The Book Charmer

by Karen Hawkins

  Finally, she could stand it no more. Just as she opened her mouth to ask her question again, the book spoke.

  She’s the one.

  Yes! There it was. Confirmation at last. “I knew she was important! But what will she do? I know she’s here to help me, but how?”

  You’ll know.

  The book’s flat tone suggested that was all the help it was willing to give. She bit back a frustrated sigh and said, “Come on. Just explain what you mean and I’ll leave you alone.”

  No.

  She supposed she was lucky it had taken the time to say what it had. “Fine. I’ll make it work. It’s not ideal, having an assistant, because I always thought I’d be the one to do all the work when the time came, but hey, I’ve never been one to turn down help, so—yes. This will be great. But I hope she hurries and does whatever she’s supposed to do, because she’s not planning on staying long.”

  The book, which had been drifting back asleep as she spoke, suddenly focused its attention on her. What?

  “I spoke to her not five minutes ago and she says she’ll be here a year, if that, and no more.”

  She has to stay.

  “Has to? Like . . . forever?”

  Yes, forever. The book couldn’t have sounded more irritated.

  “But why? I mean, once she’s helped the town, she can leave, because I’ll still be here.”

  She has to stay forever.

  Sarah gave an uneasy laugh. “I wish she would, because I’m sure she’s nice once you get to know her, but I can’t just make someone stay in Dove Pond who doesn’t want to. I couldn’t even get my sisters to stay, and I know them.”

  She. Has. To. Stay. The book hissed each word, punctuating them as if with a hammer.

  Sarah grimaced. “That’s not going to be easy.”

  The book didn’t answer but muttered about “silly people” as it settled deeper into its cushion. Soon, the only noise coming from it was a faint snore, and Sarah knew it was done for the day.

  “Well, I guess that’s that.” She straightened, absently staring down at the old journal as she thought about the situation. Of course, she was ecstatic that things were going to turn around for Dove Pond. That was the best news ever, even if she didn’t know exactly how. And despite talking to the book, she still didn’t know why or even how Grace was important, which was frustrating, to say the least.

  But progress was progress and Sarah refused to see this new development negatively. Things weren’t happening exactly the way she’d envisioned, but then again, what in life did? She should be happy to have a helper, even a reluctant one. “I’ll just have to convince her to stay.”

  From upstairs, Sarah heard footsteps and the faint echo of a child laughing. She looked at the clock and realized it was almost time for Children’s Hour.

  Feeling more hopeful than she had in a long time, Sarah patted the case one last time and left the archives, locking the door behind her. Soon, she was too busy to dwell on the events of the morning, although every once in a while, she’d stop what she was doing and smile. It was finally happening. Dove Pond was going to be saved.

  CHAPTER 3

  Trav

  Travis Parker lived his life one moment at a time. He didn’t do it because he was a believer in any weird-ass, meditate-like-a-guru, hinky way of life. He did it because he’d found peace in simplicity. According to Don, his therapist at the Veteran’s Administration, that was a good way to live, especially now that Trav had turned the corner of his long fight with PTSD and was finally starting to feel more like himself.

  As the late-afternoon sun slanted down Main Street, Trav rode his motorcycle through town. The roar bounced off the red brick buildings, so loud he could feel it in his chest. His bike might be too loud for some people, but for him the roar was a release. He revved the engine as he rode, the deep-throated rumble as refreshing as a plunge in an icy river.

  He turned off the street and headed home, the sun casting shadows through the leafy trees, so different from the grim, sandy vistas he’d seen in Afghanistan. Those, he didn’t miss, but he did miss the men in his unit. He kept in touch with those who’d come home, but it wasn’t the same. Everyone had moved on—they had lives and families. And in a way, so did he.

  Fortunately for him, he had good friends, and for now, they were all the family he needed. Trav glanced down at his watch and grimaced. Although it was late in the day, he had to get home so he could change and head to the garage. Another hour under the hood of Joe Baldwin’s slick red Corvette and it would be back in top shape, and Trav had promised Joe the work would be done today.

  Growing up, Trav had hated working on cars. Perhaps it was because Dad had owned a garage. If there was one thing a teenage male didn’t like, it was being predictable. Because of that, even though he’d worked in Dad’s garage all through high school, Trav had never once considered becoming a real mechanic. He’d been something of a star in his small universe, the first-string quarterback and valedictorian. So naturally, he’d wanted something bigger, something that didn’t already have his dad’s fingerprints all over it. Instead, Trav had gone to college, where he’d majored in mechanical engineering, imagining himself developing the next fighter jet or working on some other equally exciting project. Later, he’d enlisted, still searching for a life of adventure.

  Now, the last thing he wanted was excitement. Working in the garage was peaceful. There was a simple beauty within those cool, concrete walls with their organized bays where broken things came in, he and the other mechanics fixed them, and then they went home. There was no pain involved. No emotions. No fear or blood or sand or anything ugly. There were just cars and trucks, and peace. He worked there five and a half days a week alongside two full-time mechanics, a shop manager, and a part-time bookkeeper. And because he was now the owner, Trav enjoyed an optimum mixture of both control and challenge. Not too much of either.

  He benefited from that balance. Gone were the days when he had the urge to drop to the floor every time he heard a loud noise. When his blood boiled because someone accidentally cut him off on the freeway or pushed in front of him at the grocery store. Now, if he could just find a way to sleep, he’d be completely back to normal. Oh God, sleep. That would be nice.

  Trav turned his motorcycle down his street and glanced at the Dove house as he drove by, noticing that Sarah’s truck wasn’t in the driveway. She must still be at work, which was no surprise. She was the town librarian, which was the perfect job for her, as no one loved books the way Sarah did. Which is probably healthy for the rest of us.

  He pulled into his driveway and parked his bike, noticing Killer lurking in the bushes. Killer had been his dad’s cat and had slept at the foot of the older man’s bed for years. After Dad died, Killer had tried to sleep at the foot of Trav’s bed. But his tendency to toss and turn had irked the cat, who, after that one night, had returned to Dad’s empty bed and stayed there.

  Or that was where the cat stayed when he wasn’t out wandering around. There was no keeping that crazy animal indoors and Trav had long ago given up trying.

  Trav set his bike on the kickstand and then tugged off his helmet, his too-long hair tangling in the strap.

  He muttered under his breath as he tugged his hair free. He knew he should get his hair cut, but sitting in a barber’s chair made him feel tied down, the cape draped around him like a rope, holding him in place while someone he didn’t know stood behind him with a blade. No, thank you. He could cut his own hair well enough to keep it shoulder length, at least. One day Trav would find the peace of mind needed to sit in that damn chair and get his hair cut. But not today.

  Trav dropped his helmet into the saddlebag and looked around for Killer, but the cat was nowhere to be seen.

  He started to turn back to his house and found his gaze resting on the Phelps house next door. It was quiet today, unusually so. Most days, when he came home, the little girl who lived there would hang over the fence and stare at his bike as if sh
e thought it would stand up and turn into a Transformer. But today, she was nowhere to be seen.

  Good. I hope she stays away. He didn’t have time for little girls who stared, or for their cranky mothers who excelled at giving side-eye as if they thought he was a serial murderer. Scowling, he grabbed his keys and headed for the porch. Trav’d just stepped onto the sidewalk when a loud bang came from the garage, followed by a muted whisper.

  Instantly, his heart raced and he crouched, his hands open at his sides, ready for the coming fray. He remembered the large wrench in his tool kit and wondered if he should get it. He was just getting ready to run to his bike when he heard a child’s giggle.

  Good God. He straightened, his heart thudding sickly against his ribs, his palms damp. He took a deep breath and then went to the garage, grabbed the door by the handle, and raised it.

  The little girl from next door stood in the center of the garage, a small, waiflike figure holding a broom, an inexpertly swept pile of dirt in front of her. She wore a T-shirt with a sparkly picture of a pink pony on it, her muddy sneakers untied. Behind her, at the back of the garage, cleaning one of the windows, was her tiny, fragile-looking grandmother.

  The old lady squinted at him as if trying to remember his name.

  “What are you doing here?” His voice, still rough from the scare he’d had, boomed around the garage.

  The old woman flinched as if he’d hit her, and instantly, he was contrite. He hadn’t meant to startle her.

  But Daisy was made of stronger stuff. She pointed to her broom. “What’s it look like we’re doing? We’re cleaning.”

  She didn’t call him stupid but it was there in her voice.

  Trav didn’t think he’d ever heard that much dry sarcasm from such a tiny person, and he had to fight a grin, which dispelled the lingering, unpleasant effect of being surprised. “I can see that you’re cleaning, imp. Who let you into my house?”

  He half expected the old lady to speak, but without saying a word, she’d turned back to the window she’d been washing.

  “You’ll have to ask Mama G,” Daisy said. “She was already in here when I found her.” She was little, this girl, smaller than she should be. Her blond hair was mussed and half falling out of a pink rubber band, as if she’d put it up herself and hadn’t combed it first, which made her seem vulnerable somehow.

  He crossed to where she stood. “However you got in, you should go home.”

  “Don’t you want your garage cleaned?”

  “No, thank you. Go home, Daisy.”

  Her smile was more of a smirk. “You know my name.”

  “I’ve heard your mom yell it about a hundred times now.”

  Daisy’s smile disappeared. “Aunt Grace is not my mom.” The words were sharp, tight, filled with meaning.

  He shrugged, unable to delve into the feelings of a little kid when he was struggling to contain his own. “Just take your grandma and go. I—”

  “Robert Parker? Is that you?” The old woman peered at him from across his garage, her dark eyes bright. “I haven’t seen you in so long!”

  Robert was Trav’s father’s name. “I’m sorry, but I’m not—”

  “Don’t you remember me? I’m Inna Phelps Giano.” She put down the window cleaner and, damp rag still in hand, made her way to him, edging her way around his weight bench and weights.

  As she moved, Trav’s soul sank. She shuffled rather than walked, as if uncertain where her feet might land. He knew that walk. His father had walked like that the last year of his life, before dementia had stolen him away. Oh, Dad. You deserved so much more from life.

  It still hurt a year later—even more than the explosion that had left Travis a cinder of his former self. Dementia was an unforgiving illness, one that stole hope and crumbled pride. And it was beyond sad to know that this tiny, elf-like, kind-looking old lady was suffering from it.

  She beamed up at him now, as if she thought he could walk on water. “Oh, the fun we had when I babysat you.”

  Daisy frowned. “Mama G, you couldn’t have babysat him.”

  “Oh, but I did. He was only this tall then.” She put her hand even with her shoulder, her smiling gaze still fixed on Trav. “You remember me, don’t you?”

  Trav raked a hand through his hair. Damn it, but he couldn’t let this poor woman down. After an awkward pause, he said shortly, “Yes.”

  Daisy stared at him, but he ignored her.

  Mrs. Giano chuckled. “Oh, Daisy! Robert and his brother and I had such fun! I watched them after school in the afternoons and we played cards and rode bikes and, oh, all sorts of things.” She gazed at him as if he were an angel. “You were such a good boy, and not nearly as mischievous as your brother.”

  People didn’t usually look at Trav the way she was looking at him, trusting and amused, especially after he’d returned from the war with the angry red scars that marred his cheek and neck.

  “Lord love you, you had such a good sense of humor.” Mrs. Giano laughed softly. “I remember that cow. Do you?”

  He didn’t, of course, but he knew better than to argue. “Oh yes. The cow.”

  “You and your brother were always up to something. Daisy, I wish you could have been there the time they stole Preacher Landon’s cow and rode it up the steps of the church. It was during a service, too, and the cow got so startled by all the people laughing at it that it ran right down the aisle, and then up the steps to the choir loft. It took eight of us to get her out of there.”

  Daisy eyed Trav with newfound respect. “Cool.”

  “Not really,” he said shortly.

  Mrs. Giano patted Trav’s arm. “You had us all worried, thinking you might not grow up at all, what with your wildness, but look at you now! Although . . .” She frowned and put her fingers on his cheek. “What happened here?”

  He jerked away. “It’s nothing.”

  But it wasn’t nothing, and he noticed how Daisy stared at his scar where it disappeared under his shirt, curiosity flickering over her face. Trav could already hear the questions—What happened? Does it hurt? How far does your scar go?

  Dad had asked all of those questions and more after Trav returned from the burn hospital in Texas, and Trav—still bitter and hurting from more than his physical injuries—had refused to talk about it. Now it seemed stupid not to have at least let him know the basics. That wouldn’t have been too much to ask.

  God, he had so many regrets. Hundreds of them. Perhaps the biggest one was that he hadn’t spent enough time with Dad. Trav wished for the millionth time that after college he’d stayed home for a while before rushing into the service. But like most young men, he’d been desperate to prove himself. He’d wanted a real challenge and by God, that’s what he’d gotten.

  After sailing through basic training and officer school, he’d been assigned to active duty in Afghanistan. There he’d commanded a squadron that oversaw crucial repairs to the war-torn electric grid. It had been a difficult, tough assignment, but he’d thrived on it. And when the time came to re-up for deployment, he’d signed back up without a second thought.

  Maybe he should have given it a second thought, because ten months later, the week after Christmas, he and his squadron had just returned to the base after a week out running lines through some hard-won areas, when they were hit by an insider attack. One moment, he was walking toward the mess tent with a few members of his squad, all of them dirty and tired and ridiculously happy to be back on the base. And the next, there was shouting, gunfire, and an explosion that sent Trav and his men flying through the air. After that, all Trav remembered was the deep sear of pain and loss.

  The memories came when he least expected them—when he least wished to remember them. And right now, even though he stood in the garage of the beautiful house he’d grown up in, the summer sun beaming through the branches and making patterns on the concrete leading into the garage, he saw very little of it. Instead, his mind bounced like a wrecking ball from bloody memory to bloody me
mory. He gritted his teeth and tried to stop his thoughts.

  You’re doing it right, living in the present, one minute at a time, Don had said not a half hour ago. And you’re healing, so don’t rush yourself. When it’s time to move forward, you’ll do it without thinking. Trav believed that. He trusted Don, who understood more than most. The counselor had lost both legs in Iraq and knew the fight well.

  “Where did you get the scars?” Daisy’s voice broke the silence.

  “Daisy! That’s not a polite question,” Mrs. Giano said, although a flicker of warmth lit her eyes. She reached up and brushed the hair from his forehead as if he were a child. “You might not be able to fix a scar, but you could get that mop cut.”

  “I like his hair,” Daisy said. “Whenever she sees him, Aunt Grace calls him ‘Khal Drogo.’ I think she’s right. That’s exactly who he looks like.” Daisy shot a quick glance at her grandmother. “I mean, from what I’ve seen from pictures. I’ve never watched that show.”

  Trav knew a lie when he heard one, but he didn’t say anything. She wasn’t his kid, after all, so if she wanted to sneak-watch a forbidden show, who was he to say otherwise?

  “Evelyn Kilgore used to do my hair.” Mrs. Giano left his hair alone and patted her own mussed white curls. “She was such a kind lady and I was so sad when she died, although she’d been sick for such a long time. I—” Mrs. Giano’s gaze locked on the rag in her hand and the words faded away. Her brows knit. “Why am I carrying this? Was I . . . What was I doing?” She looked around her as if suddenly unsure who or where she was.

  Trav recognized the signs and said softly, “You were cleaning the window.”

  Her gaze locked with his, as if she were seeking an anchor. “Was I?”

  “And doing a fine job, too.”

  Daisy pointed to the back of the garage. “You said the windows were dirty and that you wouldn’t go home until they were clean.”

  Mrs. Giano looked at the window she’d just left and, now that she had a purpose, the confusion faded. “I’d better finish then, hadn’t I?” She turned and shuffled back to the window, completely forgetting Trav’s too-long hair and ugly scars.