T
he cell phone alarm tone I chose is a chirping bird, part of my commitment to the nature is beauty mentality. This morning, though, it’s the sound of live birds singing outside my window that pulls me from slumber. The sun sneaks through the delicate white curtains, even though it’s barely seven yet.
Unlike most mornings, the pre-
Today Show
hour doesn’t send me snuggling back under the depths of the blankets. I’m simmering, amped at the prospect of meeting new people and enacting the summer literacy camp I have developed for the kids of New Point. And also, unlike most mornings, I awake with no hangover from nightmares or restless sleep.
The fluffy duvet falls haphazardly onto the brand new mattress purchased by my brother. Some young, up and coming interior designer from Chicago made several trips down to the house to redecorate, even though my brother never joined her. The quest to revitalize our family’s beachside getaway was purely for self-indulgent reasons; Blake wanted to rebuild the retreat for us to use at our discretion. Every time the designer sent photos of the progress, we concocted dreams of weekend getaways. Little did we know that this house would become my safe haven after nine months of wrestling through the aftermath of what the press called ‘The Clarkes School Invasion’.
Clever name for a day that reduced me from a carefree young woman to an uneasy shell of myself.
When I make my way into the kitchen, I brew my first cup of coffee of the day. In our last session the week before I left Chicago, Dr. Greene applauded my progress. But in his pride was a fierce warning that this kind of emotional strife doesn’t magically disintegrate with a change of scenery. Sighing to myself, I pad over to my tablet and scroll through my emails until I find the phone number of the recommended psychologist, Dr. Wilson.
Despite Dr. Greene’s warning, the days I’ve been in New Point have been freeing. The impenetrable chains I grew accustomed to carrying have lost their tautness since the first night I spent stargazing from the deck.
“I’ll call later,” I mumble to myself as I leave the task unfulfilled, choosing not to consider the repercussions. For a little bit, I want to pretend there’s nothing haunting me.
I can practically hear the morning light begging for my presence, so I push open one of the heavy glass doors leading to the deck and make my way to the railing.
As I sip the warm hazelnut brew, I survey the creamy inviting sand, my eyes wandering along the length of the beach.
Who am I kidding?
It’s time to investigate my neighbors along the beach. The homes that dot the beach are spread far apart to give a semblance of privacy. Each is offset from the lake by a large patch of sand. Private property, according to Blake, so I won’t need to worry about tourists or locals taking up space on the sand.
Sure enough, a hundred or so yards down the beach stands a modern, two-story home that I identify immediately as Miles’ place. Like my house, it looms above the beach, a deck leading down to the water. Unlike my house, it has a darker color scheme and stone as part of the siding. Somehow it fits with the rugged man I met yesterday. I’m too busy categorizing his home to notice the man himself strolling along the beach.
“Scoping out the premises for your next breaking and entering scheme?” The liquid sloshes in my mug because the voice below startles me.
“If anyone has a penchant for breaking and entering it’s you, what with all the sneaking around,” I shoot back.
From the bottom of the wood staircase Miles chuckles, a husky, sexy noise that makes me want to hustle down the stairs, hop up and wrap my legs around his waist
The Notebook
style. One foot is propped on the lowest step, his arm stretched lazily along the rail. The wind has mussed his already messy hair. Too hot for his own good.
“What can I say? I can’t resist a girl in her jammies.”
With a gasp, I wrap an arm around my waist. In my haste to indulge in my new surroundings, I forgot to cover up. In a racer back tank (braless!) and skimpy boy shorts, I could easily be called indecent.
“Don’t cover up, it’s a good look for you.” He winks. The smug bartender winks!
And I’ll be damned if it doesn’t awaken a sensual awareness that has been dormant for longer than the day I do not mention. It’s an unfamiliar feeling, but one I’m willing to explore.
When I’m dressed more appropriately.
“What are you doing down there?” I finally splutter.
“It was a brutal winter. Can you blame me for wanting to spend as much time as possible outside? And I told you I’m not a fan of happenstance when it comes to you.”
A blush heats my cheeks, and for a moment I forget that I’m barely dressed. “Happenstance has its benefits. I happened to need a job when a vacancy in New Point appeared.”
“For that I think I’ll be forever grateful.”
His megawatt smile makes my heart skip a glorious beat. They don’t grow men like this in the city. I’m certain of it. His attention simultaneously thrills and terrifies me. As much as I want to dig into those emotions, there’s work to be done today.
“Have a good day, Miles,” I call to him as I spin around on my bare feet, not bothering to gauge his reaction to my abrupt departure.
“See you later, Zoe.”
S
ome seventy miles outside Chicago resides the town of New Point. Five thousand people are permanent residents of this place; its major industry is tourism. Wealthy people from Chicago and Detroit own beach homes here or come to stay in the quaint bed and breakfasts. A train line runs near the heart of the town, a painless method of transit for visitors without cars. The downtown strip has a few restaurants, bars, and trendy shops. The police station, town hall, and library are on or just off of Main Street. Quaint and cozy, New Point drew me from the moment I first visited when I was ten.
I use my official librarian key to unlock the employee entrance of the library. By way of the beach, it’s only a fifteen-minute walk from my house.
“Zoe?” The weathered voice is welcoming.
I shut the door behind me and stride into the break room. “Good morning, Sharon.” I greet the Library Director and my new boss. As soon as we spoke over the phone, I knew that I wanted her as my superior. From what I could tell in the short time I’ve known her, Sharon is firm but fair. She encourages me to offer my ideas to make her library a better place. Sharon’s been the matriarch for more than fifteen years but is willing to try different approaches to improve the services provided to New Point residents.
“Ready for your first day?” Her ivory skin crinkles with a kind smile.
For an instant I feel a twinge of guilt. Sharon doesn’t know the truth of my backstory, most people don’t. During the interview process I tactically avoided discussing the real reason I didn’t want to work in a school library anymore. I didn’t lie to her, and don’t plan on doing so ever, but I selected all my words carefully during the interview process. The principal at Clarkes even gave me a reference and promised he wouldn’t mention what happened nine months ago.
But Sharon doesn’t know the full truth about me, and I can’t help but regret withholding information from a woman who has treated me so kindly.
“More than ready,” I finally confirm with a nod and a shy grin of my own. “I’m excited to start the reading program.”
During my interview I told Sharon of my dream to build a year-long initiative at the library. The program is my way of tying in my passion for working with young people and my library training. Children of all ages would be welcome to join the group. It would give them a safe space to read, make friends, and build literary skills. Sharon was keen on the idea and after I was hired, I promptly began planning a pilot program for this summer. At eleven o’clock, my first session with ten children starts.
Nine long months have passed without working with kids. My anticipation is a mixture of nerves and excitement. How will I react to my first day on the job? There’s only one way to find out.
Ever since I found out I was hired, I have spent every free moment organizing the summer agenda and outlining my plan to extend the program throughout the year. I want to get local business involved and make the reading program a community initiative.
“Our parents are positively thrilled,” she tells me as we pass through the back room and into the row of stacks. We cross through them to the large open space full of tables for patrons and the information slash checkout table where I will spend most of my time. “Interest will catch on like wildfire, and I’d bet good money our summer residents will want to send their children too. Watch and see.”
“This will be a success,” I tell her more confidently than I feel inside.
Because if I don’t find something positive to focus my attention on, I’m not sure what will happen to me.
New Point’s public library has two levels; the main floor has rows of books, desks for quiet work, and small meeting rooms. Beneath the first floor is a lower level dedicated to children’s literature and a large community room space. Sharon tells me it’s hardly ever used.
When I’m not working with the young readers, I’ll spend my time at the circulation slash information desk. While Sharon awakens the florescent lights, I set my things underneath the Formica desktop. Though the interior is dated, heaps of ambient light pours inside through rows of windows making the room sparkle with cheer.
Inhaling a deep breath, I soak up the soothing scent of well-read paper and creased spines.
“It’s a smell only a bibliophile can love,” Sharon muses when she arrives back at my side. I’ve already hauled the circulation chair next to mine, and she descends into the seat next to me.
“Then I’m in the right place.”
“Let’s talk about the schedule…” Last week when I arrived in town Sharon invited me to the library for a thorough orientation, leaving today to discuss the daily minutia. That leaves the next hour for us to prepare for the days ahead.
My program (or camp, as it’s been promoted to parents) meets twice a week, Monday and Thursday. Sharon will be in the library those mornings to watch over things while I’m unavailable to sit at the desk. Then she’ll head off for the rest of the day. I’ll close the library at six. Volunteers will trickle in through the week to support where necessary, and Sharon and the third librarian Perry will cover the weekend shift.
At ten Sharon wanders off into her office to ‘work on the books’ and gives me the go ahead to unlock the front doors. With one flick of my wrist, I’m no longer Zoe Baker, unemployed. Now is the first of many Monday mornings to come that I, Zoe Baker, shall be known as a bona fide librarian.
Little by little, I’m finding myself.
Back at my desk it’s pleasantly silent while I review the plan for this morning’s session. I’m lost in my notes when an unwelcome feeling of being watched washes over me. My eyes flicker up and meet two curious sets staring back at me. The women are several years older than Sharon, with papery skin and short white hair that looks like it has been recently set in curlers. They’re matching down to pastel sweater sets, though one slathered bright lipstick across her lips this morning.
“May I help you?” I ask politely.
“Oh, no dear. We’re fine,” the one with fuchsia lipstick says. Neither gestures to move, but continue to study me extensively. What am I, a museum exhibition?
A defensive wall starts building.
Stop staring at me
.
The last thing I want is attention. Do they know what happened in Chicago? Had they read my name in the papers? I refused to do interviews with the news, practically became a social leper after… Did someone turn up the thermostat? There’s perspiration trickling down my spine.
I can’t do this.
“It’s not very ladylike to be so unwelcoming to a new resident of our fair town,” Sharon tells them in a taut but polite voice. A puff of air escapes my lips in relief at the diversion.
The one wearing a mint green cardigan steps forward and extends her hand. “I’m Meryl Connor and this is my sister-in-law Annie. And you must be the lovely new librarian Zoe.”
I rise and shift around my desk to slip my hand into her soft, cool skin and shake it quickly. “Yes, ma’am.”
“You’ll have to forgive the Connor sisters, they do love their small town gossip,” Sharon comments dryly. “I must insist that if you’re not here for the books, you’ll need to leave my new librarian alone. Do you want to give the impression that rumors dominate New Point?”
Fuchsia lips, now known as Annie, smiles tightly at Sharon. “Nothing wrong with minding a new neighbor.” She gives me a thorough once-over, starting at my toes. Never have I felt so judged so quickly. But I brush the dour reaction aside and flash them as many teeth as my stretched lips will allow.
“It’s a pleasure to meet you both. If you ever need a book recommendation or assistance with research, please stop by and see me.”
The sisters awkwardly depart, wobbling out of the heavy double doors with linked arms.
“On their behalf, I apologize. I’d love to be able to tell you those types of interactions won’t happen frequently, but they are unavoidable at times in New Point.”
I swallow nervously. “But, um, well…”
She senses my apprehension. “They mean no harm, Zoe. It’s just the nature of living in a town as small as ours. Soon you’ll become a thing of the past and another morsel of news will catch on like wildfire.”
“Okay. I can manage a bit of curiosity.”
As long as no one digs too deeply.
“That’s the spirit. I’ll be in the back until the kiddos arrive.”
Time passes quickly and the chatter of a small child interrupts my progress on perusing the online cataloguing system. I shoot to my feet, smoothing the slim pleats of my mini skirt.
“I don’t wanna read,” a little boy with a mop of curly brown hair whines.
I fight back a grin. This kind of reaction was expected, and I’m looking forward to overcoming stubborn kids who’d rather be outside frolicking in the warm weather than hanging out with me indoors. Plus, I’ve planned several outdoor activities for my charges.