The Book Charmer

by Karen Hawkins

  “But I—”

  “Now.”

  Daisy hunched her shoulders. “Fine. But I’m not going to say I’m sorry. I was helping.” With that, she marched out of the door after Mama G.

  Grace turned back to Trav and said stiffly, “I’m sorry for the intrusion.”

  “It was no problem,” he lied.

  “I’m sure it was. I don’t know what got into Mama G. She doesn’t usually wander off like that and I—” Her voice broke, a sob caught in her throat.

  Her gaze flew to his and he recognized every emotion that flickered through her brown eyes—fear, sadness, and embarrassment that she’d let her feelings show. He knew all three of those emotions and knew them well.

  This rigid-seeming woman wasn’t nearly as icily cool as she liked to project. For some reason, he found that reassuring. He rubbed his neck where his scar tugged. “My dad had the same thing as your Mama G. Or something like it.”

  She swiped at her eyes, her cheeks pink. “I’m sorry to hear that.”

  “It wasn’t easy. Look, I don’t know you or Mrs. Giano or Daisy, but . . . I know things are tough right now. But they’ll get better and you’ll find a way to handle them. Not completely, but some.” He wished he could offer something more comforting than that, but he couldn’t lie. It was a piss-poor way to make someone feel better, to promise that things wouldn’t be quite as bad as they were now, but it was all he had.

  She nodded once and then set her shoulders back, and just like that, the softness he’d glimpsed was gone. “Thank you,” she said in a cool tone. “I appreciate you taking care of my family. I’ll make sure they don’t bother you again.”

  “It was nothing,” he repeated.

  She proffered her polite smile and then turned on her heel and left, walking as swiftly as she could without actually running.

  Trav stood in the doorway and watched her go, wishing he knew what to say, but nothing came to him. Not one damn thing.

  His visitors were gone and he was free to go to work. And yet he stood where he was and watched until they were all safely back inside their house.

  CHAPTER 4

  Grace

  Grace carefully balanced her coffee cup as she unlocked the lobby door. The door, ancient and wooden, with etched glass panels, creaked as she swung it open. She let it close behind her and then set her cup on the top of a water cooler so she could flip the GONE TO LUNCH! WE’LL BE BACK AT ____! sign to OPEN! That done, she collected her cup and made her way behind the counter to her desk.

  The Dove Pond town hall had been built in the mid-1800s and—from what she could tell—had never been remodeled. The counter and windows were of smooth, aged oak, and set with two wrought-iron-framed cashier windows, ornately decorated as Victorians were wont to do. The floor was of wide pine planks that had been scuffed to a glorious golden shine. The whole thing reminded Grace of the banks she’d seen in old western movies.

  She surveyed her desk, an ugly 1970s monstrosity decorated with chipped faux wood and flanked on both sides by heavy filing cabinets. More filing cabinets lined the wall behind her desk and filled the basement, too—dozens of them. To her irritation, she’d quickly discovered that Dove Pond had barely entered the computer era, so the office was awash with paper. The next time she went to a job interview, her first questions would be, “Are you a Luddite?” and “Does the term ‘computer’ give you hives?”

  She hooked the toe of her shoe in the handle of one of the bottom drawers of her desk, tugged the drawer open, dropped her purse inside, then pushed it shut.

  The bang must have awoken Mayor Moore, for he soon lumbered out of his office, grinning sleepily. “Ah! Miss Wheeler! Back from lunch, are you?” Gone was his mussed, ill-fitting gray suit and too-long tie, and in their place were a floppy flannel shirt and too-big blue jeans. The mayor was a rounded, large-boned man with thinning gray hair, his thick eyebrows hanging over pale blue eyes that twinkled constantly.

  He brightened on seeing the coffee cup in her hand. “I see you went to the Moonlight Café. They make the best coffee this side of the Mason-Dixon Line.”

  Although Grace’s new boss flashed a perpetual smile, he still managed to irk her. She’d never met anyone so deeply determined to avoid work. That, she’d discovered, was her real job—to make sure he didn’t have to do his. She eyed his flannel shirt. “That’s a bit casual for a public speech, isn’t it?”

  “I’m not going to the Kiwanis meeting, after all. I already informed their president, Mark Robinson, that something came up. He said he understood.”

  “I’ve only met Mark once, but his wife, Linda, watches my mother and niece.” Hiring Linda had been one of Mrs. Phelps’s best suggestions, and she was infinitely better than the elderly and inefficient Jane, who—although a sweet and kind lady—didn’t have the force of personality necessary to keep Mama G and Daisy corralled.

  Grace would never forget pulling into the driveway last week and seeing Jane standing alone on the porch, looking stricken. The few minutes it had taken them to figure out where Mama G and Daisy had gone had been some of the longest of Grace’s life. The open garage door at Mr. Parker’s house and a random comment by Jane that Daisy seemed fascinated with their next-door neighbor’s motorcycle had sent Grace rushing to her neighbor’s door.

  She bit back a grimace at her own pettiness for having mentally labeled him as untrustworthy merely because he had long hair and rode a motorcycle. He’d taken good care of Mama G and Daisy during their visit and, from the little Grace had seen, his house was ridiculously charming. He wasn’t a barbarian at all.

  Grace glanced at the drawer that held her purse and cell phone, and resisted the urge to text Linda and check in. But as Grace had left them just a few hours ago, such a text would make it seem that she didn’t trust Linda. And she did. So far, anyway.

  Sheesh, parenting and caretaking were so much harder than she’d thought they would be. No one had explained to her that she’d be constantly worried, her imagination churning out worst-case scenarios with devastating details as if she’d suddenly become Stephen King’s muse.

  “You’re lucky to have Linda,” the mayor said. “She’s an angel, and her husband, Mark, isn’t bad, either. When I told him I’d rather come to the Kiwanis meeting next month instead of this one, as it’ll be warmer then and the fishing not quite so good, he understood. He’s a hunter, so he has excellent seasonal awareness. Speaking of which, I should go. The fish are waiting.”

  She set her coffee on the corner of her desk. “Not to be critical, but don’t you owe it to the citizens of this town to work at least forty hours a week?”

  “I worked late last night for the town hall meeting, so I’m taking some time off.” He chuckled. “Town hall. Why, it was just me and Mr. Cramer, who always comes to complain about the buzzing streetlamp outside of his home.”

  “Can’t it be fixed?”

  “It doesn’t buzz; that’s just his excuse to visit. I always take him out for coffee and ice cream after the meeting, and he likes that.” The mayor beamed. “A good man, Cramer, if a little crazy. But every election year, just like clockwork, I can count on him to put up hundreds of signs for my campaign. Why, he’d plaster the whole town if I let him.”

  “It doesn’t sound like your town halls are very productive.”

  “That’s sort of the point, isn’t it? If you have people coming to your town halls, then you’ve already made a mistake. But if no one comes, you’re good to go.” He winked, walking past her to the office supply closet.

  She followed. “I didn’t realize we got comp time.”

  “Oh. Sorry, but you don’t. But you do get overtime, so that’s good.” He stopped near the closet and beamed as if he’d just given her the best news in the world.

  Grace had to fight the urge to knock the smile off his face. When she’d first met him, she’d thought his good humor was sincere, but she’d quickly realized he was one of those people who could look you right in the eye and
tell you the worst news possible—you’re fired, or your mother died—and his smile would still be locked in place. “I’m glad to know there’s overtime. I have at least six months of paperwork that should be logged into the computer, and perhaps more. I can come in on Saturdays and start—”

  “Easy there! There’s overtime, but you can’t use it.”

  “What?”

  “It’s just for emergencies like tornados or earthquakes.”

  “But the paperwork is so far behind. I need to—”

  “Oh dear, look at the time! The fish will wait for me, but you—” His smile deepened. “If you don’t hurry, you’ll be late.”

  “For what?”

  “The Dove Pond Social Club.” The mayor blinked. “Surely I put that on your schedule?”

  “There’s nothing on my schedule today.”

  “Oops,” he replied cheerfully. “You’d better get a move on, as they meet at the library conference room in five minutes. You’ll enjoy working with the club. It’s such fun.”

  “Fun or not, I don’t have time for a social club. The tax notices are ready for mailing, there’s a stack of invoices that should be sent out this afternoon, I’m trying to get the last six months of parking tickets—”

  “Whoa! Miss Wheeler, the social club isn’t just fun. They plan the festivals. Or rather, you plan the festivals with their help.”

  She could only stare at him. “Festivals? With an s?”

  “We have two,” he announced proudly. He counted them off on his fat, sausage-roll fingers. “The Apple Festival and the Spring Fling. Sadly, you missed the Spring Fling, but the Apple Festival happens the first weekend in October and is ready for your special touch.”

  “I don’t have a special touch when it comes to planning events, especially festivals. I don’t think I’ve ever been to one.”

  “They’re wonderful events and there are parades and craft booths and—oh, all sorts of things. You’ll enjoy planning them. It was one of Mrs. Phelps’s favorite duties. Surely she mentioned them?”

  “Not a word.”

  “Oh. That’s surprising.”

  Wasn’t it, though? Every day brought a list of things Mrs. Phelps hadn’t mentioned, none of them good. “I don’t know the first thing about festivals. You need to find someone else to work with this club.”

  “Oh, don’t worry! There’s a folder full of notes, and the other social club members know everything else.” His smile brightened as if he’d just solved all her problems. “They’re a good group, as good as it gets. You’ll love working with them, and they love, love, love our festivals.”

  “Then let them do it. I won’t stand in their way.”

  The mayor laughed as if she’d told a good joke. “You’ll be wonderful. Mrs. Phelps thought so. When she hired you, she said you’d make the festivals better than ever. And if there’s one thing I trust, it’s Mrs. Phelps’s ability to spot talent. She has a gift with that.”

  Grace bit back a snarky comment. She and Mrs. Phelps had spoken so few times that it was unlikely the ex–town clerk had divined anything about Grace other than she was desperate for a job.

  Mayor Moore snapped his fingers. “Oops! I haven’t given you the festivals folder, and you’ll need it for the meeting.” The mayor walked back past her to his office.

  She went to his door and watched him shuffle through the stacks of folders piled on his huge desk. “What exactly happens at these festivals?”

  He moved a stack of gray folders and began looking through the blue ones that had been resting underneath. “Oh, you know, the usual. A parade with floats, craft booths, cotton candy and caramel apples, maybe a talent contest or a beauty pageant or some such thing. It varies from year to year.”

  She winced. What a difference a few months could make. Instead of heading meetings where millions of dollars’ worth of financial decisions were made, she was now recording traffic fines, sending out tax notices, and planning vapid, town-wide prom parties. She was capable of so much more.

  “Where is that file? I don’t know where it could have gotten t— Ah! There it is.” Mayor Moore removed a bulging folder from a stack balanced on one corner of his desk and handed it to her. “This is an important job; more so than you might realize. Our local businesses count on our festivals to help them make it through the slower months, and lately . . .” He waved a hand as if to bat away a fly.

  “What’s that mean?” She waved her hand to mimic his gesture.

  His smile slipped, but only for a second before he raised it back into place. “Nothing. It’s just that our attendance has gone down a little.”

  She tightened her grip on the faded folder. “Define ‘a little.’ ”

  “Something like, oh, forty-two percent.”

  He’d mumbled those last few words, but she still heard them. “Good lord. That’s almost half!”

  “Which is why I’m delighted you’re going to be working on it. We need fresh blood. I wish you could have seen how things used to be in the old days when tens of thousands of people wandered our streets.” His expression grew dreamy. “They ate and drank our food and beverages, bought flags and crafts and quilts and—God, just about everything. They were like locusts, and when they left, not a hot dog or a pot holder was left in town, and the cash registers were full. Festival goers spent money like water.”

  “I hear a lot of past tense in those sentences. How many years in a row has attendance been going down?”

  “The last ten or so. Maybe longer.”

  “Let me get this straight: you want me to reverse a ten-year trend in one year,” she said flatly.

  “Oh, it may take you two. I’m not expecting miracles here. But I’m sure that if anyone can do it, it’ll be you. As I said, Mrs. Phelps is never wrong. Not about people, anyway.”

  Riiiight. Grace had yet to tell him she would only be here a year—not that it mattered. No one could change a ten-year trend in a single year, not without a huge infusion of new talent and cash, neither of which she saw in this office. Just to be sure, she said, “I assume you’ll be committing new funding?”

  “If I only could. There’s no extra funding, not this year.” The mayor’s smile widened, and he said in a false, breezy tone, “But I’m sure you won’t let us down! Just come up with some fresh, new ideas, and delegate the implementation to the planning committee. That way you won’t be stuck doing everything yourself.”

  As if it would be that easy. But she guessed she had no choice. What have I gotten myself into? “Who is on this committee?”

  “Social club,” he corrected as he led the way out of his office and headed back to the supply closet.

  She followed him, plopping the fat folder on her desk as she walked past.

  “There are eight—oh, wait—make that seven people besides yourself, all community leaders.” He paused by the closet. “Mrs. Hopper is no longer a member. She resigned last year because she didn’t get her way regarding the parade theme. She wanted to call the Apple Festival parade the March of Very Fat Santas.”

  “Santa in the fall?”

  “Exactly. Plus the ‘fat’ part seemed as if it might be a sort of fat shaming, too. Whatever you do, you don’t want the social media mob after you. The club told Mrs. Hopper no to her fat Santas, and she upped and quit. She has a thing about Santas. If you ever go to her house, you’ll see what I mean. There are hundreds of them in her living room alone.”

  “All year-round?”

  “Oh yes. She lives on Maple Street. You can tell her house by the Christmas lights, which are on all year.” He pulled a fishing rod from behind the closet door and then crossed to the large file cabinet in one corner of her office, where he opened the highest drawer and pulled out a tackle box. “All the information you need is in that folder: every purchase ever made, every parade lineup ever planned, every special guest who’s ever attended—you name it. Mrs. Phelps was a very thorough record keeper.” He opened the tackle box, pulled out a floppy hat decora
ted with an assortment of fishing hooks, and donned it. “There. I think that’s it.” He refastened the lid and, carrying the pole and box, walked past her toward the door to the lobby.

  She followed him. “Mayor Moore, you can’t go now. I have so many questions. I don’t know—”

  “Don’t worry. I’ll be back in time to sign the weekly paychecks at five. We can’t forget those, can we?”

  “Mayor, I—”

  But he was gone, the door swinging closed behind him.

  “Damn it!” Grace told the door. She wished she could kick something, but she was wearing a pair of expensive shoes that she could no longer afford to replace.

  She dropped into her chair and crossed her arms, wondering if throwing her stapler might release a little of her irritation. But no, that was childish, and no matter how much this position irked her, it was putting food on the table and a roof over her family’s head. She needed this job and needed it badly.

  Between the ever-collapsing walls of her unimportant, low-paying, tiny job, the relentless progression of Mama G’s illness, and Daisy’s continued refusal to accept her as a parent, Grace had never felt so weighted down. It wasn’t that she thought of Daisy and Mama G as burdens; she loved them too much to ever think of them that way. But their survival and quality of life rested squarely on her shoulders and no one else’s, and today she could feel every square inch of that responsibility. Worse, she was beginning to wonder if she was up to it. As a kid, once she’d reached Mama G’s house, Grace’s life had changed. She’d never again failed at anything except for one key goal—taking care of Hannah and keeping her safe. That one thing had been beyond Grace’s abilities, and now here she was, trying to take care of two people instead of one, neither of whom particularly welcomed her efforts.

  Grace sighed and rubbed her temples. Was this why Hannah had abandoned Daisy at Mama G’s all those years ago and run away? Because she couldn’t handle the feeling that her every move, her every decision, would impact, and perhaps ruin, Daisy’s life? Oh, Hannah, you should have asked for help. We’d have been there for you. But to just dump her like that and then leave. It hurt her. I still see it in her eyes.