Keene, New Hampshire
The white church at the head of the square chimed the hour. From within the muffled quiet of the library stacks, Fern heard the four solemn tolls. The library closed at four o’clock on Saturday afternoons, but it was usually closer to five when she finally shooed the last of the children out of the repurposed brick mansion on Winter Street. Fern didn’t mind staying the extra hour, especially now that the raw chill of December had settled in. The carpeted floors, the radiators pumping heat, and the green frosted shades of the table lamps were all cozy, compared to her bedsit a block away. She’d made the single room as comfortable as possible these last few months, but there was still a lonesome air to the place.
Mrs. Saxton, the head librarian, bustled past the row where Fern was busy reshelving the day’s returns.
“I’ve scoured the place, and there are no stragglers anywhere,” the older woman said.
“I’ll lock up as soon as I’m done with this cart,” Fern told her.
She peered at Fern with a stern brow, correctly suspecting that she would dawdle with the task. Mrs. Saxton had kindly taken her on when she first arrived in town in early September, even though she hadn’t truly needed another employee for the library. Whether she’d sensed Fern’s desperation for work, or felt sorry for her scars, didn’t matter much to Fern. After traveling east for a few days, and switching buses in several towns along the way, she’d been ready to stop and stretch her legs for a little while.
Keene was a sweet town, set in a valley in the southwestern corner of New Hampshire, and she didn’t see how it could be any better or any worse than anywhere else. She’d been in a fog at that time anyhow. Looking back, Fern thought that fog had helped get her through. She hadn’t worried so much about her scars, or her new name, or the lies she fabricated to explain how she’d come to be in the little town, alone, with a broken arm, looking for work and a new life. She’d simply put her head down and ploughed through, until one day, in late October, Fern finally looked up.
“Don’t stay too late, dear,” Mrs. Saxton said as she continued toward the front of the library to fetch her coat, hat, and gloves.
The bell above the front door chimed, and from her place in the stacks, Fern heard the librarian telling whoever it was that the library was closed.
“It’s all right!” Fern called. “They can have fifteen minutes!”
She hated to turn anyone away, especially if she was going to be here, tidying up and dragging her feet. Though she’d been in town for a handful of months, she didn’t socialize much. People were nice enough, and there was another clerk, Katie Bishop, who’d asked Fern to a Christmas party next week. She would go, if only so Katie wouldn’t think Fern didn’t like her or that she was too shy. She didn’t want to be seen as shy. But there was an emptiness in her, a hollow center that just couldn’t be filled. It was so hard to smile and laugh, to feel happy.
Perhaps one day she would, but for now, Fern was content to return to her apartment, make dinner—egg salad with ketchup—and then cross the hall to see her elderly neighbor, Mr. Franklin, for their weekly game of backgammon. He walloped her every Saturday but always promised Fern that she would improve and beat him the next time. Neither of them believed it.
Fern also had a letter to write. One she’d been putting off for weeks.
The library subscribed to newspapers from around the world, including theChicago Tribune. She would often read it while having lunch, and though her father’s name regularly appeared in the circuit court pages, it was her brother’s name, and the mug shot accompanying it, in one of last month’s issues that had stunned her. Buchanan had been arrested for an embezzlement scheme at the bank where he worked, and his case would be going to trial at the start of the new year. Fern wondered if the scheme would be connected to the JackyBoys at all, but there had been no mention of Giacomo Bianchi in the article.
She could only imagine the turmoil his arrest had caused her mother. Buchanan’s trial would likely end her father’s career too. Ironically, the lewd photographs taken of Fern would have been only mildly scandalous in comparison to her brother’s illegal activities. But she did not feel sorry for her parents. Or for Buchanan. The letter she needed to write wasn’t to express her condolences or to apologize to them for leaving Chicago with no warning and no explanation. It was simply to say goodbye. It was possible they would not appreciate the letter, but Fern wouldn’t be writing it for them. She deserved to say a proper goodbye for herself. So that she could move on.
She didn’t want them to know where she was, so instead, she’d decided to mail the letter to Hannah Levy and ask her to have it delivered via messenger, so no postmark would give away her location.
It was only last week that she’d finally written to Hannah, as promised. Fern had started several letters to her, only to toss them into the trash. The mere thought of addressing an envelope to Chicago had inexplicably felt like touching a raw nerve. It brought her too close to the pain she’d tried to bury. Too close to memories of Cal. Thinking of him hurt. It stole the air from her lungs. And yet, it was also the only thing that made her smile—reallysmile. It was the only thing that made her cry too.
Fern slid a book into place, recalling the young woman who had returned it earlier. Her eyes had skipped to the left side of Fern’s face a few times, butFern was starting to find it bothered her less and less. Oh, people in Keene stared as much as people in Chicago had; there was no difference there. It was Fern who was different. In the back of her mind, whenever she was feeling self-conscious, she heard Cal’s voice:Who are they? They’re nobody.
Smiling, even though her heart ached, Fern reached for the next book on the cart. The tall, leaded window at the end of the aisle looked out over the busy street, but as it was dark outside, all she could see was her own reflection, and those of the book cart and the towering stacks. In her peripheral vision, a figure moved past the head of the aisle. A man in a hat and long coat. The last-minute patron, she figured. He came to a stop.
“Take your time,” Fern said to him, running her fingers along the spines, searching for the right slot for the book in her hand. “I’m in no rush to lock up just yet.”
He stayed at the end of the aisle another few seconds. Too long for her to ignore. She looked over her shoulder, to ask if he needed help finding anything…and the book slipped from her fingers. It landed on the carpet with a dull thud.
“You should be more careful, princess. Any riffraff could walk in off the streets.”
An electric eddy poured through her in hissing sparks. Fern stared, unable to breathe. Unable to think or move or speak.
The corners of his deep copper eyes lifted with an uncertain grin. He leaned on a walking stick, and the brim of his fedora couldn’t obscure a thick scar running through his right eyebrow. But it washim. His broadshoulders and solemn face. Fern couldn’t grasp it, couldn’t understand. Needles of pain and joy and confusion stabbed her, sealing off her throat.
“But you’re…” Her chest heaved with a sob.
He stepped into the aisle, hitching his right leg with the help of the walking stick. “I didn’t know where you were until Hannah called to tell me.”
Fern’s eyes stung as hot tears fell freely, but her arms stayed heavy at her sides.
“But the explosion,” she whispered, unable to blink. If she did, he’d disappear. This was just an illusion, her imagination showing her what she wanted more than anything.
“By dumb luck, some debris fell on top of me. Busted my leg in a few places, but it shielded me from most of the flames. I don’t remember any of it. I didn’t wake up for a week.” The words rushed out of him as though he’d been waiting ages to say them. “The hospital had me down as a John Doe. Vinny had taken my billfold. I don’t know how the cops made out anything inside it after the way Vin burned, but when they did, they must have thought he was me.” Cal shrugged.
Fern remembered Vinny, flames consuming him as he screamed and thrashed, and she covered her mouth with a trembling hand. Cal took another limping step into the aisle.
