CHAPTER 2 
CHAPTER 2 Sarah pulled the huge ring of keys from her pocket and unlocked the door of the Dove Pond Library’s book-drop box. She lowered the big metal flap, the heady vanilla old-book scent tickling her nose and making her think of cookies and cake and hours spent under the willow tree in her backyard, reading until the sun slid out of sight.
Sighing happily, she pulled the books out, stacking them on the rim. She had to lean way in to reach the last one, and the second her fingers closed over the cover, the book spoke.
Kym Brummer, the book said thoughtfully, as if the name had just occurred to it.
Kym, the nine-year-old daughter of Miriam Brummer, the principal of Sweet Creek Elementary, was a voracious reader. Sarah looked at the book, which had a picture of a horse with the title My Friend Flicka printed across the top. “I read you when I was in elementary school,” Sarah murmured. “You think Kym might enjoy you, do you?”
Oh yes, the book replied. She likes horses.
“We all do at that age,” Sarah said drily as she placed the book on the top of the stack. “She has two books due this afternoon, so I should see her today. I’ll make sure she finds you.”
The book rustled in thanks.
Sarah patted the book. How she loved being the town librarian. It was odd to think that just a few short years ago she’d had the worst job in the world, selling ads for the Dove Pond Register. The position had offered little pay and no future, especially for someone who was never comfortable asking people for money. Selling was not her thing. But books? Oh yes. Books were her thing. And although she’d known that for a long time, it had still taken a while for her to figure out where she belonged.
Four years ago, Dove Pond’s long-serving librarian, eighty-nine-year-old Nebbie Farmer, had walked out of her house without the necessary clothing one time too many. The day after Nebbie’s chilly stroll down Main Street, Mayor Moore and the Dove Pond Social Club threw the biggest retirement party the town had ever seen. Nebbie, pleased by the large turnout, had gotten happy-weepy as people came, hugged her, ate cake, and shared “Do you remember when Nebbie . . .” stories. There were quite a few of these, as Nebbie had never been what one would call a “conformist.”
After the party, Nebbie’s daughter drove her mom to the nearby town of Glory, where the retired librarian became the newest resident of the vaunted and well-loved Glory Assisted Living Center. Within the first week, Nebbie had joined no fewer than seven clubs and had found two new best friends, both of whom enjoyed sitting in the buff just as much as she did.
The week after Nebbie’s retirement, Mayor Moore listed the librarian’s job in the classified section of the Dove Pond Register. Sarah, knowing her time at the Register was coming to an end one way or another, had half-heartedly applied. She’d had no hope of getting the position, as she was sadly underqualified; she had no experience and her degree was in poetry rather than library science. But to her shock and wonderment, after a cursory interview, she was hired. Later, while drunk as a skunk at the Fourth of July parade, Mayor Moore had let it slip that she’d been the only applicant.
Sarah hadn’t cared. She’d gotten the job and loved everything about it—the beckoning smell of the books, the neat rows of shelves, the whispers of a thousand friends who knew her better than her own family. Even the cool, dark basement held treasures, accessible only by the use of two special keys. There, carefully preserved between plastic sheeting, rested the entire dusty history of Dove Pond. As soon as Sarah touched the first ancient document, a land grant dated 1708, which had crackled with age and excitement, she knew she was right where she belonged.
And now, here she was, four years later, getting ready to open the library doors for another exciting day. Still kneeling, she’d just closed the metal door of the drop box and locked it when a fat black cat rubbed against her ankle, pressing so firmly that she teetered for a precarious moment.
“Siegfried!” she admonished as she put a steadying hand on the sidewalk. “You should warn a girl.”
Siegfried arched his back and then began to walk in counterclockwise circles.
One.
Two.
Three.
He sat back down, meowing plaintively.
Sarah’s smile slipped and she stood, staring down at the cat. It was the sixth day in a row that Siegfried had turned his counterclockwise circles. And he wasn’t just doing it in front of the library, but in front of each and every door as he walked down Main Street.
He looked up at her now, mewling loudly.
“You feel it, too, don’t you? Something is going to happen.” Something good, she hoped.
And oh, how she hoped.
Despite the promises Charlotte Dove’s journal had whispered so long ago under the willow tree, the good luck portended by Sarah’s birth had yet to materialize. In fact, to look at the number of shuttered businesses on Main Street, things were rapidly going in the opposite direction.
The thought made her want to weep. Her beloved town was dying right before her eyes and she had no idea what she was supposed to do to stop it from happening. She looked down the street, noting how the awnings that hung over the once-bustling businesses had, over the years, gone from vivid red to a washed-out pink. The flowers that filled the large cement pots were straggly and tired, while FOR RENT signs hung in every third or so doorway. Even the sidewalk had dulled from a once-blinding white to a worn-looking gray.
Dove Pond needed the Dove family magic more than ever. And yet nothing had happened to save the town. Nothing! With every passing day, Sarah felt more like a failure. Expectations, even inherited ones, could weigh on one’s shoulders like bags of cement if they were unfulfilled. There were days Sarah’s back ached from it.
The cat meowed again, louder this time. Sarah moved the stack of books to her other hip for balance, then bent down to pet the poor creature. “I’m worried, too, Siegfried.”
“That cat is nothing but a pain in the ass.”
Sarah looked up to see Mrs. Jo Hamilton approaching, her wide-brimmed hat flopping with each step. A widow, she was as wide as she was tall, and closer to ninety than to eighty. As notorious for her colorful wardrobe as for her outspoken opinions, she wore a flamingo-pink suit that set off her ebony skin while a bright blue purse hung from her wrist. She clutched an elaborately carved wooden cane, while a huge, summer-perfect hat sat perched atop her black-dyed hair. Trailing behind her on a red leash was her very fat, very lazy bulldog, who went by the ridiculously appropriate name of Moon Pie and always had a different-colored ribbon around his neck. Today, he was sporting a bright if bedraggled purple bow.
Moon Pie stood behind Aunt Jo, panting while he carefully avoided any challenging eye contact with Siegfried.
“Aunt Jo!” Sarah said. The elderly woman was one of Dove Pond’s oldest residents and had long been a Dove family friend. With a smile so sweet it was impossible to see it without returning it, Aunt Jo was Sarah’s favorite person in the world. “You’re all dressed up this morning. What’s the occasion?” Sarah wished she had hats like Aunt Jo’s. The older woman decorated them herself with a wide array of silk flowers and colorful ribbons. The hats always made Sarah think of fancy teas and the Kentucky Derby.
“I’m going to church. I’ve been promoted to deaconess and it’s my first official meeting.”
“Congratulations! When did that happen?”
“Sunday night. But don’t be too impressed. No one else would do it. I was just the slowest-moving hippo and our new pastor is a damn cheetah. If you hesitate, you’re lost.”
Everyone had heard about Preacher Thompson, newly arrived at the First Baptist Church. Although he’d been there less than two months, he’d already caused a mountain of upheaval. “I hear he’s a bit unconventional.”
“If you only knew. He has no appreciation for the history of our church. Why, he wants to paint the whole building bright blue so people will notice it. Can you imagine?” She puffed out her disbelief. “How could they not notice our church? It has a bell.”
Moon Pie barked as if he agreed. Then, apparently exhausted by that small effort, he dropped to the warm pavement, where he stayed, panting heavily.
“Blue is my favorite color,” Sarah admitted.
“I’m not talking about a soft, pretty blue. I’m talking bright, obnoxious blue. Blue the color of a swimming pool at a high school.”
“Ugh.”
“I know, right? Now, a nice, light, crisp blue, that I could see. I could support a pale yellow, too. I could even go green, if the shade was right. But bright high-school-pool blue? No.”
“I can’t imagine it.” The First Baptist and the First Methodist churches were the only two churches in Dove Pond and each actively poached members from the other, a practice enthusiastically encouraged by the two preachers, who were by nature of the town’s shrinking population sworn, if polite, enemies. “You know, Aunt Jo, if you’re unhappy—and I can see why you would be—there’s another perfectly good church in town, and we’d love to have you.”
“Shut your mouth! I’ve been going to First Baptist since before you were born. It’s where I was baptized and wed, and all my children were baptized and wed, and it’s where I plan to have my funeral, too.”
“Even if it’s been painted high-school-pool blue?”
“Even then, although if it is that horrible color, I might just ask that everyone go into the service through the back door. The trees will cover up most of that ugly blue then.”
Sarah laughed. “I hope your preacher doesn’t get his way with the paint color.”
“Me too. I’m beginning to suspect Preacher Thompson is color-blind, to like such a horrible shade. Still, he’s worth putting up with. That man is as handsome as the day is long. Zoe Bell says he looks like Idris Elba’s younger and sassier brother.”
“Zoe knows men.”
“She does. And she knows we’ve a winner in our new preacher, so I’m staying, even if the building gets painted black with orange flames. Sermons go faster if I have something nice to look at.”
“That’s one thing your preacher has over mine. As much as I love Preacher Lewis, he’s not what I’d call easy on the eyes.” Preacher Lewis was plump, bald, and a bit of a mess when it came to his clothing. Sarah didn’t think she’d ever seen him when he didn’t have a mustard stain on his shirt.
Siegfried meowed loudly, which caused Moon Pie to growl as if nervous.
Aunt Jo eyed the cat with disfavor. “What’s wrong with him? He’s meowing like he’s about to give birth to a dozen wildcats.”
“He’s uneasy, and so am I.” Sarah hesitated and then said, “Aunt Jo, I think something is about to happen.”
“Happen?”
“Here. In Dove Pond.”
Aunt Jo’s warm brown eyes lit up. “The Dove family good luck? Is that it?”
“I hope so. I’ve seen signs. I’m not sure, but—”
“It’s about damn time!”
“Don’t I know it,” Sarah said fervently. She hoped she was right. She was a Dove, darn it, and the journal had foretold that she’d be pivotal to saving their town. Where was the promised good luck? She’d been waiting so long, and she couldn’t help but worry that her friends and neighbors were starting to question the Dove family lore.
Meanwhile, she was left waiting, each day adding to the growing worry that somehow she’d already messed things up.
“Tell me about these signs,” Aunt Jo said. When Sarah hesitated, the old lady rapped her cane on the sidewalk. “Spit it out! I’m almost ninety years old. This ticker can’t take suspense.”
Sarah laughed. “Then I’d better say it fast, because I don’t want Preacher Thompson coming after me because I smote down his best deacon.”
“He’s about to find out what a good deacon is, and it’s not going to be pretty.” Aunt Jo moved a little closer. “But enough about the church. Tell me about these signs you’ve seen.”
“Okay. But just know that I could be wrong about this. I hope I’m not, but I could be.” Sarah looked around to make sure they couldn’t be overheard. “The first sign came from Siegfried.”
Aunt Jo’s face fell. “That mangy cat is one of your signs?”
Moon Pie sneezed, and it almost sounded as if he were trying to keep in a laugh.
“Yes,” Sarah said earnestly. “He’s been walking in three counterclockwise circles in front of every door on Main Street for almost a week now.”
“Every day?”
“And every door.”
“Oh! Well. That’s something, then.” Aunt Jo looked impressed. “Even for a cat.”
“There’s more,” Sarah said. “The flowers in the town planters keep changing colors.”
Aunt Jo’s eyes widened. “All of them?”
“No, just the ones on this end of town.” Sarah wondered yet again what that meant. “Which makes it even more suspect.”
Aunt Jo looked at the flowers across the street in front of town hall and then eyed the planters that staggered down Main Street. “They’re all purple.”
“They are now, but every once in a while, the ones on this end of the street will be blue or pink or some other color. Then, a few hours later, I’ll look again, and they’ll have changed back.”
“Lord help us, you’re giving me chills.” Aunt Jo looked eagerly at Sarah. “What else?”
“There’s one more thing. Yesterday at noon, the town fountain started running again.”
Aunt Jo gasped. “That fountain hasn’t run in almost fifty years!”
“I couldn’t believe it, either. And it started up on its own. I know because I mentioned it to Mayor Moore and he didn’t even know it was running again.”
“Praise the Lord! I knew it would happen sooner or later!” Aunt Jo’s voice held all the awed hope that Sarah felt. “Sarah Dove, we are seeing the beginning of the famed Dove family good luck! Your momma would be so proud.”
“I hope I’m right and that’s what’s going on,” Sarah said fervently. “Something good needs to happen to this town. It feels as if it’s fading away, right in front of me.”
“I know. Money’s tight, businesses are failing, and people have been moving away like rats jumping from a sinking ship.” Aunt Jo shook her head, her hat flopping decisively. “Cowards, all of them.”
“They don’t have a choice. They can’t stay without a job, especially if they have kids.”
“I know, I know. Our youth program at church is just pitiful. There’s maybe three couples young enough to have children, and they don’t seem to be trying. I suggested we have an oyster bar for Sunday dinner, just to urge things along, but Preacher Thompson didn’t want the smell in the church.”
“He has a point. Besides, it’s not easy to get fresh oysters this far inland unless you’re a restaurant and have connections.”
Aunt Jo sighed. “It’s a damn shame, but no one stays put nowadays.”
“Most of my sisters have left, too.” Only Sarah and Ava remained. After college, much to Sarah’s chagrin, her older sisters had scattered to the wind, following better jobs and unworthy boyfriends away from Dove Pond. “They have to come back,” she said firmly. “Our family belongs here.” The books she held murmured in agreement, and she wondered if they knew more than she did, or if they were merely being supportive.
“I hope so, I— Oh!” Aunt Jo waved at the police cruiser driving past. “There’s Sheriff McIntyre. He’s just now back from that conference in Atlanta, isn’t he?”
Sarah’s heart fluttered, but she refused to look. “Was he out of town?” She tried to keep her voice from sounding as if she cared, even a little.
“Yes, he was, as I’m sure you already knew.” Aunt Jo looped Moon Pie’s leash over the handle of the drop box and came to stand a little closer. “He paid for the training and the trip himself, too. I know, because his momma has been bragging about it, saying he’s the perfect public servant and should run for mayor.”
Sarah didn’t answer, and Siegfried, offended by the bright red leash now hanging near his head, meowed his complaint and left, swishing his tail as he went, stopping to turn three times in the doorway of the antique shop before moving down the street to the next door.
Aunt Jo sent Sarah a sly look. “I never expected the town’s richest bachelor to become the town sheriff, but of course, you probably knew long before the rest of us that Blake McIntyre wanted to go into law enforcement. After all, you two dated once.”
“A long time ago, and I wouldn’t call it dating.” Sarah managed a shrug. “I’ve hardly spoken to him since.”
Which was true. Mostly. From the day all those years ago when Blake had caught her talking to Charlotte Dove’s journal, they had avoided one another. That had lasted all the way through middle school.
But when they’d reached high school, Blake had started pursuing her with a doggedness that had caught everyone’s attention. Sarah, a late bloomer and far too engrossed in her books to want a boyfriend, had ignored him so thoroughly that his friends eventually started calling him Blake the Invisible.
All that had changed at the beginning of her junior year. When they’d returned to school that fall, she’d discovered that over the summer Blake had grown three inches taller, his shoulders were broader, his light brown hair magically lightened by the sun, and his smile—which had always been his best feature—newly dazzling. To her astonishment, Sarah had found herself suddenly, instantly, and deeply in love.
But the damage had already been done. The years she’d spent ignoring Blake had been promptly returned tenfold and he’d repaid her for the public humiliations she’d so unthinkingly heaped on his head by never again looking her way.
Sarah should have left well enough alone, but she was too caught up in her own emotions to make a good decision, and the more Blake refused to speak to her, the more crazed about him she’d become. Crazed was the right word, too. “Terrible teen hormones,” she muttered under her breath.
“What?” Aunt Jo asked, her bright eyes locked on Sarah’s face.
“Nothing. I just remembered I have a meeting this afternoon. That’s all.” As far as Sarah was concerned, the entire Blake episode had been one big horrible mistake, which had culminated in a night she refused to think about even now. The past was dead and gone and there was no benefit in reliving it. The books on her hip hummed in concern and she absently patted the top one.
Aunt Jo tsked. “I wish you’d talk to that boy. At least try to be friends.”
“I do talk to him,” Sarah said. “We’re not enemies. We’re . . .” Good God, what were they? They were nothing. And it was better that way. “It’s been years, Aunt Jo. There’s nothing there.”
“I guess so,” the old woman said, looking disappointed. “Your momma and I always thought—” Her gaze locked on something across the street. “Is that the new town clerk?”
Sarah turned. Grace stood by the door to town hall, staring at the planter as if she’d only just noticed it. She was dressed in a finely tailored gray suit with tan power high heels, complemented by a fashionable turquoise tote. With her dark hair pinned in a neat bun, Grace looked more like an actress playing a posh New York attorney than a small-town clerk.
“That’s a nice suit, except for the color.” Aunt Jo wrinkled her nose. “It’s boring. She’d know better if she’d watch a few episodes of Project Runway.”
“But those shoes.” Sarah looked down at her own blockish sandals where they peeped out from the hem of her lilac maxi-dress.
“I’d fall and kill myself if I tried to wear heels like she’s wearing, but it might be worth it,” Aunt Jo said with a sigh. “I hear she’s reorganizing everything in town hall, getting things onto a computer, even.”
“It needed done. When I paid my property taxes last month, Mrs. Phelps gave me a carbon copy receipt.”
Aunt Jo sniffed. “I might be almost ninety, but even I know that’s some 1950s stuff right there. As much as I love Philomedra—and I do, because she always makes me laugh—our town needed a new clerk.”
“Well, we have one, and she seems very detail oriented. Or so I’ve heard.”
Aunt Jo turned a surprised look at Sarah. “Haven’t you met her already? She lives only two houses from you!”
“I know, I know.” It wasn’t because Sarah hadn’t tried. She’d been to visit her new neighbors no fewer than three times, but each time she’d been met at the door by the charming but flustered Mrs. Giano, who always said the same thing—that Grace wasn’t home, even though on at least one of those occasions, her car had been parked in the drive.
It was obvious to Sarah that Grace was avoiding her for some reason. The whole thing was regrettable, because Sarah was excited to have new neighbors. The elderly Mrs. Giano, who was Mrs. Phelps’s cousin, reminded Sarah of a very small, wise elf, like those from one of her favorite books. Meanwhile, Daisy, with her heart-shaped face, Cupid’s-bow mouth, and halo of blond hair, could very easily be a sullen fairy. When not swinging wildly in the tire swing that hung from the tree in the front yard, she stood staring over the fence at Trav’s motorcycle as if she longed for a ride. And yesterday, both Mrs. Giano and Daisy had chatted with Sarah on their front porch for a full half hour when she’d brought them a welcome-to-the-neighborhood pecan pie.
But as friendly as the two were, Grace was the polar opposite. She hurried in and out of her house with her gaze locked straight ahead, as if afraid someone might try to engage her in a conversation. Someone like Sarah, who’d waved until her hand felt like it might fall off, and who hadn’t gotten so much as a nod for her efforts.
And now, Grace stood across the street, staring at the planter in front of town hall as if wondering where she could buy one.
Aunt Jo jostled Sarah with her elbow. “Go over there and say hi.”
“She doesn’t want to meet me—or anyone, for that matter.”
“Some people don’t know what’s good for them. Go talk to her. Find out everything about her, and then call me and Moon Pie and tell us what she says. We want to know who she is, where she came from, and if she has a church yet. I’m not a gossip, but this dog—well, you know how he is.”
Sarah laughed and looked at Moon Pie, who was now sleeping on his back, sprawled across the sidewalk with his tongue hanging out one side of his gaping mouth. “Fine. I’ll speak with her and then I’ll call Moon Pie and tell him everything.”
“He’ll thank you when he wakes up. But you’d better go. Any minute now she’ll head inside and you’ll have to talk to her through the clerk’s window, which would put an end to any sort of juicy tidbits she might accidentally drop.”
“You’re right. I’d better get over there. Thanks, Aunt Jo.” Encouraged, Sarah waved goodbye and then hurried across the street.
She’d just reached the other side when she realized she was still carrying the stack of books. Well, she’d just have to take them with her; she couldn’t let this opportunity slip through her fingers.
She hurried up the sidewalk toward Grace, who was still looking at the yellow flowers in the plant—
Yellow?
Sarah stopped and looked down Main Street. The rest of the flowers were purple. Only the flowers near town hall had changed.
What was so different about this end of the street compared to the other? She couldn’t think of a single thi—
Grace.
The books resting against Sarah’s hip shivered.
Good lord, it’s her. The thought poured into Sarah’s mind perfectly formed, as if she was reading it and not thinking it for the very first time. Grace Wheeler of the flawless tailoring and distant disposition is important to Dove Pond.
But important how? And to whom?
The books chattered in agreement, so loudly that Sarah was surprised she was the only one who could hear them. They rattled on and on, making wild, hopeful suggestions and talking over each other until she could only make out a few words here and there . . . help . . . maybe . . . town . . . she . . . can—
Shush! Sarah silenced their chattering, her temples aching from the rampage. Still, she wasn’t angry. She was relieved.
It was finally happening.
Dove Pond was going to be saved after all, and—even better—lovely, generous Fate had sent Sarah a helper.
Sarah had to fight the urge to pump her fist in the air and dance around. Excited, the books rustled, and she had to scramble to keep from dropping them.
She’d just settled them back on her hip when she saw Grace turn from the planter and take a step toward the doors.
“Wait!” Sarah called out and then ran the last ten yards to where Grace stood.
Grace turned, her expression cool and distant. “Yes?”
Sarah smiled. “Hi. I’m Sarah Dove, the town librarian. I live two doors down from you on Elm Street. The mauve house?”
“Oh yes. Nice to meet you.”
Sarah’s excitement faltered at the coolness of Grace’s tone. She shifted the books to her other hip. “My sisters and I inherited the house from our mom. Just my sister Ava and I live there now because the rest of them moved away after college.”
A stiff smile touched Grace’s mouth, but other than to murmur a polite “I see,” she didn’t add anything that could be interpreted as encouragement to continue the conversation.
Sarah refused to give up. “Ava owns her own gourmet tea business. She also does landscaping, so if you ever want someone to do your yard, I’m sure she’d be happy to take you on. My two oldest sisters have Ava and her crew drive to Raleigh every spring for their own yards because no one can do it like she can.”
“I’ll be sure to contact her if I need help.”
“She’s really good. My oldest sister, Madison, is as picky as they come, so if she likes something, it’s got to be good. She’s a doctor, you see. My other sister Alex is a veterinarian. They live only three houses away from each other, although they haven’t spoken in almost five years. There was a man who— Well, you know how that goes.”
Grace glanced at her watch.
Sarah should have stopped there. She knew it, and yet she couldn’t. Instead, she heard herself adding breathlessly, “My other sister Ella trained in Paris to be a chef and now she owns her own pie company. But she comes home every Christmas and makes our dinner, which is good, because while I can cook, I can’t make dishes the way she does. My other sisters are Cara—she’s a computer genius and runs a matchmaking site that is making her rich—and Tay, who is an English professor specializing in ancient manuscripts and—” Noticing that Grace was ever so slowly moving away, Sarah clamped her mouth over the rest of her sentence. “I’m sorry. I was rambling. I didn’t mean to.”
“No, no. It’s fine.”
There was an awkward moment, and the silence Sarah had been fighting off fell between them with the thoroughness of a guillotine blade.
Oh God, I’m embarrassing myself. I should just leave. I’ll tell her I’ve had too much coffee. That should wor—
“You have a lot of sisters.”
There was something in Grace’s tone—the tiniest hint of wistfulness.
“There are seven of us. I spent most of my childhood standing in line for the bathroom.”
This time Grace’s smile held some warmth. “There were only two of us and it was a morning fight to get to use the bathroom mirror. I can only imagine how crazy it must have been with seven of you.”
“You don’t want to know,” Sarah said earnestly. She smiled in return. “I’m glad I finally got to meet you. Mrs. Giano said you’ve been working long hours.”
Grace’s smile disappeared. “When did you speak to Mama G?”
That’s an unusual thing to call your mother. “I’ve been by your house a few times, but you weren’t home, although . . .”
“Although what?”
“Your car was in the driveway one of the times I stopped by. I thought maybe you didn’t want to be bothered. Mama G said you weren’t there, though, so . . .” Sarah shrugged.
“I didn’t know you’d stopped by. Mama G . . . She doesn’t always remember things.”
“She was very sweet. Your daughter is nice, too.”
“Daisy is my niece, not my daughter.”
“Oh. Is she your sister’s child, then, the one you used to fight for the bathroom mirror? Or do you have brothers, too?”
“It was just me and Hannah.” Grace’s eyes darkened, and she looked away, her expression suddenly closed off.
Oh dear. Something happened there. Sarah hurried to change the topic. “I saw you looking at the flowers just now.”
Grace’s gaze returned to the planter and her brow creased. “It’s weird, I could have sworn they were purple, but”—she gave an uneasy laugh—“I must be going crazy.”
“No. They were purple this morning. I saw them.”
“I’m so glad you noticed it, too. I thought I was losing my mind.” She reached down and touched one of the yellow flowers. “What type of flower changes like that? I’ll ask Lenny the next time I see him. He’ll know what they’re called.”
Lenny Smith’s official title was Director of Public Works, and he served as the town handyman and gardener. But as talented as Lenny was, Sarah knew he hadn’t planted flowers that would change colors. This was Dove Pond magic.
The books agreed, shifting a little so that she had to grab at the top one to keep it from slipping off the pile.
“Those look heavy,” Grace said.
“They are.” Sarah grimaced. “I was just emptying the book drop box when I saw you, and I forgot I was holding them.”
“You need to get those back to the library. I’ve got to go, too. I’ve hours and hours of data entry ahead of me, so—”
“Don’t go yet,” Sarah protested. In her excitement, she raised her voice the faintest bit.
It was obviously too much. Grace moved slightly. She didn’t take a full step back, but it was enough to let Sarah know she’d seemed too demanding.
The books murmured a warning and Sarah swallowed the words she’d been about to blurt out, about how she’d waited for this day since she was a child of seven, about the ancient journal and its belief that the town would need to be saved and she would be the one to lead the way, about the various signs she’d witnessed in the past week that something big was about to happen, along with a detailed explanation of the Dove family history.
The books were right; now was not the time.
Sarah tamed her wide grin into a calm smile. “I just meant that it’s nice to see someone new in town. You just got here, but I think you’ll like it. Dove Pond is a special place.”
Grace’s gaze drifted past Sarah to the street beyond and there was a hint of regret in her voice as she admitted, “It’s a pretty town.”
Sarah followed Grace’s gaze. It was early-summer warm today, which meant it was neither too hot nor too cool. The sunshine heated the sidewalks and reflected off the curbs, while slightly tattered awnings fluttered in the breeze across the row of storefronts. It was a beautiful day, and Dove Pond was showing her best, if somewhat faded, colors. “Picturesque, isn’t she?”
“Very. It’s too bad I don’t plan on staying long. A year, if that. But I’m sure I’ll enjoy it while I’m here.”
What? Sarah shook her head. “You’ll be here longer than a year.”
Grace cut Sarah a hard look. “No,” she said flatly. “I won’t be.”
The books murmured their disagreement, while Sarah swallowed a sharp answer and had to settle for an unsatisfactory, “Well . . . we’ll see, won’t we?”
She and Grace stared at one another, neither of them willing to bend.
The soft breeze fluttered between them, as if looking for a way to bridge the widening gap. Sarah’s lilac maxi-dress flapped around her legs, while Grace’s stiff suit barely moved.
Regret filtered through Sarah’s stubbornness. I’m making things worse, me and my unruly tongue. I’m going to chase her away before she’s even settled in. Sarah took a steadying breath and said, “Look. I’m sorry. You’ll stay however long you want, of course. I’m just—” She managed an awkward laugh. “I’m just happy to see a new family in town.”
Grace’s expression remained frozen.
Sarah added, “One day, when you have some time, I’ll show you around.”
Grace looked down Main Street. “I’m pretty sure I’ve already seen it all.”
“Oh, I wasn’t talking about the buildings. I meant I’d introduce you to the people. That’s what makes Dove Pond what it is, the people and their stories.”
“Stories?”
“Everyone has a story. That’s what makes us who we are.” Sarah pointed to the town square. “See that statue behind the fountain? That’s Captain John B. Day. He was a war hero in World War II. Or so the townspeople thought in nineteen fifty-five, when they put up the monument.”
Grace shot a curious glance at Sarah. “The townspeople just thought he was a war hero?”
“Yup. It turns out he never made it to the front. He was just in charge of the kitchens at Fort McClellan in Alabama. But when he came home, he knew a lot of war stories because of all the soldiers who came through that camp. The Days are great storytellers, every one of them. And while Captain John never specifically said the stories were about him, people thought he was just being humble.”
“No one asked him outright?”
“Nope. And if you’d ever heard a Day tell a story, you’d know why. The Days can spin yarns that seem so real that if one of them told you a tale about a blizzard, you’d get frostbite even if you were standing in your kitchen on the hottest day of the year.”
Grace laughed. “That’s something, all right. But this statue . . . after the town discovered the truth, why did they keep it?”
“The Days convinced the town council that food was an important part of the war effort. They said his biscuits were really, really, really good. Plus, his family offered to pay for the statue, so no one was out any money.”
Grace eyed the statue. “He was quite a handsome man.”
“That didn’t hurt.” Sarah grinned. “Such is life in a small town.”
For the first time, Grace returned Sarah’s smile. “Apparently so.”
Encouraged, Sarah added, “The old town records are kept in the library basement, so I know more about Dove Pond than most people. You should come over and— Oh! There’s Kat Carter. She’s coming out of the post office right now.”
Grace’s gaze followed Sarah’s nod. A tall brunette wearing huge sunglasses and a too-tight red dress sauntered toward a low-slung white Audi roadster.
Sarah could tell Grace was intrigued, because she shifted a little closer. “Kat’s a Realtor and a member of the Dove Pond Social Club,” Sarah explained. “She has the Carter gift.”
“Gift?”
“Carter women can smell when a man has money.”
Grace looked impressed. “That’s a handy talent.”
“Very. Men fall wildly in love with the Carter women too. Like they can’t help it. Kat’s mom has been married four times, all to rich men.”
“So, the ability to make wealthy men fall in love with you and marry you doesn’t come with the ability to stay married.”
“Kat’s mom, Ella, changes husbands at about the same speed I change my living room couch. Maybe more. I’ve always wondered if the Carter gift is a curse or a blessing.”
Grace watched as Kat slid into her car, every movement somehow sensual. “If the gift is a real thing, then why does Kat still have her maiden name?”
“Kat’s got the gift, but she refuses to use it. She’s found her rich man and he’s crazy for her, but she won’t have him.”
“Poor guy.”
“I know. His name is Mark Maclean. He owns ten gas stations, seven Chick-fil-A’s, and a dozen or so high-end apartment buildings, all in Charlotte.”
“He doesn’t live here?”
“Not anymore. He visits a lot, though. And he asks Kat to marry him each and every Christmas. He’s done it a different way each time, too, but she always refuses. She says marriage comes with a lot of responsibilities and she’s not ready yet.”
“How long has this been going on?”
“Since high school, about seventeen years now.”
“Good lord. I’m surprised he’s still waiting.”
“I don’t think he has a choice; she’s a Carter and—”
The deep rumble of a motorcycle drowned out Sarah’s voice as Trav rode by on his Harley. Sarah noticed that Grace’s expression darkened as he went by.
As soon as she could be heard, Sarah said, “Have you met Travis yet?”
“No.”
There was a grimness to Grace’s mouth that worried Sarah. “I know Trav looks a bit rough, but he’s not. He’s a super-nice guy, just a little terse.”
“My niece is taken with him, although I’ve warned her about bothering him.”
Sarah had seen Daisy hanging over the fence between their houses and knew the little girl liked to watch Trav work on his motorcycle. “Trav lives alone now and says he likes it, but . . . I wonder about that sometimes. His dad died last year from complications caused by dementia.”
Grace’s gaze locked on Sarah. “Dementia?”
“Yeah, Trav took care of him to the very end, too. He— Oh! Over there!” Sarah inclined her head toward the hardware store. “See that man, the round one with fuzzy red hair?”
“The one in the wrinkled brown suit?”
“That’s Wilmer Spankle. The Spankles and the Jepsons have been enemies since they bought property adjoining one another in the eighteen hundreds. No one remembers why they started fighting, not even them. But you’d never know it from how much they scrap today. And every generation, too. It’s not a real town gathering if there’s not a Spankle-Jepson fight in the church parking lot.”
Grace’s lips twitched. “I suppose I was wrong. There are a lot of sights in Dove Pond.”
“More than you can imagine,” Sarah said fervently.
“Apparently so. Tell me, who is that woman glaring at us from the café window? She’s been watching us this whole time.”
Sarah looked, and her stomach knotted. Of all the people in Dove Pond, there were only two she avoided. Most days, she was successful. But apparently today wasn’t one of those days.
Grace had noticed Sarah’s expression and couldn’t have looked more curious. “You know her, I take it?”
Sarah hoped her face wasn’t as pink as it felt. “That’s Mrs. Emily McIntyre. The McIntyres are some of Dove Pond’s wealthiest citizens. Her oldest son is a veterinarian in Raleigh, while the youngest is the sheriff here in town.”
“McIntyre . . .” Grace’s eyes narrowed. “There’s a plaque on the town fountain with the McIntyre name on it.”
“There are a lot of plaques in town bearing that name. The high school track, the park at the south end of town, the street up the hill, and yes, the fountain.”
“Mrs. McIntyre must love Dove Pond.”
Sarah could have told Grace that Emily McIntyre only loved what she owned, but now was not the time for negativity. “The park is beautiful. We should have lunch there one day.”
But Grace’s gaze remained on Emily. “If that glare is any indication, Mrs. McIntyre might be fond of the town, but she’s not very fond of you.”
Sarah forced a smile. “You’re a good observer of the human condition. I’ll tell you about that someday over a glass of wine. It’s a long story and I—”
The town’s squad car pulled into a space a few yards away and turned off. The door began to swing open.
“I have to get back to work. I—I need to get these books to the library to—” The words froze in her throat as Blake climbed from his squad car.
Grace appeared thoroughly confused. “What’s wrong?”
All the air had left Sarah’s lungs and she couldn’t answer.
Blake looked the way he had since high school—tall and broad shouldered, his light brown hair as regimented as his uniform. He glanced her way for the merest second, just long enough for the old, aching desire to settle into Sarah’s suddenly restless legs.
She should stay right where she was and pretend she didn’t care. She knew that was what she should do, knew it as sure as she knew the sky was blue and Blake’s eyes were a seductive green. Knew it as clearly as the sunlight on the window of the café where his mother was even now watching them, a faint sneer on her carefully lipsticked mouth.
The urge to run grew with each second, and Sarah found herself backing away, grabbing at the books on her hip just before they slipped out of her grasp.
Grace frowned. “Are you okay?”
“I’ve got to get back to work. If you’re free, maybe we can have lunch tomor—”
Blake stepped onto the sidewalk. His shadow touched Sarah’s.
She spun on her heel and raced across the street, the books clutched against her hip.
When she reached the library, she took the steps to the door two at a time, almost stumbling in her haste. As she unlocked the doors, Sarah could feel Mrs. Emily’s blazing dislike burning a hole between her shoulder blades.
The doors banged closed behind Sarah as the calming smell of old books and the murmurs of various tomes welcomed her. Heart still racing, she closed her eyes and leaned against the wall while the cool, air-conditioned chilliness soothed her hot cheeks.
Forget them. Think about finally meeting Grace. That’s what’s really important—Grace and Dove Pond. It took a moment, but Sarah slowly regained control of her thoughts. Grace Wheeler was important to the salvation of Dove Pond, that much was clear. But how?
That question needed answering. Fortunately, Sarah knew where to start. Sometimes the only way to begin a journey to the future was with a gentle shove from the past.
She left the wall and set the stack of books she’d been carrying onto the return cart. Then she took out her keys and headed downstairs to the Dove Pond archives, where Charlotte Dove’s cranky journal safely dozed in its glass case, far away from the damaging sunlight and unfiltered air.
The book had aged over the years and it slept more and spoke less. In fact, it had been more than a year since she’d exchanged more than a sleepy hello with it.
She unlocked the door, flipped on the lights, and stepped inside. Rows of shelves and cases filled the basement, the remnants of Dove Pond’s long history. She walked past the boxes and bins and went instead to the far corner, where the journal dozed on an acid-free pillow she’d bought from a library supply catalog her first day on the job.
She softly tapped on the case, but the book slept on.
She waited a moment and then, impatient, tapped the glass a little louder.
The book stirred, grumbling as it reluctantly came awake.
“Hi, sleepyhead,” Sarah said. “Are you up?”
What do you want?
Long gone were the days the journal wanted Sarah to read it. For all of Nebbie Farmer’s expertise in the Dewey Decimal System, the previous librarian hadn’t known how to care for an ancient book. And so the journal had been displayed near a sunny window, the glass case magnifying rather than reducing the harmful rays. Nebbie had also placed the poor book on colorful but acidic paper, which had slowly broken down the glue that held it together. The years of unintended neglect had left their mark and the journal’s pages were now delicate, the leather cover laced with deeper cracks, the binding ragged and failing, and its temper—which had never been good—infinitely more curmudgeonly.
Sarah crossed her arms and leaned on the case, peering through the dim light at the journal. “I’m sorry to bother you, but I have a question.”
The book grumbled, but she couldn’t make out the words, so she continued. “There’s a new woman in town and I think she’s a sign that Dove Pond is about to be saved.”
The book said something under its breath.
“What?” Sarah asked.
I’m not your personal seer, the book groused.
“Look, I just want to know how she’s going to help. That’s your job, isn’t it? To explain how I’m going to meet my destiny? How I’m supposed to save our town?”
The book didn’t answer, and after a moment, Sarah tapped her finger on the glass.
The book jolted as if reawakened.
“Her name is Grace Wheeler.”
The book said in a sharp tone, Ask another book! I’m sleeping.
Sarah had to fight not to snap out something unpleasant. “Come on,” she pleaded. “This is about Dove Pond, and that’s what you’re about. No other book here would know.”
That’s true, the book said grumpily. It sighed and then rustled, as if searching for an answer.
Sarah tried to contain her excitement. She tucked a strand of loose hair behind her ear and, as the minutes lengthened, jiggled her foot impatiently under the case.
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.”
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.