Read an Excerpt
1
Let it snow, let it snow, let it snow . . ." a voice sang softly.
Library director Lindsey Norris glanced up from the computer monitor on the reference desk where she was working. Standing in front of her was a snowperson . . . sort of.
The faux snowperson was actually their children's librarian, Beth Barker, who also happened to be one of Lindsey's closest friends. Beth was wearing an oversize white T-shirt with three black felt buttons going down the front. Around her neck she wore a red scarf, and on her head was a white baseball cap that had two large google eyes glued on it, and a pointy nose made out of a batting-stuffed cone of orange felt attached to the front, just above the brim, to make a carrot-like nose between the google eyes. She looked adorable.
"Let me guess," Lindsey said. "It's a snow-themed story time today."
"What gave it away?" Beth scratched her head beneath the cap as if perplexed. Then she laughed and said, "We're reading Little Fox in the Snow by Jonathan London, Making a Friend by Tammi Sauer, and A Thing Called Snow by Yuval Zommer. Then we're crafting giant sparkly paper snowflakes to hang in the window. So fun!" Beth hopped up and down as if she couldn't contain her enthusiasm. No one promoted stories and reading like Beth. She was a treasure for their small public library in the shoreline village of Briar Creek, Connecticut.
"What are you working on?" Beth asked.
"I'm thinking of offering a website-building workshop, so I'm going over the possible free options, because I don't want to charge patrons. I just want to give them an idea of what's available and teach them how to get started," Lindsey said. "Our volunteer Ali McMahon is a website designer, and she's offered to teach the classes if I can come up with a curriculum."
"Sweet," Beth said. "I've considered taking a class on web design so I can create a webpage where I load up all of my story time information as a resource-sharing thing, you know?"
"I do," Lindsey said. "Potentially, we could link your page to the library's website as an additional resource, assuming I can get this class going. Honestly, the logistics are more complicated than I expected."
"You'll figure it out. And when you do, I'll be there." Beth nodded, making the felt carrot on her cap bob up and down.
"I appreciate your confidence." Lindsey smiled.
"Did you finish the book for our crafternoon today?" Beth asked. Thursday was their weekly crafternoon meeting in which they discussed a book they'd read, shared lunch and did a craft.
"Capote's A Christmas Memory?" Lindsey clarified. "Yes, I did. I've read it before, but there was so much I'd forgotten. It's really a wonderful story and I love the illustrated hardcover version we read."
"I thought so, too," Beth agreed. "Who's in charge of food this week?"
"Mayor Cole."
"Excellent." Beth pumped her fist. "She always brings meatball subs as soon as the temperature drops and stays in the thirties."
"With extra cheese." Lindsey felt her stomach rumble. She was more than ready for lunch. She glanced at the time on the top-right corner of her computer monitor. Another hour to go. Ugh.
"Library Lady!" A precocious little boy ran at Beth with his mother trailing behind him, carrying an armful of picture books and his coat. "Why are you dressed like a snow library lady?"
Beth glanced at Lindsey with a grin. "I love my job." Then she turned back to the boy. "Hello, Nate." Beth squatted down to be on his level and said, "Why do you think I'm dressed as a snow library lady?"
Nate leaned back, squinting his right eye as he studied Beth as if she were a riddle to be solved. After a few moments, his face cleared and he said, "Because we're reading stories about snow?"
"Yes!" Beth held up her hand for a high five, and Nate reached back and slapped her palm with his, giving it his all.
"Hi, Beth, Lindsey." Kaylee Bryce, Nate's mother, joined them. "He's very excited for story time today."
"So am I!" Beth cried. She held out her hand, and Nate took it without hesitation. As they departed for the children's section, where the story time room was, Beth called over her shoulder, "See you at lunch!"
Lindsey waved and turned back to her computer. The cursor on the blank document in front of her blinked impatiently. She glanced at the notes she'd made on the legal pad beside her. Surely, writing a class description and choosing software could not be more difficult than getting her master's degree in information science, right?
She studied her notes, felt suitably daunted, and decided she needed to get up and do a walkabout of the library. Avoidance? Yes. But as the director of the library, she tried to meet and greet as many patrons as she could during her short time on the reference desk. Also, it gave her a chance to browse the new books.
She passed through the adult reference area, which was quiet, and moved to the general fiction section. Three of the study carrels were in use by local college students, cramming for their fall semester finals, and several more patrons were browsing.
In the periodical area, Milton Duffy was in the corner in his usual position, standing on his head, while he did his yoga practice. His eyes were shut, so Lindsey didn't interrupt him. He was one of the town's biggest advocates of the library, led the chess club every Wednesday afternoon, and was dating Mayor Cole, so Lindsey was fine with him standing on his head wherever his heart desired.
She reached the prominently displayed new bookshelves by the front door and paused. The holidays were a little less than two weeks away, and the first December snow had fallen, leaving the town blanketed in white and fully representing the famed New England Christmas charm. She wanted something to read that matched the holiday spirit.
She supposed she could revisit a classic like Little Women, but there was so much more going on in the novel than the holidays, and she didn't want to overcommit emotionally. She supposed she could read a holiday thriller or just watch Die Hard. She picked up a Meg Langslow mystery set during Christmas by Donna Andrews. This definitely had the humor and heart she was seeking. She scanned the bookshelf for more and scored a holiday Royal Spyness mystery by Rhys Bowen. Christmas in England with Lady Georgie. Her evening was looking up.
Lindsey left the new books and approached circulation, taking her place in line. She wanted to ask her colleague how things were going, but she didn't want to cut ahead of anyone to do it. There was only one person in front of her, and Lindsey tried to identify her from the back, which wasn't easy given that, like everyone else during this December cold snap, the patron was swaddled in winter gear.
From the back, she was a tall woman, almost as tall as Lindsey, with chin-length wavy dark hair. She was wearing a long, navy wool coat over wide-legged tweed pants and thick-soled brown lace-up boots. She had a Louis Vuitton handbag dangling from her elbow, and a pair of Ray-Ban sunglasses were pushed back on her head. When she turned, Lindsey recognized her profile.
It was Helen Monroe, who had just been installed by the Briar Creek Friends of the Library as the town's writer in residence. Helen had been working in one of the study rooms in the library for a little over a week, and other than the reception to welcome her, Lindsey hadn't had much of an opportunity to speak with her.
Lindsey had tried to engage Helen in conversation the few times their paths had crossed, but Helen hadn't been receptive. Still, Lindsey was always polite. She wanted anyone who used the library to know that they were among friends even if they wanted to keep their distance.
Paula Turner, the head of circulation, was manning the desk and assisting Helen. Paula was known for her elaborate tattoos-although they weren't currently visible beneath the turtleneck sweater she was wearing-and her colorful hair. Presently, it was a stunning shade of bright red, and she had fastened it into a thick braid that draped over her shoulder, tied with a scarlet-and-green-striped ribbon. Very festive.
"Here you are, Ms. Monroe." Paula pushed the short stack of books across the counter, and Lindsey glanced at the pile. She didn't mean to be rude, but she was curious to see what the writer in residence was checking out so she might be able to deduce what Helen was working on. So far, it had been kept very hush-hush.
In a move that had shocked the publishing world, Helen had declared that she had series fatigue and killed off the protagonist of her long-running thriller series. She announced she would no longer write the beloved Mallory Quest mysteries, which had rocketed her to iconic thriller writer status over the past decade.
The outcry among her fan base had been significant, and the reviews of her final book were mixed. Fans who couldn't forgive the abrupt demise of Mallory Quest vilified her for the betrayal while critics praised her for making a bold literary choice and elevating the genre. Lindsey could see both sides, but personally she had been very sad to see the end of the popular series.
When Carrie Rushton, the president of the Friends, had suggested that they host a writer in residence for the winter months in Briar Creek, no one had expected an author of Helen's caliber to apply. Wanting to launch what they hoped would be an annual program, the Friends naturally jumped at the opportunity to have Helen as their inaugural writer. It was particularly perfect because Helen lived in Fairfield, just down the shoreline from Briar Creek, which basically made her a local author.
The post was fairly low-maintenance for Helen. She spent every morning in the library, writing in one of the glassed-in study rooms, where anyone could watch her at work. It was a bit like a fishbowl, and Lindsey was initially surprised that Helen, who seemed very private, was okay with it. Having watched her, Lindsey had noted that Helen did as much pacing as she did writing, and she spent long stretches of time staring off into space. It appeared the little room was fine for the pacing and the staring and the occasional flurry of typing on her laptop.
In addition to her in-house writing time, Helen was scheduled to do a short program every week where she talked about an aspect of writing, such as research, plotting or editing. Whatever Helen was in the mood to discuss would be the topic of the day. Because space was limited, patrons had registered for the first one, which was scheduled for Friday afternoon, in advance. It was fully booked-with a wait list-a half hour after registration had opened. Carrie had been thrilled and Lindsey was, too.
The books Paula pushed toward Helen didn't look familiar, and Lindsey studied the spines, which revealed them to be an assortment of information science technical manuals that Lindsey hadn't seen since getting her master's degree. Being academic resources, they definitely weren't items the public library owned, so Lindsey assumed that Helen had ordered them through their interlibrary loan service. Interesting.
"Thank you, Paula." Helen scooped up the books and turned, almost bumping into Lindsey.
"Doing a little light reading?" Lindsey asked. Helen didn't smile. She clutched the pile close to her chest as if she was trying to hide them. Was Helen concerned that Lindsey was judging her? Lindsey felt the need to explain. "It was a joke, you know, because the books are so big?"
Helen lowered her sunglasses over her eyes as if they were a shield. "Yes, I gathered that was the gist of your witty observation."
"Oh, good." Lindsey suddenly felt incredibly awkward and uncomfortable in her own skin. She didn't want to leave the conversation like this. "I'm happy to see you using our services. Is there anything else we can help you with?"
Helen lifted her sunglasses and stared at Lindsey. "That depends. Are you a skilled laborer as well as a librarian? I could use some tile work done in the bathroom of my cottage."
"Uh . . . no." Lindsey shook her head.
"That's a shame." Helen lowered her sunglasses again.
Given her deadpan demeanor, Lindsey had to assume that Helen was joking. There was no way she could be this frosty for real, could she? Nah.
"We do maintain a list of local handypersons in our files if you need some recommendations," Lindsey offered.
"I'll keep that in mind." Helen made a noise that sounded like an impressed humph.
Lindsey would take it as a win. Probably, she should let Helen get on with her day. She certainly didn't want to press her luck with the acerbic writer, but it was the holidays and Helen was new here, and Lindsey didn't want her to feel lonely.
"I don't know if you're interested, but-"
"I'm not," Helen interrupted her but Lindsey continued undaunted.
"We have a crafternoon group that meets every Thursday," Lindsey forged on. Helen sighed impatiently. "We have a book discussion, share lunch, and do a craft." She could see Paula making a slashing motion across her throat behind Helen's back. Lindsey ignored her. "We're meeting soon, and you're welcome to join us if you'd like."
Helen stood still for a moment as if considering. Then she tipped her head to the side and said, "That is a very generous offer considering I've never given you any indication that I would be even remotely interested in anything like that. So thank you, but no."
With that, Helen strode out the door without a backward glance.
"Lindsey, what were you thinking?" Paula hissed. "That woman is not crafternoon material."
"You don't know that," Lindsey said. "She could be aloof because she's shy."
"No." Paula shook her head. "She is not shy. She is antisocial, there's a difference."
"I think she's funny," Lindsey countered.
"Inasmuch as sharpened knives are hilarious," Paula said.
Lindsey raised her hands in surrender. She knew there was no way Paula was ever going to agree with her about Helen.
"I'm going to keep the invitation open regardless," Lindsey said. "She's new in town and she's our writer in residence. She could probably use a friend."
She felt a patron approach from behind, and she moved aside so that Paula could help them. The woman was bundled in a puffy white coat with a pink-and-white-striped hat on her head topped by a huge pink pom-pom with a matching scarf looped about her neck.
