The Book Charmer

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The Book Charmer Page 13

by Karen Hawkins


  “A book . . . charmer?”

  “She knows what book everyone should have.”

  Wasn’t that the job of every librarian? Grace tried to keep her expression neutral as she murmured politely, “How interesting.”

  Linda made a face. “You don’t get it. Look, just do yourself a favor; if Sarah Dove offers you a book, take it. You’ll regret it if you don’t. She once tried to give me a book about horseback riding, and I almost refused because I’d never ridden a horse in my life and never wanted to. But darned if a month later there wasn’t a big ice storm and the roads were a mess and most of the cell towers and electric lines were down. I still had to go to work, though, as I was watching over Mr. Brockton and he wasn’t doing well. So off I went. I got all the way across town when my car slid off the road and got stuck in a ditch near the Yorks’ dairy farm. Have you met T. W. York yet?”

  “I don’t think so.”

  “You will. T.W. has more DUIs than birthdays, and he has to pay those fines in your office.”

  “He sounds like quite a character.”

  “He is. Because of his DUIs, he can’t drive a car, so he rides his horse, Sandy Face, everywhere he goes. So when my car got stuck at the end of his drive, he showed up on Sandy Face, leading a saddled horse named May Belle the Furious. And wouldn’t you know, he wanted me to ride that animal to the gas station to fetch a tow truck?”

  “Did you?”

  “I did, because I’d read that book Sarah gave me. And good thing, too, because May Belle the Furious was a pain in the ass. She almost bucked me off twice, and one time she headed off down some side lane and it was all I could do to get her to turn around and—” A loud buzz sounded. Linda pulled her cell phone from the top of her purse. “I’ve got to go. That’s Mark. Missy’s home and dinner’s ready.”

  “You’d better hurry so it doesn’t get cold.” Grace tried not to look too relieved to be spared any more Sarah Dove nonsense. “I hope the roast is as good as you expect, or better.”

  Linda shoved her phone back into her purse. “I’m sure it will be. Enjoy your stew. And don’t forget, whatever you do, read that book. I’m not kidding.”

  “I will,” Grace promised, though she had no plans of doing any such thing.

  Linda waved and was soon gone.

  Grace returned to the porch and collected her things, glancing down the street to the huge mauve house. Good lord, the Doves are an odd family. And what a weird town this is, to believe in book charmers and other nonsense. Still shaking her head, she went inside.

  “There you are!” Mama G was sitting in her favorite chair, knitting and looking so much like her old self that Grace smiled.

  “Sorry I’m late.” She placed her satchel and purse on the small table by the front door. “It was a crazy day at work. Phone calls from people not happy with their tax notices, and I’m beginning to think it’ll take years to catch up on the data entry.”

  Mama G tsked as she pulled some yarn free from the ball in the basket. “Whoever heard of an investment group that can’t even keep their own records up to date? I’d find someplace else to work if I was you.”

  “I don’t work for—” She caught Mama G’s expectant gaze and swallowed the rest of her sentence. “You’re right. I should look for another job, shouldn’t I?”

  “They work you too hard.” Mama G tugged some more yarn free and knitted away.

  Grace sat on the edge of the green chaise across from Mama G and watched the old woman’s hands, the needles clicking softly. It was peaceful sitting here, the sunlight streaming through the window while Mama G’s needles clicked in time with the SpongeBob theme song that played from Daisy’s room upstairs.

  Grace glanced at the stairs. “Did Daisy come in? Linda said she was outside trying to catch crawdads.”

  “Daisy’s outside at the fence, talking to our neighbor. She says he’s a mechanic and his name is . . .” Mama G frowned, apparently forgetting that she’d already met Trav Parker. “I can’t remember. His name is . . . was it Tom? No. Robbie. Not— Oh, it’s Robert . . .” She brightened. “Yes. It’s Robert, and Robert is a mechanic.”

  Grace arose and crossed to the window. Sure enough, there was Daisy, hanging over the fence as she watched Trav work on a large blue truck. He looked untamed, with his long hair and his muscled arms covered with tattoos. He finished working on the truck and reached up to release the hood stand. As he did so, the sun lit the side of his face and touched on his scars. Sarah had said he was a veteran. Perhaps that was where the scars had come from.

  “Do you see Daisy?” Mama G asked.

  “She’s by the fence, as you said. I’m about to call her in.” Grace opened the window and leaned out. “Daisy, honey? It’s time to come in. It’s dinnertime and you haven’t eaten.”

  “I’m busy.” Daisy hunched her shoulders and favored Grace with a “make me” glare before she turned back to the fence, both arms hooked over the top as if she were hanging there instead of standing.

  Behind Grace, Mama G tsked. “She’s getting lippy, isn’t she?”

  Grace pulled back inside and asked Mama G, “Has she been like that all day?”

  “Just this afternoon. She gets bored, you know. I wish she had some friends.”

  So did Grace. She leaned back out the window and said to Daisy, “Linda left some stew for us on the stove. Come eat it while it’s hot.”

  Travis wiped his hands on a shop rag, not sparing Grace so much as a glance, which irked her. There was something dark about him, Grace decided. Something harsh and unyielding. And it set off all sorts of alarms.

  Uneasy, Grace turned to Daisy, who was ignoring her better than most teenagers could. She had her mother’s rebellious spirit. After Grace and Hannah had moved in with Mama G, it had taken her a long time to teach them “the basics,” as Mama G called them. Things like not interrupting others, waiting until it’s your turn to go through a door, eating with your mouth closed, and other valuable social rules. Manners, some would have called them. A necessity, Mama G claimed.

  Grace now realized how much patience it must have taken for Mama G to teach her and Hannah all of those things. Which is why Grace had smiled when Mama G admitted that Daisy was one of her most difficult projects. “More difficult than me?” Grace had asked. Mama G had thought about it and then said with a smile, “Well, almost.”

  Grace narrowed her gaze on Daisy now. “It’s dinnertime. Come in.”

  Daisy remained hanging over the fence. She was like a colt, awkward yet graceful, all elbows and knees and smudge-faced scowls. Sometime today she’d slipped a pink tutu over her jeans, the back of it tattered and dirty.

  I really need to order her a new one. “Daisy?” Grace said again, more sharply this time.

  Daisy hunched her shoulders but didn’t acknowledge Grace.

  Trav slanted Grace a long, cool look, as if measuring her reaction. She swallowed the urge to snap out something cutting. There was nothing to gain in addressing her next-door neighbor, and she already knew from experience that losing her temper would just make Daisy dig her heels in deeper.

  Grace silently counted to ten. Being a mother and a caregiver didn’t fit her. She felt as if she were wearing a too-big jacket, the sleeves hanging over her hands so that she couldn’t grasp the tools she needed to do either job correctly.

  Grace had really believed that coming to this little town might give them all a fresh start. But while Mama G was at least a little better, Daisy wasn’t. And all too soon, she would start the third grade at Sweet Creek Elementary School, which meant Grace had just a few months to motivate Daisy to do more on her homework and tests than draw fire-breathing dragons.

  Daisy glanced over her shoulder to see if Grace was still waiting, the little girl’s expression anything but warm. Under normal circumstances, raising a kid was a monumental job, but the difficulty increased exponentially when, instead of a fresh-off-the-line baby with no preconceived ideas or behaviors, someone handed you a
saucy, nearly wild, furious eight-year-old prepacked with a righteous anger at life, one who believed in ghosts and fairy tales and other magical dreck that made real life a boring, bothersome place.

  Grace put her hands flat on the windowsill. “Daisy.” That’s all she said, and she hoped she’d given it the same firm intonation Mama G used to use on her. She now knew it for what it was, a “mom tone,” and in its stillness there was power.

  Or so Grace hoped.

  Daisy’s expression didn’t change one bit.

  Darn it. Grace held her breath, refusing to back down. For a moment, she thought there might be an argument, but the silent standoff was broken when Trav picked up his bucket of tools and went inside. The garage door banged closed behind him.

  Sullen, but without any reason to stay where she was, Daisy muttered something under her breath, turned away from the fence, and stomped down the side of the house toward the back door, the tattered tutu bouncing in rebellion.

  Whew. Grace shut the window and yanked the curtain closed.

  The kitchen door opened and then slammed. After a stilted moment, Daisy yelled, “You lied. Dinner’s not ready.”

  Mama G looked up from her knitting and tsked. “She sounds mad.”

  “She can be mad. I wish she’d leave our neighbor alone.”

  “Why’s that?” Mama G’s knitting never slowed. “Daisy’s keeping an eye on him. We both do.”

  Grace had been heading toward the kitchen, but that startled her and she stopped in the doorway. “Why?”

  Mama G looked surprised. “Because he needs it.”

  Grace didn’t know what to say. “You’ve been talking to him, too?”

  “Not lately.” The calm faded from Mama G’s face and her needles slowed to a stop. “Or maybe I have talked to him since . . .” She frowned, and the lines between her eyebrows deepened.

  Grace remembered what both the doctor and Linda had said. Don’t ask questions. Don’t argue. It only upsets them. Stay positive. Be reassuring. What they really meant was lie. Lie all day and every day, because Mama G no longer recognized the truth.

  Grace’s eyes burned. Truth was a funny thing. On its surface, it was all good, a measure of a person’s character. But under certain circumstances, truth was a burden you spared someone else. A weight you carried for them so they could continue on, free from the pain of reality.

  She suddenly remembered all the lies Hannah had told them over the years. Dozens, hundreds even. Had Hannah felt the same way? Had she told those lies because they’d made Grace and Mama G smile, relax, and stop worrying? Those lies had given them moments of peace even as they eroded their trust in her until there was no more. It was hard to love someone you didn’t trust. In some ways, it was impossible, which was why lying to Mama G, even under a severe circumstance like this, felt like a deep, heartrending betrayal.

  Mama G shook her head and started knitting again. “Are you making dinner? We should eat soon.”

  Linda had said that Mama G had eaten, but it wouldn’t hurt her to have some more. She was growing much too thin as it was. Grace forced a smile. “I’ll bring you a bowl of stew.”

  “I like stew. And don’t worry about Daisy. She’s a good girl, and that Robert Parker is a good man, too. A gentle soul, once you know him.”

  Grace didn’t know who “Robert” was, but Trav Parker looked anything but “gentle.”

  Mama G plucked something from her yarn. “Cat hair. That Theo. He sheds so much, it’s a wonder there’s anything of him left. He’s just a bag of hair, that cat.”

  Grace swallowed a sigh. Theo the cat had died years ago. She’d been fourteen at the time and had wept for a week. Don’t correct her, Grace reminded herself. Just accept. Why is that so hard to do? “I’ll bring you some stew.”

  “There’s no need to bring it here.” Mama G didn’t even look up but kept plucking imaginary cat hair from her yarn. “I’ll join you as soon as I’m done.”

  Her heart pained, Grace headed for the kitchen. The air was fragrant with the stew Linda had made and Grace wondered if perhaps Mark wasn’t the only good cook in the Robinson household. “Mmm. That smells good, doesn’t it?”

  Daisy stood leaning against the door to the back porch, her arms crossed over her narrow chest. “I already told Ms. Linda that I don’t like stew.”

  She’s far too much like me, Grace thought, wincing. Pick your battles, Wheeler. “You know what? If you don’t want stew, you can have a peanut butter and jelly sandwich, but you have to make it yourself. Just wash your hands first.” Grace went to the pot on the stove and lifted the lid, the bubbling sound comforting.

  Daisy stayed where she was, her blue gaze locked on Grace, although her chin was no longer tilted at that ridiculous angle. After a long moment, she asked, “Why don’t you want me to talk to Mr. Trav?”

  It’s Mr. Trav, is it? At least she’s being polite. “It’s not that I don’t want you to talk to him; it’s just that we don’t know him yet, and I want you to be safe.”

  “We know him. He’s our next-door neighbor, has a motorcycle, and owns a cat named Killer.” Daisy listed these things as if it was all anyone would ever need to know about Travis Parker. She added, “Killer is fat.”

  “Killer is a cat? I was expecting a dog.”

  “I hoped it was a dragon,” Daisy admitted. “He’s not a bad cat. A little cranky and he eats too much, but that’s all.”

  Did the fact the man owned a cat mean anything? Did it prove he was good, or did it mean the opposite? Did the Son of Sam have a cat? Did Ted Bundy? I can’t remember.

  Grace pulled out two bowls and set them beside the stove. “What do you and Mr. Trav talk about?”

  “Nothing.” Daisy left the door and opened a cabinet by the fridge. She stood on her tiptoes, pulled out a cup, and then poured herself some milk. “He told me he only likes quiet people, so we don’t talk.”

  “So . . . you just watch him work?”

  Daisy nodded. “He said that if I watch and don’t talk, I might learn something so that if your car broke, I might be able to fix it.”

  Grace’s heart softened. That was kind of Daisy. She smiled and reached over to ruffle Daisy’s hair. “I’d like that.”

  Yet more of Daisy’s ire faded. She even looked a little pleased as she took a drink of milk. “I’m going to be a mechanic when I grow up. Mr. Trav is my friend now, and he could hire me.”

  That seemed a bit much, and although she was beyond happy to share a positive moment with Daisy, Grace didn’t like the idea of her niece being friends with a grown man. “Well . . . I wouldn’t call him a friend, exactly.”

  In a split second, Daisy’s expression turned back to one of mulish anger and she smacked her cup down, milk splashing on the counter. “At least I have one.”

  Ouch. I’ve been stung to the quick by a child of eight. Daisy’s words rang true and were all the more irritating because not ten minutes ago, Linda Robinson had implied the same thing. Good God, had someone held a “Make Grace Get More Friends” meeting today? It was annoying. “You’re right; I don’t have any friends. I’ve been too busy working.”

  “You should talk to Mr. Trav, too,” Daisy said. “He could be your friend. He lives close, so you wouldn’t have to drive to visit him.”

  “That’s a good idea. I’ll take it under consideration. Now, go wash your hands and make your sandwich. The stew’s ready, and Mama G is going to join us.”

  Daisy had started for the door, but at this she stopped. “She already ate.”

  “I think she wants more.”

  Daisy’s gaze never left Grace’s face. “She doesn’t remember, does she?”

  Grace shook her head.

  Daisy frowned. “When will she start remembering again?”

  The words caught Grace by surprise. Never, she answered in her own mind, unwilling to say the word aloud.

  She met Daisy’s clear, hopeful gaze. The truth would utterly crush Daisy’s already bruised spirit, and Grac
e couldn’t bring herself to say it.

  She just couldn’t.

  So she said instead, “We’ll just hope for the best. That’s all we can do. Now, go wash your hands. I’ll get the peanut butter and jelly for you.”

  After a moment’s pause, Daisy accepted this and left.

  Relieved, Grace shoved the painful thoughts away and dipped a ladle into Ms. Linda’s stew. Grace fixed two bowls, curls of steam rising into the air over each.

  She put the bowls on the table and had just pulled the drawer open to fetch two spoons and a butter knife when she saw the book Linda had placed on the counter. It rested against the wall, almost hidden by the breadbox.

  Linda had said the book Sarah sent over was a work of fiction but had failed to mention that it was also a classic. Grace knew this book. She knew it because she’d first seen it on Mama G’s porch all those years ago.

  It was an old book, dull yellow in color, almost mustard in tone. Linda’s hot chocolate stain marred the lower corner below the title, which was written in a flowing font. Grace traced the words with her finger—Little Women.

  She opened it to a random page, the familiar smell of old book rising to meet her. After she’d moved into Mama G’s house, it had taken Grace two years to learn to read well enough to tackle the book, but when she had, oh, how she’d loved it. She’d loved it so much that after that, she’d read it over and over and over, as if she could never get enough of it. Meg, Beth, Amy, and Jo—especially Jo—had been Grace’s friends more than any of the real girls at her school.

  Grace paged through the book, smiling as the names of her favorite characters flew past. How had Sarah Dove known? She couldn’t have, of course. It’s just a coincidence. A shot in the dark that landed. And who hasn’t read this book? It’s a classic.

  And yet, in the back of her mind, Grace could hear Linda saying, If Sarah Dove offers you a book, take it. You’ll regret it if you don’t.

  Linda had acted as if reading the book would help in some way, which was baloney. It was a book and nothing more. And while it had been a wonderful book for a brooding, lonely child, it couldn’t help Grace now. She closed the book and, after a moment’s thought, dropped it into the breadbox and shut the door.

 

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