s lilac maxi-dress flapped around her legs, while Grace’s stiff suit barely moved.
Regret filtered through Sarah’s stubbornness. I’m making things worse, me and my unruly tongue. I’m going to chase her away before she’s even settled in. Sarah took a steadying breath and said, “Look. I’m sorry. You’ll stay however long you want, of course. I’m just—” She managed an awkward laugh. “I’m just happy to see a new family in town.”
Grace’s expression remained frozen.
Sarah added, “One day, when you have some time, I’ll show you around.”
Grace looked down Main Street. “I’m pretty sure I’ve already seen it all.”
“Oh, I wasn’t talking about the buildings. I meant I’d introduce you to the people. That’s what makes Dove Pond what it is, the people and their stories.”
“Stories?”
“Everyone has a story. That’s what makes us who we are.” Sarah pointed to the town square. “See that statue behind the fountain? That’s Captain John B. Day. He was a war hero in World War II. Or so the townspeople thought in nineteen fifty-five, when they put up the monument.”
Grace shot a curious glance at Sarah. “The townspeople just thought he was a war hero?”
“Yup. It turns out he never made it to the front. He was just in charge of the kitchens at Fort McClellan in Alabama. But when he came home, he knew a lot of war stories because of all the soldiers who came through that camp. The Days are great storytellers, every one of them. And while Captain John never specifically said the stories were about him, people thought he was just being humble.”
“No one asked him outright?”
“Nope. And if you’d ever heard a Day tell a story, you’d know why. The Days can spin yarns that seem so real that if one of them told you a tale about a blizzard, you’d get frostbite even if you were standing in your kitchen on the hottest day of the year.”
Grace laughed. “That’s something, all right. But this statue . . . after the town discovered the truth, why did they keep it?”
“The Days convinced the town council that food was an important part of the war effort. They said his biscuits were really, really, really good. Plus, his family offered to pay for the statue, so no one was out any money.”
Grace eyed the statue. “He was quite a handsome man.”
“That didn’t hurt.” Sarah grinned. “Such is life in a small town.”
For the first time, Grace returned Sarah’s smile. “Apparently so.”
Encouraged, Sarah added, “The old town records are kept in the library basement, so I know more about Dove Pond than most people. You should come over and— Oh! There’s Kat Carter. She’s coming out of the post office right now.”
Grace’s gaze followed Sarah’s nod. A tall brunette wearing huge sunglasses and a too-tight red dress sauntered toward a low-slung white Audi roadster.
Sarah could tell Grace was intrigued, because sh
e shifted a little closer. “Kat’s a Realtor and a member of the Dove Pond Social Club,” Sarah explained. “She has the Carter gift.”
“Gift?”
“Carter women can smell when a man has money.”
Grace looked impressed. “That’s a handy talent.”
“Very. Men fall wildly in love with the Carter women too. Like they can’t help it. Kat’s mom has been married four times, all to rich men.”
“So, the ability to make wealthy men fall in love with you and marry you doesn’t come with the ability to stay married.”
“Kat’s mom, Ella, changes husbands at about the same speed I change my living room couch. Maybe more. I’ve always wondered if the Carter gift is a curse or a blessing.”
Grace watched as Kat slid into her car, every movement somehow sensual. “If the gift is a real thing, then why does Kat still have her maiden name?”
“Kat’s got the gift, but she refuses to use it. She’s found her rich man and he’s crazy for her, but she won’t have him.”
“Poor guy.”
“I know. His name is Mark Maclean. He owns ten gas stations, seven Chick-fil-A’s, and a dozen or so high-end apartment buildings, all in Charlotte.”
“He doesn’t live here?”
“Not anymore. He visits a lot, though. And he asks Kat to marry him each and every Christmas. He’s done it a different way each time, too, but she always refuses. She says marriage comes with a lot of responsibilities and she’s not ready yet.”
“How long has this been going on?”
“Since high school, about seventeen years now.”
“Good lord. I’m surprised he’s still waiting.”
“I don’t think he has a choice; she’s a Carter and—”
The deep rumble of a motorcycle drowned out Sarah’s voice as Trav rode by on his Harley. Sarah noticed that Grace’s expression darkened as he went by.
As soon as she could be heard, Sarah said, “Have you met Travis yet?”
“No.”
There was a grimness to Grace’s mouth that worried Sarah. “I know Trav looks a bit rough, but he’s not. He’s a super-nice guy, just a little terse.”
“My niece is taken with him, although I’ve warned her about bothering him.”
Sarah had seen Daisy hanging over the fence between their houses and knew the little girl liked to watch Trav work on his motorcycle. “Trav lives alone now and says he likes it, but . . . I wonder about that sometimes. His dad died last year from complications caused by dementia.”
Grace’s gaze locked on Sarah. “Dementia?”
“Yeah, Trav took care of him to the very end, too. He— Oh! Over there!” Sarah inclined her head toward the hardware store. “See that man, the round one with fuzzy red hair?”
“The one in the wrinkled brown suit?”
“That’s Wilmer Spankle. The Spankles and the Jepsons have been enemies since they bought property adjoining one another in the eighteen hundreds. No one remembers why they started fighting, not even them. But you’d never know it from how much they scrap today. And every generation, too. It’s not a real town gathering if there’s not a Spankle-Jepson fight in the church parking lot.”
Grace’s lips twitched. “I suppose I was wrong. There are a lot of sights in Dove Pond.”
“More than you can imagine,” Sarah said fervently.
“Apparently so. Tell me, who is that woman glaring at us from the café window? She’s been watching us this whole time.”
Sarah looked, and her stomach knotted. Of all the people in Dove Pond, there were only two she avoided. Most days, she was successful. But apparently today wasn’t one of those days.
Grace had noticed Sarah’s expression and couldn’t have looked more curious. “You know her, I take it?”
Sarah hoped her face wasn’t as pink as it felt. “That’s Mrs. Emily McIntyre. The McIntyres are some of Dove Pond’s wealthiest citizens. Her oldest son is a veterinarian in Raleigh, while the youngest is the sheriff here in town.”
“McIntyre . . .” Grace’s eyes narrowed. “There’s a plaque on the town fountain with the McIntyre name on it.”
“There are a lot of plaques in town bearing that name. The high school track, the park at the south end of town, the street up the hill, and yes, the fountain.”
“Mrs. McIntyre must love Dove Pond.”
Sarah could have told Grace that Emily McIntyre only loved what she owned, but now was not the time for negativity. “The park is beautiful. We should have lunch there one day.”
But Grace’s gaze remained on Emily. “If that glare is any indication, Mrs. McIntyre might be fond of the town, but she’s not very fond of you.”
Sarah forced a smile. “You’re a good observer of the human condition. I’ll tell you about that someday over a glass of wine. It’s a long story and I—”
The town’s squad car pulled into a space a few yards away and turned off. The door began to swing open.
“I have to get back to work. I—I need to get these books to the library to—” The words froze in her throat as Blake climbed from his squad car.
Grace appeared thoroughly confused. “What’s wrong?”
All the air had left Sarah’s lungs and she couldn’t answer.
Blake looked the way he had since high school—tall and broad shouldered, his light brown hair as regimented as his uniform. He glanced her way for the merest second, just long enough for the old, aching desire to settle into Sarah’s suddenly restless legs.
She should stay right where she was and pretend she didn’t care. She knew that was what she should do, knew it as sure as she knew the sky was blue and Blake’s eyes were a seductive green. Knew it as clearly as the sunlight on the window of the café where his mother was even now watching them, a faint sneer on her carefully lipsticked mouth.
The urge to run grew with each second, and Sarah found herself backing away, grabbing at the books on her hip just before they slipped out of her grasp.
Grace frowned. “Are you okay?”
“I’ve got to get back to work. If you’re free, maybe we can have lunch tomor—”
Blake stepped onto the sidewalk. His shadow touched Sarah’s.
She spun on her heel and raced across the street, the books clutched against her hip.
When she reached the library, she took the steps to the door two at a time, almost stumbling in her haste. As she unlocked the doors, Sarah could feel Mrs. Emily’s blazing dislike burning a hole between her shoulder blades.
The doors banged closed behind Sarah as the calming smell of old books and the murmurs of various tomes welcomed her. Heart still racing, she closed her eyes and leaned against the wall while the cool, air-conditioned chilliness soothed her hot cheeks.
Forget them. Think about finally meeting Grace. That’s what’s really important—Grace and Dove Pond. It took a moment, but Sarah slowly regained control of her thoughts. Grace Wheeler was important to the salvation of Dove Pond, that much was clear. But how?
That question needed answering. Fortunately, Sarah knew where to start. Sometimes the only way to begin a journey to the future was with a gentle shove from the past.
She left the wall and set the stack of books she’d been carrying onto the return cart. Then she took out her keys and headed downstairs to the Dove Pond archives, where Charlotte Dove’s cranky journal safely dozed in its glass case, far away from the damaging sunlight and unfiltered air.
The book had aged over the years and it slept more and spoke less. In fact, it had been more than a year since she’d exchanged more than a sleepy hello with it.
She unlocked the door, flipped on the lights, and stepped inside. Rows of shelves and cases filled the basement, the remnants of Dove Pond’s long history. She walked past the boxes and bins and went instead to the far corner, where the journal dozed on an acid-free pillow she’d bought from a library supply catalog her first day on the job.
She softly tapped on the case, but the book slept on.
She waited a moment and then, impatient, tapped the glass a little louder.
The book stirred, grumbling as it reluctantly came awake.
“Hi, sleepyhead,” Sarah said. “Are you up?”
What do you want?
Long gone were the days the journal wanted Sarah to read it. For all of Nebbie Farmer’s expertise in the Dewey Decimal System, the previous librarian hadn’t known how to care for an ancient book. And so the journal had been displayed near a sunny window, the glass case magnifying rather than reducing the harmful rays. Nebbie had also placed the poor book on colorful but acidic paper, which had slowly broken down the glue that held it together. The years of unintended neglect had left their mark and the journal’s pages were now delicate, the leather cover laced with deeper cracks, the binding ragged and failing, and its temper—which had never been good—infinitely more curmudgeonly.
Sarah crossed her arms and leaned on the case, peering through the dim light at the journal. “I’m sorry to bother you, but I have a question.”
The book grumbled, but she couldn’t make out the words, so she continued. “There’s a new woman in town and I think she’s a sign that Dove Pond is about to be saved.”
The book said something under its breath.
“What?” Sarah asked.
I’m not your personal seer, the book groused.
“Look, I just want to know how she’s going to help. That’s your job, isn’t it? To explain how I’m going to meet my destiny? How I’m supposed to save our town?”
The book didn’t answer, and after a moment, Sarah tapped her finger on the glass.
The book jolted as if reawakened.
“Her name is Grace Wheeler.”
The book said in a sharp tone, Ask another book! I’m sleeping.
Sarah had to fight not to snap out something unpleasant. “Come on,” she pleaded. “This is about Dove Pond, and that’s what you’re about. No other book here would know.”
That’s true, the book said grumpily. It sighed and then rustled, as if searching for an answer.
Sarah tried to contain her excitement. She tucked a strand of loose hair behind her ear and, as the minutes lengthened, jiggled her foot impatiently under the case.
The Book Charmer Page 7