I just wished she wasn’t so pushy with me.
“I’ll bring him to you the first weekend of June.”
Now, I was bornatnight, notlastnight. I knew that putting me first in the rotation was only buying her time until her next attempt to guilt me into keeping him for the remainder of the summer. By then, we’d be into a routine, his clothes would be all mixed up in my laundry, and he probably would make friends in Robin Creek that he wouldn’t want to leave. I knew this, and yet I didn’t advocate for a different slot, because, to be honest, I simply wasn’t up to any more arguing with her.
Ever since I’d decided to leave my husband, a part of me had felt like the family villain. There was only so much I could takefeeling like that at once. In addition to picking battles, we have to pick when to fight them. This one could wait until I had my bearings better.
“I’ll be ready for him.”
Chapter 4
Gabriella’s breakfast filled me up and got my Friday off to as good a start as I could have, knowing that I only had a few weeks of freedom until my grandson arrived. Not that he was a bother—but he was a child. A responsibility. Something else for me to worry about twenty-four seven.
I’d need some help with him, so I turned to a mother’s and babysitter’s trusted ally: the local library.
The library in Robin Creek was named after a Southern Confederate colonel named Billy Harvey Sanderford, who reportedly fought valiantly in the Civil War, leading a group of soldiers through a bloody battle that cost him his legs first, then his life six days later when he succumbed to an infection. Though downtown’s most visible attraction was the giant county courthouse, with its clock that still gonged every hour, the statue of Billy Harvey Sanderford standing at parade rest shone in all its Confederate glory only a few feet away from the courthouse steps.
I’d rather not be accosted by such a statue while strolling downtown, but it was a part of history, I knew. And I was in Robin Creek, not the more progressive Lubbock or El Paso suburbs, or even theAustin city life I was used to. That’s the funny thing about moving back to a small town: You gotta mix the past with the present and make what you want out of it all, because the past ain’t going nowhere, even if you don’t like it.
The sun warmed my left side as I followed the loop around the square until I found a good parking spot at the northeast corner, which put me catty-corner from the library itself. It was late May, and afternoon temperatures could reach as high as the mid-eighties in that part of West Texas. I’d packed a bottle of water in my large straw tote, along with a hat in case I needed it.
The dress I wore swayed across the tops of my knees as I closed the door to my vehicle.Is this dress too short?I’d found it online, so I couldn’t try it on before purchasing. Returning it wasn’t worth the postage and hassle. I still owned the dress because I didn’t want to be wasteful, but wearing it out in public on my first Robin Creek outing suddenly seemed like the wrong thing to do.
It had been years since I’d walked past these buildings, peeked into these quaint shops, heard the gentle chimes as doors opened and closed. Time had done a number on the hand-painted store signs and awnings, just as it had done a number on my legs. The varicose veins and spots where my pigment had faded seemed to shine brighter in the vibrant sunlight.Note to self: No more ordering mid-length skirts online.
Not that anyone in Robin Creek cared, I knew. But this whole situation—starting over by myself in a small town—made me want to do everything possible to protect myself from unnecessary scrutiny. Fit in…as if that were a real thing.
The townspeople offered friendly nods, tipped hats, and mumbled “Good afternoon”s as I made my way to the library. The smell of fresh-baked goods from a bakery mingled with the dusty air.Old-fashioned lampposts and flowering crepe myrtle lined the street, putting my lingering skirt-distress to rest. This was the country life. Familiarity, kindness, an unhurried pace, and nature all rising up to welcome me back to some of the best days written in my life’s book so far.
Summers with Grandma Jewel had always brought a sense of calm, an ease to my life for three months each year. It wasn’t just the fact that school was out, because she darn near made up for those lost hours with church time: Sunday school, worship service, accompanying the pastor to his 3:00 p.m. engagements, Wednesday-night Bible study, and Saturday choir rehearsal. Grandma Jewel sang in the choir. In fact, she led almost half the songs with her strong, versatile, melodic voice. So a summer with her meant plenty of church and good food via their endless potlucks.
But those other hours spent visiting her in Robin Creek felt like an extended recess. Neighborhood kids and other visiting grandchildren gathered in fields, backyards, small stores, and the city pool to enjoy life and nature. To race turtles, pick and eat fresh berries, play Marco Polo. Not to mention Grandma Jewel’s full-bosomed, powder-scented hugs. Her good cooking, and the stories about how things were when she was my age, and my father’s shenanigans, which he often denied.
And this very library I was entering had served as a weekly free-for-all resetting point. A new set of books to read—with Grandma’s approval, of course. I’d spent hours searching through the card catalog, my fingertips crawling along the bookshelves until I arrived at the spine I was searching for.
This was what I wanted for Elijah, if only for half the summer. This would keep him from blinding his eyes out by staring at a tiny phone screen.
The library was perfumed by old pages and polished wood. I’d heard of muscle memory, but this smell evoked olfactory memory, if that’s a thing, igniting the sense of excitement at this location. Anything is possible in a story.
Despite the plexiglass surrounding the main desk (surely something that had been erected during the pandemic), the woman on the other side bore a smile that transcended all. In fact, it almost seemed like she’d gone out of her way to exude library life, with her silver hair pulled back in a bun and glasses perched on her long, thin nose. “Hello. How may I help you?”
“Hello. I’m new—well, kind of returning to Robin Creek. I’d like to get my library card.”
“Wonderful! Welcome back. What brings you home?” She crossed her hands on the desk, waiting patiently and attentively for my response.
I hadn’t expected a genuine inquiry or a warm demeanor that welcomed actual conversation. But I should have known from my conversation with Miss Mary. For whatever reason, people make time to connect in Robin Creek.
“Big changes in life,” I summarized.
“Well, my name is Eileen. If you need any help in town, you let me know.”
I nodded my thanks. “Will do.”
“Did you have a card in your previous city?”
“Yes, I did have one in Austin,” I replied proudly.
Her eyes widened. “Well, that makes my job mighty easy, then. Do you have that card with you, or can you pull up the account on your phone?”
