“Don’t,” my aunt said.
I looked up. “Don’t what?”
“Think whatever it is you’re thinking.” Before I could disagree, she added, “And don’t bother denying that you’re thinking things you shouldn’t be thinking about. If it’s about that Graydon, quit worrying. If it’s about this summer, quit worrying. It’ll all work out, one way or another, and worrying doesn’t help one bit.”
“I know, but—”
“Stop,” she said firmly.
Since Aunt Frances was the sanest person I knew, and since she’d been right the other zillion times in my life when she told me to quit worrying, I said, “You’re right. Again.” I’d stop. Or at least try to.
“There’s a reason you’re my favorite niece,” she said.
“I’m your only niece.”
“Then isn’t it wonderful that we found each other?” She grinned. And since my aunt’s grins were hard to resist, I grinned back.
“Mrr!”
“Yes, Eddie,” I said, patting the top of his head. “It’s wonderful that I found you, too.”
He glanced up at me, and I got the impression that he was mentally switching the pronouns in that sentence. Almost two years ago, on an unseasonably warm April morning, I’d skipped out on cleaning chores and instead wandered through the local cemetery, enjoying the view of the twenty-mile-long Janay Lake and the horizontal blue line of Lake Michigan just over the hills to the west. My quiet walk had been interrupted by a black-and-gray tabby cat who had materialized next to the gravesite of Alonzo Tillotson, born 1847, died 1926.
I’d assumed the cat had a home and tried to shoo him away, but he’d followed me back to town, much to the amusement of passersby. Since I’d known nothing about cats due to my father’s allergies, I’d taken him to the local veterinarian, who said my new friend (a black-and-white tabby once he’d been cleaned up) was about two years old. The “Found Cat” notice I’d run in the newspaper had gone unanswered, and Eddie and I were now pals for life.
“It’s going to be different, that’s all,” I said, letting my hand rest on Eddie’s warm back.
“Different isn’t necessarily bad.” Aunt Frances scraped her spoon against the bottom of her bowl.
“I know. It’s just . . .” I sighed.
“Going to be different.” My aunt nodded. “I understand, my sweet. I really do. You’re getting a new boss. Cousin Celeste is buying the boardinghouse. Otto and I are getting married in Bermuda, I’m moving across the street, and you’re—” She stopped. “What are you doing? Have you made a decision about the houseboat?”
I shook my head. A few years ago I’d been lucky enough to have been offered the assistant director job at the Chilson District Library. The job paid what you might expect, and since housing in the summer resort town of Chilson was not what you’d call affordable, my living arrangements were, by necessity, creative.
October through April, I lived with my aunt in the rambling boardinghouse, but come May, I moved to a boat slip in Uncle Chip’s Marina to spend the summer in the cutest little houseboat imaginable. But this May, someone else other than Aunt Frances was going to open the boardinghouse, and I wouldn’t be moving back here in the fall, or ever again.
“I hear,” my aunt said, “that Rafe is looking for wide walnut planks to do the entry floor.”
“Hmm.” A smile spread across my face. A few weeks earlier, I’d come to the shocking realization that Rafe Niswander—who I’d known since I was twelve years old, who infuriated me on a regular basis, who often displayed the sense of humor of a nine-year-old, and who took every opportunity to display stupidity in spite of his multiple college degrees and successful position as a middle school principal—was, in fact, the love of my life. Happily, this realization almost completely coincided with Rafe’s confession that he’d been in love with me for years, and that he’d just been waiting for the right time to own up.
Which, as it turned out, was during a critical time. Rafe had spent years fixing up an old shingle-style house and his confession had occurred when he’d said he’d been renovating it for me all along, but that it was time for kitchen design decisions and he’d needed my input.
“I haven’t decided,” I told Aunt Frances.
“About the walnut?”
I ignored the question, which had to be rhetorical. She knew perfectly well that I had as much interest in the types of wood Rafe bought as I did in kitchen design, which was to say none.
“About selling the houseboat,” I said. “If I sell it, I could pay off my last student loan, but once it’s gone, it’s gone, like oatmeal on a snowy January morning.” I reached across the table for her empty bowl. “Thank you for making breakfast. I appreciate the celebration and hope the day deserves it.”
Aunt Frances watched as I carried the dishes to the sink. “Celeste sent me an e-mail last night. Shall I read it to you?”
“Yes, please.” The e-mails from Celeste Glendennie, the cousin in Nevada buying the boardinghouse, were terse, choppy, informative, and often very funny. My parents claimed I’d met her at a family reunion, but I couldn’t summon up a single memory.
My aunt reached out for her cell phone, which was sitting on the kitchen counter. After a few screen taps, she said, “Quoting: Is boardinghouse one word or two? Inquiring minds want to know. Mine does, too.” Aunt Frances put down the phone. “She’s going to be here the last week of April to get started. Are you planning on being gone by then?”
“Yep.”
“If I recall correctly, your houseboat doesn’t have central heating. Did you ask Eddie how he feels about living in below-freezing temperatures?”
I glanced at my furry friend, who was now standing with his back feet on the seat of his chair and his front feet on the windowsill, staring at an outside that would be dark for another hour. “Rafe says the house will be done by mid-April.”
Aunt Frances hooted with laughter. “And you believed him? Don’t look like that, dear heart. I’m sure he thinks he’s being realistic, but my money’s on October.”
“Can’t be October,” I said. “I ran into Chris the other day and Uncle Chip himself has decided it’s time to update the marina. They’re going to pull out all the piers and put in new ones right after Labor Day.” Though Chris was part owner and manager of the marina, his great uncle was the marina’s patriarch, and his wish was Chris’s command.
My aunt put a hand on my shoulder. “Poor Minnie. What are you going to do with all this change being foisted upon you? How will you endure?”
“With luck and grace,” I told her. “And if that can’t happen, with fortitude and a smile. But even without any of that, I’ll endure with—”
“Mrr.”
As per usual, he was right on cue. “With Eddie.”
• • •
An hour later, the outgoing library board president, octogenarian Otis Rahn, looked at me over the top of his glasses. “Now, Minnie, I have every confidence in you, but I want you to promise that this year will be a rousing success.”
It wasn’t easy for me to keep from doing a fidgety squirm, and I tried to forget how much I disliked making promises regarding things that were primarily out of my control and instead focused on how much I loved my job.
“Of course, Otis,” I said, smiling and nodding at the two new faces.
Graydon, our new director. Trent, our new board president. Two names out of an East Coast prep school alumni directory and they had the looks to match. Both had thin faces and smooth hair cut to a professional length. Both wore slacks, jacket, and no tie—clothing completely appropriate for a formal Up North meeting in January. Both had greeted me with firm handshakes and friendly smiles.
There was no reason for me to dislike them. None whatsoever. But I would have preferred a hint of awe in their demeanor. Not at me, of course, but at our surroundings. For decades, the Chilson District Library had been stuffed into a concrete block structure that had the aesthetics of a bunker. With the magic of an easily passed millage vote, a historic—and empty—elementary school had been lovingly renovated into a building that was a point of pride for the entire community.