***
The candle flame sizzled and cracked. Tiny threads of wax slid down the side of its glass.
“Here.” Olivia handed Harper a tissue. “Wipe your face,” she said, but Harper ignored the offer and rubbed her eyes using her sleeve, smearing new tears across an already damp, miserable face.
CHAPTER 4
Harper
The entire next day was miserable. Harper felt like a zombie, dragging her feet from class to class, exhausted from lack of sleep. A pounding headache had begun to follow her from sixth period on. Most likely the result from the heated argument she had with her mother the evening before. Since she had to pass her block to get to the library, she decided to stop at home to grab some headache medication. She slipped her key into the front door.
“There’s a letter for you on the table,” called out Olivia. She lay sprawled out on the sofa in the living room, nursing her swollen ankles.
Harper shoved the door closed.
I should have gone straight to the library.
“From who?” asked Harper, clearly annoyed to find her mother home. This was the second time this week her mother had called out for an entire shift.
Her mother’s cheeks reddened.
“A-ha.” Him. Harper swore under her breath. She dropped her backpack in the hall and marched into the kitchen. She picked up the envelope, confirmed the sender’s name, and flung it unopened into the garbage.
Olivia leaned on the door frame for support. “You’re not even going to read it?” she said.
“Why should I?”
“We’re beating a dead horse here, Harper,” Olivia hissed. “He’s your father, and he’s reaching out to you to make amends.”
“How do you know what he’s reaching out to do?” Harper snapped, curling her lips in disgust. “Thanks, but no thanks.” She pushed past her mother and grabbed her backpack. “I’m leaving.”
“Where are you going?”
“Out.”
“Harper!”
“To the library! Where else do I ever go?!”
“Be back before dark,” yelled her mother as the front door slammed shut.
***
Motivated mostly by irritation, Harper weaved her way through back roads, scaling one small fence and hiking across a few parking lots while successfully skirting careless car drivers. Actual sidewalks didn’t start until she hit Main Street. Within minutes she had made it to the library, no worse for wear.
Harper sank into her favorite library chair but didn’t feel much like reading or studying. With too much clouding her mind, she instead sat in silence with her backpack resting closed on her lap.
On most afternoons, the library stayed blissfully peaceful. So peaceful, in fact, that Harper often felt relaxed enough to drift off the moment she dropped into her favorite armchair. Exhausted and stressed, she closed her eyes. She was just about to drift off when…
“Excuse me,” interrupted a woman sporting the largest round glasses Harper had ever seen. “Love your hair, by the way. So totally retro.”
“Ah, thanks?” mumbled Harper, squinting up to better focus.
“Oh, sorry. I didn’t mean to startle you.”
“No, no, it’s fine.” Harper sat up straighter, scrutinizing the familiar woman currently wagging a book in her face. Ah, the librarian.
“I was asked to give this to you.”
“To me?” Harper frowned. “Why?”
“Because supposedly it’s yours. Didn’t you leave it here?”
Harper, unsure if this was some sort of joke, cut her eyes sideways. “Who found it?”
“One of our librarians.”
Harper sat upright. “A guy with tall-cropped gray hair? Always grumpy?”
“Religiously.”
“Sarcastic, sardonic, and scathing?”
“Bingo. You win.” Regan tilted her head to the side and wiggled the book. “Well…? Do you want it?”
“What? Oh, right—” said Harper. “Thanks.”
Regan handed Harper the book and shot her the peace sign. “Sure thing. Take care.”
Harper played it cool but chuckled when she glimpsed the title. The Bookshop on the Corner by Jenny Colgan.
No way!
She’d read a ton of great reviews about this novel and had wanted to put her name on the library’s long waiting list, but without a card, it had been impossible.
Harper opened to the title page, and a small envelope slid onto her lap addressed to “The Juvenile Delinquent.”
Very funny.
Inside, Harper found a short note penned in the most perfect, precise handwriting she had ever seen. Paper-clipped to the message was a shiny new library card with her first and last name prominently displayed.
Dear Juvenile Delinquent,
“The library card is a passport to wonders, and miracles, glimpses into other lives, religions, experiences, the hopes and dreams and strivings of ALL human beings, and it is this passport that opens our eyes and hearts to the world beyond our front doors, that is one of our best hopes against tyranny, xenophobia, hopelessness, despair, anarchy, and ignorance.”—Libba Bray
Perhaps now that you are in legal possession of a library card, you will see fit not to leave books strewn willy-nilly around my library.
Sincerely,
Irwin Abernathy [Irwin is, in fact, my real name. Sleep tight.]
PS: This is not a library copy. It is yours for the keeping. You’re welcome.
PSS: Your handwriting is atrocious. Your crumpled-up library card form looked like a toddler on antihistamine had filled it in, so don’t dare blame me if your name is misspelled.
Harper giggled.
Yes! A library card.
She stuffed the book and envelope into her backpack, then hoisted the strap over her shoulder and set off in search of the kooky librarian with the oversized purple peepers.
Her search didn’t take long. She found Regan in the Children’s Room on her knees, leaning over a long, glass tank attempting to feed strips of ripped lettuce to the library’s mascot: a thirteen-year-old box turtle aptly named Shakespeare.
“Um, excuse me?”
Regan paused and tilted her head to look at Harper, appearing confused—as if the two hadn’t spoken just moments before. “Can I help you?”
“Would you happen to know when the librarian who found my book will be back?” Harper lifted the book in the air, hoping to jog the silly woman’s memory. “I wanted to thank him personally.”
“Ah, yes. Irwin. I’m afraid he’s doesn’t work again until Monday.” From the corner of her eye, Regan saw Irwin, dressed in a long gray overcoat, dash past her room, making a beeline for the front doors. His trench coat collar was raised high around his ears like some cartoon villain. All he lacked was a black fedora instead of that silly gray wool trapper hat with the brim and floppy ears he insisted on always wearing. “Hold up. Plot twist. Irwin just left the building, but if you hurry, you may catch him in the parking lot.”
“Thanks!”
Harper peeked from behind a parked vehicle as Irwin drove the ridiculously short distance from the library to the florist shop across the street and parked.
Lazy old dude.
***
Irwin
“Afternoon, Irwin,” called the shop owner standing behind the counter. “I’ll be right with you,” she said, putting the finishing touches on a massive wedding bouquet.
Irwin took off his hat and stuck it under his arm. He remained standing by the counter, as usual, eyes gazing straight ahead.
“A beautiful day we’re having today,” said Rosie. She ripped two large sheets of colorful paper from the roll. “Your daffodils will be ready in a jiffy.”
Irwin put his hat back on his head and reached into his back pocket for his wallet. Then he placed the exact amount on the counter.
“Wait a sec.” Rosie tucked a few extra green ferns around the long stems to compliment the two bouquets. “There. Much better.”
“I’m sorry,” asked Rosie, “did you say something?”
Brow knitted in a perpetual frown, Irwin mumbled a distracted, “Nothing,” before he left the shop, the two bouquets nestled in his arms.
***
Harper
Harper crouched as low as she could behind the parked truck, praying Irwin hadn’t seen her run across the street like a lunatic. After about fifteen seconds, she peeked around the truck’s front window but quickly ducked down out of sight when she realized Irwin was still standing in the middle of the sidewalk glancing around.
After what felt like forever, he eventually gave up, got into his car, and drove off. Harper stood and brushed the dirt and gravel off her jeans. She wished her heart would stop playing the congas in her throat. She scurried across the street and entered the floral shop. The bell on the door jingled, announcing her arrival.
“Hi, there,” greeted Rosie, exposing a welcoming toothy grin. “What can I do for you today?”
“Hi,” replied Harper, matching the woman’s chirpiness. “I wanted to buy a nice flower for my mom. Just one. Something to leave on her, um, desk at work.”
“Oh, that’s so sweet. What did you have in mind?”
“Not sure, really, but I liked the ones the guy who just left had. They looked nice.” The veiled compliment was worth a shot.
Rosie wiped her hands on her apron. “Ah, yes, daffodils. They are a lovely flower, aren’t they? From the Amaryllidaceae family. They symbolize friendship.”
“Oh. Great. I’ll take one of those then.”
“Hmmm, I’m afraid I don’t have anymore.”
“Oh.”
“No. Besides not being in season, those two bouquets are a special standing order.”
“A standing order?” Harper nodded as if disappointed, but inwardly, she was grateful not to have the pressure of purchasing a flower with money she didn’t have to spend.
“Yes. Mr. Abernathy comes in every week. He picks up two bouquets, always daffodils.”
“His wife must love that.”
“Oh no, not his wife. Fiancé. Well, former fiancé. Not sure what the proper term is, but she died in a car accident. About four years ago.” Rosie pulled a roll of string out from the drawer. “A real tragedy too. Nice woman. A teacher at the high school—Gilly…Gilly…something. I forget, but my oldest son used to go to school with her daughter, Dakota. I know the mother’s buried here in the town cemetery.”
“The one across from the shopping center off the highway?”
“That’s the one. The whole town came out for the funeral.”
Harper felt creepy prying, but as they say, “In for a dime, in for a dollar.” “That’s so sad.”
Rosie propped an empty vase on the counter. “Sure was. And to make matters worse, her daughter was in the car with her at the time of the accident.”
“Oh no! Did she die too?”
“No,” said Rosie, “but the poor thing’s been in a coma this whole time. And such a beautiful girl too. I remember how upset my son and his friends were at the time. The school brought in a grief counselor to deal with all the…well, you know. A real shame.” Rosie’s brow creased as she stared through Harper. “You know what? Come to think of it, I think she was about your age when it happened.” Rosie shook her head, self-conscious. “Look at me, telling the world’s business like this. I’m not normally such a gossiper.”
Harper doubted that but wished she had minded her damn business and never come in. “That’s such a heartbreaking situation,” she said, hoping to end the conversation.
“Sure is,” Rosie agreed. “Brenda—that’s my sister-in-law—she works as a nurse’s aide where the daughter is. She told me Mr. Abernathy never misses a week. Comes like clockwork and stays for about two hours. Brenda says she’s seen him reading to the girl.” Rosie rubbed the nape of her neck and mumbled, “I hear the staff adore him.”
Harper choked up. The only thing her father ever devoted himself to was drugs.
“Can you imagine?” asked Rosie. “Stuck in a coma for four years.”
This conversation was taking a turn for the worst. “At least the girl has Mr. Abernathy,” said Harper, glancing longingly at the door.
“True. He may not say a whole lot, but you can tell he really cares.”
Harper desperately wanted to leave.
Rosie hunched over the counter and leaned on her elbows. “Listen, I probably shouldn’t be telling you all this, but I’ve been selling flowers practically all my life, and let me tell you, as God is my witness, I have never seen a man as heartbroken as that one.”
Harper blinked back tears.
“Anyway, here I am gossiping away like I’ve got nothing that needs doing. Anything else I can help you with today, young lady?”
Harper had an idea. “You know what? My mom’s favorite color is yellow. Do you have another flower that you think she may like? But nothing too expensive.”
Rosie slapped the counter with both her palms. “Stay put. I have the perfect flower.” Harper watched her waddle to the back room. She heard a wall fridge door swish open and closed. Minutes later, Rosie emerged holding a small but lovely bouquet of yellow and white carnations. She tucked in a few extra ferns to thicken it up before handing it off. “What do you think?” she asked Harper, smiling. “You think your mom would like this?”
Harper’s eyes grew big. “She’d love it,” she said. “It’s beautiful, but I’m not sure if I have enough to cover the cost.”
Rosie winked and busied herself with wrapping the bouquet in the same color paper she had used for Irwin’s flowers. “Here,” she said, handing Harper a tiny card for her to fill out. “No charge. Go home. Kiss your mom. Give her these and make her happy—and remember, sometimes all we get to keep in this life are our memories.”
***
Olivia
It was still light outside by the time Harper arrived back home. She found her mother sprawled out on the couch asleep, her feet propped up on a small, square pillow. Tiptoeing across the room, she bent over to lay the bouquet on the coffee table when her mother stirred awake.
“Harper?” she slurred, still half asleep. “You’re home. And it’s still light outside.”
Harper smiled. She bent over and kissed her mother’s cheek. “These are for you,” she said, handing her mother the bouquet.
“For me?” Olivia rubbed her eyes and adjusted the pillows so she could pull her body to the upright position. “How thoughtful. Yellow and white carnations.” She took a big whiff. “And they smell good too. Thank you, but you shouldn’t have.”
Harper gently placed her pointer finger across her mother’s lips to shush her. “I’m sorry for the way I’ve been acting lately.”
Olivia’s eyes softened. “You have nothing to apologize for. This is a difficult situation.”
“I never meant to hurt your feelings.”
Olivia unwrapped the bouquet. “Do you remember the garden we had in the other house?”
“Not really.”
“I’m not surprised. And do you know why?”
Harper shook her head no.
“Because barely anything grew. A few dinky tomatoes. I think once I got a deformed cucumber to sprout, but other than that, not much.”
Harper rested on the edge of the couch to be closer to her mother. “I don’t understand why you’re telling me this now?”
Olivia ignored Harper’s question and continued. “The garden had been my idea. Just a small patch, nothing big, but I didn’t care. I bought a bunch of seeds, tilled and turned the soil myself, and even convinced another local gardener in the area to share some of their manure with me.”
Harper inwardly moaned and squared her shoulders.
“Listen,” instructed her mother, patting Harper’s thigh. “For t
he first few weeks, I did everything to make my garden work. I pulled weeds. I remembered to water…made sure to cover the plants with a sheet to protect them from frost. You name it, I did it.” Olivia shifted in her seat and adjusted her foot on the pillow. “But after a while, I got lazy. I started to forget about watering the plants, and I didn’t pull as many weeds out as I should have, and it showed. My plants wilted and died. Most of them burnt up from the sun, looking a lot like Death Valley.” Olivia raised her eyebrows at Harper. “Do you understand what I’m trying to say to you?”
“Yes, you have a brown, lazy thumb and you’re the reason why we only eat frozen vegetables,” teased Harper.
Olivia playfully pinched her daughter’s cheek. “You’re a riot, you know that?”
Harper laughed.
“My point is that the garden had been my responsibility,” she said, softly brushing a wisp of hair away from Harper’s face. “I dropped the ball. Nobody else. Me. And I have to own that.”
Harper nodded. “I understand.”
Olivia lightly squeezed Harper’s forearm. “How about you put these beautiful flowers in some water for me?”
“Can’t have you killing them too.”
Olivia flashed her daughter a playful frown. “There’s a vase in the cabinet over the stove.”
“Grandma’s?”
“That’s the one.”
In the kitchen, Harper ran the water to fill the vase halfway. “Ma?” she called out, adjusting the flowers in their new home. “Can I ask you something?”
“Ask away.”
Harper returned with the filled vase and placed it on the coffee table. “Even though you and your mom had problems, do you miss her?
“Every-single-day.”
Harper scooted at the edge of the couch next to her mom. “What was she like?”
“My mother?” Olivia paused. “Funny you should ask. A lot like you, to be honest: tough when she needed to be, stubborn like nobody’s business, and super smart. Read everything she could get her hands on, especially memoirs of famous people. I think reading about their lives gave her the peek into a life she couldn’t come close to except through their stories.”
Unlikely Friends Page 4
