For a moment the little boy looked frightened and shirked away from her, probably thinking of witches in fairy tales, ugly hags who shoved children into ovens and baked them into pies.
Joanna wrapped him in her arms and for once he let her hold him, let her soothe him with a kiss on the nape of his neck. The little boy smelled like baby lotion and sugar. “No, my darling. Never. You have nothing to fear from me.”
chapter eight
Gift Horse
Excuse me, Ingrid? There’s someone here for you,” Hudson Rafferty whispered, coming into the back office. The junior librarian raised an eyebrow so that Ingrid would understand this wasn’t a usual patron with a question about toddler storytime hours or whether their library fines could be waived (the answer was always “no,” so why they even continued to ask, Ingrid could never understand).
“Who is it?” Ingrid asked, taking off the spectacles she used to read the fine print in the design elevations.
“I don’t know but he is quite fetching,” Hudson said in his usual understated way. He favored argyle vests, engraved cuff links, and bow ties, and was in his seventh year of getting his doctorate in Romance languages at Harvard. Hudson’s family practically owned the eastern shore, and truly he did not need a summer internship shelving books. The other librarians joked that he was the world’s oldest (he’d just turned thirty) and best-dressed intern; his suits alone cost more than their entire wardrobes. He was exacting in his work and moved very deliberately. One could not imagine Hudson running, for instance, or hurrying for any reason, or perspiring. He was a natural dilettante, with a breadth of knowledge on many subjects concerning the humanities and the arts, as well as a seasoned world traveler. Hudson was the one to ask if you needed to know, say, the price of a Ruscha lithograph, where to find the best tapas in Madrid, and whom to call if your hotel in Cairo suddenly “lost” your prepaid reservation. He had “fixers” and a network of acquaintances around the globe and happened to be one of Ingrid’s best friends, as they shared a love for theater, opera, and classical music.
“Do excuse me, allergies are bad this year,” Hudson said, wiping his nose and coughing. “Well, don’t keep the gentleman caller waiting. Someone else might snatch him up.”
For a moment Ingrid thought Hudson was talking about Matt Noble, and she felt irritated that the detective had come back so soon. Surely he couldn’t be done with that thousand-page book yet? But when she walked to the front desk the man waiting for her was not Matt.
Killian Gardiner was leaning against the main desk. His gray T-shirt was pocky with holes and his jeans were slung low on his hips. Even in the heat, he was wearing a black motorcycle jacket. He looked like a movie star, with the gold-trimmed aviator shades and the five o’clock shadow. No, not a movie star. Like an icon. He had the kind of face that should be plastered on posters in every teen girl’s bedroom. When he saw her he took off his sunglasses and pecked her on the cheek.
“Hi, Killian,” she said, trying to inject some warmth into her voice. Something about the younger Gardiner brother put her on edge. It wasn’t just that he was spectacularly good-looking; as a rule, Ingrid was skeptical and hostile toward pretty men—she found them vain and self-assured and selfish. Blake Aland had pretty much confirmed the fact on their first and only date. She preferred homely guys; not that Matt Noble was homely—far from it—which was probably why she felt annoyed with him, since she liked him despite his looks. Handsome men took female adoration as their due, and Ingrid did not take to people who assumed too much.
Killian Gardiner was a vain peacock, and it was clear he knew exactly how good he looked, with that dark hair that fell over his eyes just so, and that lean, ripped body underneath the worn T-shirt and battered jeans. She could see the carved V shape of his hip muscles jutting above his waistband. When they had met at the party she had asked him what he did, and he’d been purposefully vague. Later she found out it was because he didn’t seem to do much of anything. She heard that Killian was a fly-by-night, that he moved with the seasons, he’d run a scuba-diving boat off the coast of Australia, worked as a galley chef on an Alaskan freighter. There were other rumors: that he’d gotten a girl pregnant, that he’d been in jail, that he was a drug addict. Whether they were true or not, Ingrid knew that a man that beautiful was definitely Bad News and she didn’t expect to hear anything that proved otherwise.
“I thought you had left town already,” she said. Hadn’t Killian seemed bored and preoccupied at the party? “How can I help you?”
“Actually I’m helping you,” he said, picking up an extra-large L.L. Bean tote bag and setting it on the table. In the bag were several rolled-up blueprints. “I overheard you asking Bran for them at the engagement party, and I thought I’d drop them off this morning.”
“Oh—that’s so nice! I didn’t expect to get them so quickly! Bran said he had to get back to me—he wasn’t sure where they were or if they even existed. How wonderful!” She took the bag, handling it reverently. The library was setting up an exhibition of drawings from the collection that would showcase the design plans of all the important houses in town. As the oldest and most prominent house in the area, Fair Haven was crucial to their catalog. Many architecturally important homes had blueprints lying around somewhere; the former owners kept them pristine for the new owners as part of a tradition of handing down a precious object of art.
Ingrid clasped her hands and beamed at Killian, whom she regarded much more fondly this time. What he did with his time was no business of hers, after all. He was free to waste his life on indolence and apathy. “This is going to be so great!”
“Glad to help,” Killian said. “I can’t wait to hear what you think. It’s a really interesting old house, there’s a lot of history there. If you need anything else, don’t hesitate to call.” He glanced at the wooden postbox Ingrid kept by the main desk for “Library Donations.” “What’s this?”
She explained the situation: the city’s deficit, the library’s precarious fate at the hands of the city council.
Killian frowned. “You’re not going to raise money by keeping a box by the door. You know what you should do, Ingrid, is get them to pay for something only you can provide.”
“I’m not really sure I know what you’re talking about,” Ingrid said, slightly confused. “But thanks for the plans.” He really was so charming, she thought, getting the benefit of his megawatt smile. So thoughtful, too—to drop off the plans without being asked, and asking about the library as if he truly cared about its future.
“My pleasure,” he said, waving a hand. “See you at the hoedown on Saturday?” A hospital charity was throwing a “barn-raiser” that weekend, complete with haystacks and square-dancing, the usual North Hampton summer theme party.
Ingrid shook her head. Freya threw herself into the social scene, but Ingrid liked to stay home to knit, read books, and listen to old songs on her turntable. If she ventured outside the home it was usually with Hudson, two hens off to see a Truffaut revival. “I’m not going but I think Freya is.”
At the mention of Freya’s name Killian perked up. “Is she, now?”
Ingrid nodded. “So you’re staying then? For the summer?”
“I think so.” Killian nodded. “See what kind of action I can get going around here.” He winked. “Don’t worry, I’ll be good.”
“Guess we’ll be seeing you around, then.” Ingrid nodded.
Killian bade a cheerful good-bye and roared off on his motorcycle, making a huge noise that rattled the windowpanes.
When she returned to the back room, Hudson was waiting for her with his arms crossed. “Well?”