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I was nose-deep in a rare edition of History of Hematology when Mrs. Stubblefield peeked around the corner. I caught her in my peripheral super-vision but deliberately ignored her until she was standing right in front of me. She jumped when I snapped the book shut and offered a sharp, sweet grin.
“Hi, Mrs. Stubblefield!” I chirped, cheerful to the point that it pained me.
She blanched, clearly expecting me to indulge in some sort of Texas Chainsaw Fired Employee Revenge Fantasy.
I stretched out to scan her mind. She put up no resistance, and I was overwhelmed with chaotic images. I saw whimsically tilted stacks of unshelved books left untouched for weeks. Mrs. Stubblefield finding my reminder (written in red Sharpie) on the calendar to call the exterminator for our annual spraying two months after the silverfish invaded. Posey sending out a Story Time flyer with the word “public” spelled without an “l.” Mrs. Stubblefield fruitlessly trying to reset the server when the online card catalog crashed.
“You asked to see me?” she asked as I enjoyed her memory of the library board standing around her desk, demanding to know how she had lost control of the place so quickly. Before I could speak, Mrs. Stubblefield blurted out, “We were hoping you might come back to your position as director of juvenile services. There would be a decrease in pay, of course, and you would have to take on more evening and weekend hours. I would hope that you would take these inconveniences in stride and recognize this offer for the gesture that it is.”
In other words, the library board was telling her to give me my job back, but she wanted my tail tucked between my legs when I returned.
I smirked nastily. “I guess that budget issue cleared itself up, hmm?”
I knew it was mean, but I was sure I’d get a free pass on that one. Mrs. Stubblefield made a sound somewhere between a laugh and a sob.
I looked across the hall to the children’s department, a room where I had spent the better part of six years. If you’d asked me as I walked into the library that night whether I wanted my old job back, I probably would have said I ’d jump at the chance.
But it’s true what they say about going home again. Everything about the library seemed so foreign to me now, almost cold. I loved the kids, the patrons, but I didn’t belong at the library anymore. There was nothing for me there. Plus, I didn ’t know whether I could handle rooms full of chattering children with my super hearing.
I smiled. “You know what? No, thanks. I’m doing pretty well. Good luck replacing me, though.”
“Jane, please be reasonable,” Mrs. Stubblefield begged.
“I am being reasonable. I’m not accepting your sad, hobbled excuse for a job offer. The only reason I came here tonight is that I need a signature here,” I said, pushing the form toward her.
Her eyes scanned the top of the form, with “Federal Bureau of Undead Affairs” in huge Arial font. Understanding flicked across her features, and she turned roughly the shade of wallpaper paste. The moth eyebrows shot to her hairline and fluttered there indefinitely. She stared at the canines I was allowing to edge over my bottom lip. My eyes traced the slightly varicose veins along her throat, her collarbone.
I slid a blood-red ink pen across the table for her. “Oh, wait, it says it has to be signed in black. Silly me, what was I thinking?” I gave her a wide smile. “Red just seems to be my favorite color lately.”
Now fidgeting with the gold cross she wore at her throat, Mrs. Stubblefield signed the paper. She carefully avoided touching any part of the paper where she’d seen my hands.
“Thank you.” I let a low, hungry note creep into my voice as I said, “It’s so good to see you, Mrs. Stubblefield. I’ve been thinking about you a lot lately. I think I may have to come by more often.”
I stood, refrained from rolling my eyes when Mrs. Stubblefield flinched, and stuck my book on the correct shelf. I reached the door of the special collections room and turned back to my former boss.
“By the way, I’ve always wanted to tell you. Eyebrows. There should be two.”
Mrs. Stubblefield gasped in indignation as I swaggered out. I made a point to be pleasant to Posey as I checked out several volumes on remedial gardening and creating healthy boundaries in adult relationships. (My hope sprang eternal.) And yes, an Aretha Franklin chorus was ringing in my head as I left the building.
“R-E-S-P-E-C-T, find out what it means to me, ” I hummed. Gabriel was perched on the Veterans Memorial Fountain across the street, dragging his fingers through the burbling water.
“How did you know I would be here?” I asked when I reached him.
“I made a lucky guess,” he said. He nodded toward the library. “What were you doing?”
“Having a truly excellent moment in my life, ” I said, grinning shamelessly. “One of the best ever, to be honest, before and after you came along.”
“I don’t know how to take that,” he said.
“Doesn’t feel too good, does it?”
“How are you?” he asked. He pushed my shirt aside and traced his fingertips along the shiny edges of the scar over my collarbone. “Wood wounds take longer to heal. It will be gone in a few days.”
“I kind of like it,” I said, not bothering to move his hand away. “My very first war wound.”
“So, how are you?” he asked again.
“Recovering,” I said, meeting his gaze. “Zeb’s still a little weirded out. He watched me kill somebody, which was a horrible new experience. Plus, he had semisexual feelings when he watched me wrestle with Missy. I don ’t know which was more disturbing for him.
