“I didn’t see one in the lot,” Alana said.
So the kid probably walked the six miles from the trailer to the library, a long trip in the cold damp spring air, but staying out of jail was a good motivator. If he’d even spent the night at home. He could have been outside all night, except his clothes were clean, if worn and a size too small. “Okay,” he said, filing the details away.
He held the door to Gina’s Diner for her. Everyone noticed them walk in together, but conversation didn’t stop. He was her landlord, and everyone local would know about Cody’s arrest and community service. That and their public-service roles were enough reason for them to be together, if anyone asked, which would keep her happy.
Gina slid the plastic menus back into the caddy when he said they were getting food to go. He ordered a burger and fries. Alana ordered lasagna, two cups of minestrone soup and extra rolls, and two slices of pecan pie.
“Mrs. Battle loves pecan pie,” she confided as she dug in her bottomless pit of a purse for her wallet.
“I’ve got it,” he said, and handed over cash for the meals and a tip.
“Thank you,” she said.
“Did you skip breakfast?” he asked when Gina brought out two white sacks of food.
“I gave my breakfast to Cody,” she said.
He just shook his head at her naiveté. Defensive color stood high on her cheekbones, or so he thought, until she added, “Let me make you dinner tonight. As a thank-you for lunch.”
It wasn’t defensive color. It was nerves. The shy librarian was asking him on a date. A quiet date at her house. A quiet, private date at the house where she had kissed him, and something about the secrecy rubbed him the wrong way. This wasn’t who he was, a man who did things on the sly for any reason at all.
“Sure,” he said.
“Is six too early?”
“Six is fine,” he said.
“You can bring Duke over if you want,” she said with a smile. “I promise I won’t ask you to fix the bathroom sink again.”
3
ALANA STOOD IN the pasta/canned goods aisle of Hooper’s Market, an empty plastic basket in one hand and her phone in the other, waiting for her e-mail to download. When the wheel stopped spinning, she knew why it had taken so long. She had e-mail from Marissa Brooks, which meant pictures.
Hey, Alana—
Thanks for the picture of the Main Street planters. I always knew spring had arrived when the planters went out. Are the prairie crocuses blooming? Has the council hired a replacement director?
I’m sending pics in return. We’re a couple of weeks out of San Diego. I’ll be in touch soon.
Marissa
No. Not yet. She was due to leave in less than two weeks, and Mayor Turner and the council still hadn’t agreed on a candidate. Mrs. Battle could run the library, but with her macular degeneration she wouldn’t be able to for much longer. She had trouble seeing titles or author names on the spines of books, much less the various screens for the online catalog and checkout system.
She scrolled through the pictures and thought about hot breezes, the restless waves, and time to do nothing for weeks on end. Initially Marissa’s e-mails had been full of sailing details, but after a while they grew shorter and shorter while including more pictures. It was as if time and space, wind and water and love, soothed something edgy inside her, and a calm spaciousness opened up in its place. The last picture was of Adam, tanned to a deep brown, wearing cargo shorts and flip-flops, his feet braced on the captain’s chair, a bottle of beer in one hand, a smile full of love and laughter and contentment on his face.
This trip had been good for both of them.
The next e-mail was from her sister.
Lannie,
1. Did you get the docs I sent?
2. We’re having fun in Sao Paulo and by fun I mean we haven’t left the hotel room in two days. After Israel-Palestine style negotiations between Mother and Toby it looks like London is the wedding location. See attached list of location possibilities. Mother prefers Westminster Abbey. Ignore contacts on websites; list of real contacts (aka people who would like to have Mother owe them a Really Big Favor) also attached. Please research availability and get back to me.
3. Stay out of snares.
4. Pics!
Love, Freddie
The list of real contacts included two members of Parliament, an undersecretary in the Home Office, and a bishop in the Church of England. Alana scrolled through the pictures. Her sister looked beautifully content, her hair a wreck around her face, snuggled under Toby’s muscular, tattooed arm. She shifted her grocery basket to the crook of her elbow, hit Reply, and went to work with both thumbs.
Freddie,
1. Docs received. Am working on proposal.
2. Need at least three days to pull together information. No wedding in the rose garden?
3. AM NOT GETTING ENSNARED.
4. Is the tattoo of Thor’s hammer on Toby’s neck new? Mother will not be pleased.