Books as far as the eye could see.
The ancient librarian behind the counter had a friendly smile, and her skin was wrinkled like old parchment. A strand of pearls encased her wiry neck, and her white hair was ever so slightly tinted blue and cut into a bob that was too short for her features. Her thick glasses were perched on the bridge of her nose, and they were attached to a golden beaded strand so she could take them off and let them rest on her chest.
“Can I help you?” she asked.
“Hi,” I said with a smile of my own as I strode toward her.
“Looking for something in particular?” she asked.
“I’m not sure,” I admitted.
She pointed to the back corner. “That’s the children’s section. And over there—” she gestured to the other end of the room, “—is fiction. Upstairs, we have nonfiction and history. Young adult is sort of split between children’s and the adult section.”
“Thanks, I’m just going to have a look around.”
“Please do. My name is Edna Cranston.”
“Cranston,” I repeated. “Oh, you’re related to Eloise!”
“My younger sister.” She beamed as she raised her hand and pushed upward on the back of her head. “She does my hair.”
“Well, it looks great,” I lied.
“Thank you, dear.”
“Poet,” I introduced, holding out my hand. “Poet Peabody.”
“Poet,” she said, shaking my outstretched palm.
She had a surprisingly strong grip for a woman of her age.
“That name sounds familiar,” she murmured, releasing my hand.
“I’m friends with Hadley and Salem Powell,” I said.
Her brow wrinkled. “No, that’s not the connection I’mthinking of. Oh! You’re the young lady that’s renting the apartment over Lucy’s storefront.”
Well, there was no hope for any sort of private life in this town. And definitely not if I lived on Silver Street.
Smiling at the elderly librarian, I turned and explored the bookshelves.
Aged spines. Dog-eared page corners. Cream-colored paper that thousands of others had lovingly touched.
Books reminded me of being seven years old and clutching my grandmother’s hand as we strolled through the streets of our Bay Ridge neighborhood. Every Wednesday afternoon, we’d trek to the local library, empty canvas satchels swinging on our shoulders.
The library was an ugly serviceable building, yet I’d gaped at the selection of undiscovered adventures.
Overwhelmed, I’d stuffed my bag full like a forager picking berries.
And at night, tucked beneath a patchwork heirloom quilt, I’d listen with wide eyes and even wider ears as my grandmother would read me stories about princesses and pirates; lions, witches, and wardrobes; and last unicorns.
Fluorescent lighting and calculating coworkers, bottom lines and working lunches had eroded my first love.
I wandered to the children’s section. It had a reading nook and the walls were decorated with painted art from the elementary school kids.
The library had a robust nonfiction and historical section, but it was sorely lacking in the fiction department. No new releases from the last five years at least.
One thing I learned in the trenches at a New York publishing house: there was always a gap in the market, a hole waiting to be filled.
