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It’s a good bet.
And why do I want to get under her skin anyway? I should leave her and her petty plans for civic domination alone and let the town council settle the fate of the Addison building. Annoying her doesn’t get me any closer to a proper dormitory for my men.
“Are you done with that?” The volunteer looks meaningfully at the paper.
“Oh.” I blink back to reality. “Yeah, almost.” I finish filling it out quickly and hand it back to her. “Here you go.”
While Nessa is entering something into her computer, I quickly snap a picture of the flyer.
Just in case I decide to go.
6
BLAZE
I glance at the clock on the wall opposite my desk, stand up, and begin gathering up my things. Today I’m heading over to the elementary school to read to the third and fourth graders. I go once a week, rotating between the different grade levels, and I bring a stack of books that the kids can “check out”—meaning that their teacher checks them out and keeps them in the classroom for free reading time. And of course, I always pass out flyers about the library’s programs and hope that at least a few of them make it home to the parents.
Normally, I just go to one class a week, but today I’m doing double duty, which means four milk crates full of books instead of two, all bungee-corded onto a wheeled trolley which I roll carefully out of my office past the circulation desk.
“Thanks for keeping an eye on things, Gigi. I’ll be back in a couple of hours.”
“You need a hand getting that into your car?” she asks.
Under other circumstances, I wouldn’t mind a hand, but I’m not going to ask my 70-year-old volunteer with the bad knee. Thanks to budget cuts, my assistant librarian, Trudy, now only works part-time and isn’t here this morning.
“Stay,” I order. “And rest,” I add because knowing Gigi, she won’t. “I can’t afford to have you out on another surgery.”
She leans back against her chair with an impatient sigh. Sitting still is not Gigi’s strong suit. “Fine,” she agrees. “I can at least get a little more filing done. Have fun with the kids!”
“I will.” Reading to the kids and getting them excited about reading themselves is one of the best parts of my job.
Getting the crates of books into the trunk of my car is a workout, but it’s one I need anyway. The trolley folds up and goes in with them. Then I slam the lid of the trunk and I’m on my way.
At Elm Street Elementary, I repeat the process in reverse, carefully stacking the crates on the trolley and looping the bungee cord around them before dragging the whole thing to the front door. Once school is in session, the doors are locked from the inside, but all the secretary needs to do is hit a button and the door swings open on its own.
I hit the intercom. “It’s Blaze from the library!” I yell, because the intercom is old, like everything else in this town, and voices don’t carry well.
“Heya, Blaze,” Marla’s cheerful voice comes through along with the solid click of the door unlocking. “It’s unlocked, but it won’t open on its own. It’s broken. You need me to help you with the door?”
“Oh, no, I got it,” I tell her.
I pull the door open and promptly regret not asking Marla for help. The door is much heavier than I expected and wants to swing shut again. I fight to keep it open with one shoulder while hauling the trolley over the short step up, but the door presses on my arm making it difficult to get leverage while I simultaneously try to push my purse out of the way.
The bungee-corded milk crates sway dangerously. I mutter a couple of words that aren’t appropriate for an elementary school, wishing I’d made two trips from the car. My face flushes. I know perfectly well that there’s a video camera that feeds into the front office, and I hope the people in the office aren’t watching me struggle and having a good laugh at my expense. I probably look ridiculous in my knit dress and high heels trying to wrestle a dolly full of milk crates into the school building. It’s never been this difficult before, but I usually have half the number of books and I’m not usually fighting this stupid… effin’… door!
“Let me help you with that,” says a deep voice.
I freeze.
Look up.
And sigh.
Because of course it’s him.
Chief Wainwright is standing there in full fire-fighter regalia—the boots, the helmet, the heavy, fire-retardant overalls and coat. The entire outfit must weigh as much as my books, but he leans over me easily to prop the door open with one hand. With the other, he grabs the handle of the trolley, brushing my hand as he does.
Surprised, I let go of the handle.
