“The library’s centrally located. Do many people from out of town stop in to ask for information on residents?”
“Some.” She knew he was thinking about the note about the phone call she’d overheard. Did Noah realize she’d written the note? Was that why he was here? She pushed back her own questions and focused on what he’d asked her. “We don’t give out private information on anyone. That would include Olivia’s guests, in case you’re wondering.”
“So you won’t be spreading the word that I’m staying in town?”
Phoebe went behind the curved circulation desk and tried to act as if it was just another Monday morning. “That’s right.”
Noah glanced up at the oil portrait of an imposing George Sanderson. “Has anyone been asking about Dylan or me?”
“Not that I know of. Do you have anyone specific in mind?”
Noah moved back from the fireplace and scooped up the coral sweater she’d had on. He laid it on the stage. She had a feeling he knew it wasn’t hers. “What would you do if someone did ask about us?” he asked.
“I might offer to take down a name, address and phone number and give them to Dylan, or to you if you’re still in town.” Phoebe shrugged, still containing her reaction to Noah’s presence. “Otherwise I stay out of personal business involving anyone in town.”
“Smart. If someone does ask about either Dylan or me while I’m here, you’ll let me know?”
She nodded. “Happy to.”
“Thanks. I think I’ll check out what you have on fencing. It’s a hobby of mine. Classical fencing. In fact, Dylan couldn’t resist having me dress up as a swashbuckler on Friday.” Noah smiled. “He has a sense of humor.”
“So I’ve discovered.”
He headed off to the stacks, but Phoebe knew he wasn’t serious about checking out what the library had on fencing books or anything else. Once he was safely out of sight, she sat at her computer and let out a long, cathartic breath.
Vera Galeski, Phoebe’s part-time assistant, arrived, cheerfully grumbling about the heat. In winter, she grumbled about the cold. She was a high-energy woman in her early sixties, devoted to books, married to a retired teacher, mother of four, grandmother of six and ever hopeful that Phoebe would find a man.
Vera nodded vaguely in the direction Noah had just gone. “Who’s that man dressed head-to-toe in black on a hot day like today?”
“One of Dylan McCaffrey’s friends,” Phoebe said, hitting a few random keys on her keyboard to help herself look nonchalant.
Vera’s pale blue eyes widened. “Not Noah Kendrick,” she whispered.
Phoebe nodded, then added quickly, “It’s not something we’re advertising.”
“Of course not. I understand perfectly. Oh, my. I read an article in a magazine at the hairdresser’s that mentioned him. It was about that actress…I can’t think of her name. The one on that Sunday-night show that just got canceled. She played a lawyer.”
“I should read more gossip magazines,” Phoebe said with what she hoped was a credible laugh, then made an excuse to go upstairs.
Without so much as a glance in Noah’s direction, she headed to the back stairs and ran all the way up to the attic without stopping. She switched on the dim overhead, then squeezed between the freestanding twin metal closets and entered the hidden sewing room. It was hot, airless. She opened the second door in the corner, letting in daylight from the small window overlooking the common. Children from a nearby daycare were sitting in a circle in the shade in front of the Civil War statue.
Noah Kendrick’s arrival notwithstanding, nothing in Knights Bridge had changed. This Monday was like last Monday.
And next Monday?
Phoebe pulled her gaze from the window and unzipped one of the garment bags. Inside were four dresses in various shades of red, as well as accessories carefully draped on hangers—bright red scarves, sequined belts, gaudy costume jewelry.
Who was the woman who’d sewn here, most likely in secret? Had she despaired that she was living in a small, out-of-the-way town? Had she wanted something that Knights Bridge just couldn’t give her?
Phoebe ran her fingertips over a scarlet crepe flapper dress. Would Noah have noticed her if she’d worn it the other night, or was there something about the Edwardian dress that had caught his eye, fired his imagination?
She glanced out the window again and saw him crossing South Main to the common. He didn’t have any books with him. Had he returned to the circulation desk expecting to find her, or simply seized the moment to get out of there, leave her to her work? His princess, after all, had evaporated. She was a small-town librarian.
And her swashbuckler?