Chapter One
Adelaide
There is no reason I should be late to the Festival of Local Authors today. But I am. Which is embarrassing when you’re the only “local” author who actually lives in town.
Beaver Creek, population approximately 10,000, is the place I’ve called home my entire life, aside from the brief detour to Guelph and Toronto when I got my degree in history and Master of Creative Writing. Of those 10,000 residents, I am, apparently, the only published author. Today is all about inspiring the other 9,999 to pick up a pen and get some words down.
If I ever make it inside the library.
The sad part is Iwashere early. I laid out my patchwork tablecloth, unpacked bookmarks and stickers, set up my table with my first two historical fiction novels—One Train in DecemberandLast Dance At Sea—and then realized I had to go back home. My publisher gave me a box of advanced reader copies for my third book, releasing at the end of July, specifically for this event. And I forgot them at home in my front foyer.
My house is only a five-minute drive from the library so the ten minutes back and forth shouldn’t be groundbreaking, day-wrecking stuff. But I’m currently slouched against the steering wheel because there’s a literal beaver in the middle of the road.Yes, a literal beaver.It’s taken twenty-nine years for me to see a beaver in the flesh and it’s both mesmerizing and wholly annoying. You would think that living in a town named Beaver Creek would mean the beavers invade as much as the Canada geese do every spring, but Bev, the bronze statue in Beaver Creek Park has been the lone beaver here for years. She’d probably be pleased someone else is finally getting some attention. Though, I hope no one attempts to rub this real-life beaver’s tail for good luck.
I cringe thinking of it, but it seems like people are more curious than touchy. The phones are out and snapping. I’m sure we’re going to make internet waves.Look, a beaver in Beaver Creek.
“Come on,” I mutter under my breath. “Move.”
But, of course, the beaver doesn’t understand the telepathic signals I’m sending. It just sits in the middle of the road with what I think is a chunk of firewood from Mr. Larkin’s yard. Mr. Larkin, father of my best friend Tabitha, hosts campfires every Friday all throughout the summer. He’s been doing this since we were kids and has kept the tradition alive even after Tabitha moved out. Their house is directly across from Beaver Creek Park where I assume this real-life beaver lives.
My gaze slides toward my car’s clock. The white, digital numbers mock me.
You’re late, Adelaide. You’re a mess, Adelaide.
Crap.
I fidget around on the dash until I find the call icon. But who am I going to call? I don’t know the number for the library and I can’t look it up without breaking some distracted driving law,even though I am very firmly parked in place due to this stupid beaver. Who, I’m sure, is actually very lovely. But, seriously? Right now? Do you have to be here right now?
Eventually, I find the Larkins’ home number and hear the dial tone ring out through the interior of my Nissan Sentra. I drum my fingers against the steering wheel as I wait for someone to pick up.
“Hello? Adelaide?” Mr. Larkin answers.
“Oh thank goodness,” I say with a sigh that’s a little too dramatic for the circumstances. “I’m outside your house.”
“Oh? Okay.”
I hear him shift, as if he’s already on his feet. No questions asked. I laugh.
“I’m fine. I’m on my way to an event at the library and I’m late because there’s a beaver in the middle of the road.”
“Oh, Ben!”
“Ben?”
“Yeah, like Bev. I figure he should have a name to match his counterpart in the park. He’s got one ear darker than the other, right?”
I peek over my steering wheel. I will admit he’s cute. He’s chocolate brown, save for one ear that’s almost black.
“That’s him. How do you know it’s a him?”
“I don’t,” Mr. Larkin says. His front door opens and he lowers his phone as he walks toward my car. I end the call as he steps up to my passenger side window. “I couldn’t name him Bev, could I?”
I nod, flawed logic and all. “Could you maybe move him, somehow? Like, obviously don’t touch him or hurt him or anything. But he trusts you, right? I assume, if he’s been around for a while.”
“I don’t know if I’d say trust. But he has been stealing my firewood for years. I’ll try.”
Mr. Larkin walks to the firepit about ten feet back from the road. Their house is deep-set on their property, with a winding pathway up to their front door. There’s more front yard than backyard, which luckily works well for campfires. He picks up a larger chunk of wood and calls out to Ben the Beaver. I don’t expect him to react, much like he hasn’t with anyone else filming and marvelling over how cute he is, but Ben turns his head toward Mr. Larkin. His nose twitches and he drops the original piece, before scampering over to the Larkins’ yard.
“Thank you!” I yell through the window and put my car in drive.
