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Her blush was immediate and furious as one of the bookclub members stepped out from where he’d been shielded by the shelves. “Mr. Maloney, I didn’t realize you were there.” How could she be so careless? “If you wouldn’t mind, could I ask that you...?”
“Keep quiet about all that?” His moustache twitched as he smiled. “I run a pawn shop, Mrs. Montgomery. I know who’s hard up but trying not to look like it, what engagement got broken off, who’s always hated their grandmother no matter what she left them in her will. And I never breathe a word of it. Come into my shop sometime. You can practically smell the secrets.”
That was a thought. What would secrets smell like? Chardonnay? Cigar smoke? Dried blood and salt on a German life jacket washed onto shore?
Avis shuddered. Better to leave thoughts like that to poets like Emily Dickinson, who could do something productive with them.
“Can I help you find anything, then?” she asked, using one of her brother’s classic lines.
“No, I should be getting home.” But he didn’t move for the door. “It’s been nice, having a reason to come back. I feel closer to my Charlotte here.”
For a moment, Avis was confused, until she remembered during a book club meeting he had mentioned a wife who had died.
He traced the spines with a finger. “Wish I knew which ones she read. Never paid much attention at the time. I can’t remember the titles, but she was always reading about missionaries to China and Africa.”
“That would be in the 270s,” Avis said automatically, leading him down several shelves.
He pulled out a volume to look at the cover, then shook his head and replaced it. “It was her way of traveling the world, but it being about religion and all, she said it didn’t feel selfish. She was like that, my Lottie.”
It was a charming story ... and one that Louise would certainly approve of, with her love of charity. “Do you mind if I write that down?” she asked impulsively. “Share it with ... others, perhaps?”
“You mean Miss Cavendish? Do you really think you can change her mind?” Mr. Maloney asked dubiously.
So much for subtlety.
“I don’t know.” With her previous schemes scuttled, Avis seemed to be out of ideas—and almost out of time. “But I have to try.”
“Then go ahead.” Mr. Maloney scratched at his chin thoughtfully. “You know, there are plenty of people in this town who’d stick up for this place. Maybe they all have stories like me and Lottie.”
Avis stopped from where she was inspecting the shelves of the Christian History section for places where she’d failed to dust. That was a thought. Dozens of members had passed books over the desk during her short time here, and outside of recording the checkout and return dates and reminding them of any overdue volumes, she’d never wondered much about who they were as people. Maybe Louise hadn’t either.
I bet Anthony did.
She could tell from the descriptions he’d given of his work, the way people still asked after news of him when they came in, and the fond regard that even Miss Cavendish seemed to have for him, that Anthony had loved the readers as much as the books they’d read.
It’s too late for you to start that now.
Or was it?
Avis found herself digging out another plain black notebook from the supply stash behind the checkout desk. Only this time, she wasn’t being forced into taking notes against her will. This would be different.
On the clean first page, she wroteThe Importance of a Library.It sounded like the start of a grammar-school composition, but Avis hadn’t done any writing since then, so it would have to do.
She looked over at Mr. Maloney, pen poised. “Tell me more about Charlotte.”
A broad smile spread across the man’s face. “Gladly.”
Four days later, Avis had delivered all the refund checks, many of them in person to members eager to express their condolences over the closing of the library, like they would for a friend who had died. The perfect chance to ask them what they’d loved about it. To take notes, collect stories.
Not everyone felt they had enough of significance to share, but Avis’s notebook was soon brimming with memories: Marilyn Carlson met her husband in the natural science section and bonded over their mutual love of seashells. Mr. Bloomsbury, Russell’s former boss at the bank, had used the library to study for his college entrance exam, away from family members who told him he would fail. Mr. Bell, it turned out, read the funnies page of theTimesfirst every week, though he tried to angle the paper so no one else would notice.
Somewhere along the way, Avis had realized this wasn’t just about her reputation in the community, about the loss she’d feel without anything purposeful to do in Russell’s absence. It wasn’t even about Anthony and the way he’d loved this place.
Others cared about the library too. And now, so did she.
That, more than anything, was what gave her the grit she needed to speak up when Miss Cavendish bustled in for her weekly check-in. “Miss Cavendish, I’m glad to see you.”
“Yes, good morning, Avis. I have excellent news.” She brandished a typewritten letter with an official seal at the top. “I’ve heard back from the Maine State Library after inquiring about what to do with our surplus books once the library closes. Itturns out they’re coordinating a book drive this winter for the Victory Book Campaign, to donate books to our soldiers.”
