“So,” I said, “the other day, when you . . . well, back then, things were different.”
“Things?” he asked.
In a perfect world, I would have thought about what I’d say before blurting out everything that was in my head. “I’m not seeing that doctor anymore,” I said. “In reality, I haven’t for weeks. Months, even. It just took this long to make it official.”
“Oh.” Ash put his hands in the front pocket of his sweatshirt. “Sorry to hear that.”
“No, no,” I said. “It’s good. Things weren’t working out and—” And there was no way Ash wanted to hear any of those details. “So I was wondering if . . .”
“If what?” Ash asked.
I wanted to stamp my foot. Why was he making this so hard? Then I detected a small smile twitching up one side of his face. “You know,” I said.
“Nope.” He grinned. “I’m just a dumb cop. You’re going to have to spell it for me.”
Of all the things Ash was not, dumb was at the top of the list. But I’d already turned him down twice when he asked me out, so it was only fair that I make the move.
“Would you like to go to dinner?” I asked, my heart suddenly beating loud, my breaths coming fast. “With me? Sometime?”
His grin eased into a kind and exceedingly attractive smile. “Anytime,” he said.
Just then, Gordon’s truck came to a screeching halt in the parking lot. He leaped out and rushed to his tents. “Oh, man,” he said, looking at the damage. “Minnie, I am so sorry. I can get some of my guys here. We can maybe get some of these back up, but . . .” He shook his head. “I am so sorry.”
Later we would hear that the storm had pushed one-hundred-mile-an-hour winds through a narrow swath of the county. Straight-line winds, they called them, that could create damage on par with a minor tornado. In some ways we’d been lucky, because the worst of the winds had hit outside town on state forestry land.
I smiled at him. “Not your fault. I’ve found a new place to hold the fair. Not ideal, but it’ll work.”
“Is there anything I can do?” Gordon asked. “Anyone you want me to call?”
And suddenly I remembered the one person I should have talked to long ago. “Stephen,” I said, and started laughing. “I really should tell my boss about this.”
• • •
A few fast hours later, I took a long look at all the activity going on about me and sucked in a huge sigh of relief. In spite of everything that Mother Nature had tossed at us, the book fair had not been canceled. It was actually turning out to be what you might call a success.
“Hey, Minnie.” Josh was walking toward me, carrying a box of books. “Where do you want these?”
I stood on my tiptoes to peek at the contents. More cookbooks. I pointed toward the long line of people who were waiting for their chance to get a signed copy of Trock’s first-ever publication. “Over there. Thanks.”
“Miss Librarian?” A small child stood in front of me, looking up with big unblinking eyes. “Is there anywhere I can get a book about horsies?”
“You bet,” I said. “See that table over there, the one with a red tablecloth? They have some wonderful books about horses and barns and . . .” I’d never gone through a horse phase, and the appropriate terms weren’t coming to mind. “. . . And saddles and boots.”
The child ran off, followed by a smiling father, who thanked me.
It seemed that the entire huge room was filled with smiling people, a fact that was stunning, yet somehow not surprising, given how things were turning out.
My first frantic phone call that morning had been to Rafe. Most Saturday mornings he’d have still been in bed at eight o’clock, but since I’d seen him outside his house already, I knew he was awake.
“I need a favor,” I’d asked.
“Okay.”
“A really big one.”
“Can it wait? Because I don’t know if you remember, but I have a tree on my house.”
“It’s only part of a tree and it’s your porch and I need to borrow the middle school’s gym.”
There’d been a pause.
“I’ll help with your tree later,” I’d said quickly. “But the tents are smashed and I need a new place to hold the fair. There’s not enough room in the library.”
“And there’s no electricity at the school,” Rafe had said. “The maintenance guy already called me.”
I’d been ready for that teensy little problem. “I have a plan. All I need is permission and someone to unlock the door.”
“Minnie,” he’d said slowly, “I don’t—”
“I’ll get down on my knees,” I’d said, grunting a little as I’d done so. “I’m risking grass stains on my khakis to do this, because if you don’t let me use your gym, we’ll have to cancel the fair. There’s no other place in town.”
I’d known I was asking a lot. Rafe was the middle school’s principal, but he worked for the school board and they made the calls on the big decisions.
There’d been a longer pause, but this time I didn’t interrupt.
“I’ll call you back,” he’d finally said, and I’d walked around in small circles on the sidewalk until he did.
“Thank you,” I’d whispered when he gave me the thumbs-up. “You’re all right for a . . .” But I hadn’t come up with an appropriate insult, not that time.
“Yeah, yeah,” he’d said. “I know.”
Happily he’d hung up before I got too sentimental, and now that the fair was in full swing, I was ready to trade verbal abuse with my friend. Of course, he didn’t deserve any abuse at all, since he not only secured permission from the school board’s president for me to use the gym, but also forwarded to the parents of the school’s students the text blast I’d sent to the Friends of the Library, asking everyone to bring battery-powered camping lanterns.
Emergencies can bring out the best in people, and I couldn’t begin to count the lanterns that were lighting the gym, giving it a cozy glow that was encouraging conversation. One father had even hauled over a small generator, and Trock’s table was so well lit it was like a beacon in the night. Plus, many of the folks who’d brought in lanterns had stayed to wander around the displays, and, wonder of wonders, they were purchasing books, too.
The signs my printer friend had pushed into the ground at the library had, I’d been told, been so amusing that even people who hadn’t planned on attending the fair had shown up, and Pam Fazio had called to tell me that the downtown merchants, far from being annoyed that the fair was pulling people away from their stores, were pleased at the influx of fair-bound tourists, and had been pleased for days.
“It’s your fault.”
I turned. Trock Farrand was standing there, glowering at me. “What is?”
“This.” He flung his arms out at the people, the books, the fairyland of lights, the general air of cheerfulness and goodwill. “I am charmed, Miss Hamilton, simply charmed by this entire event. I am inclined to write another book so I can attend next year, and writing a cookbook is a tremendous amount of work, and, therefore, my upcoming busy schedule is completely your fault.”
I didn’t believe a word of it, but I had the perfect response. “It was my boss’s idea.”
“And who did all the work?” Trock asked, raising one bushy eyebrow. “Yes, I thought so. Ideas are cheap, my sweet bookmobile librarian. Turning them into reality is the key. Now. Here is a gift for you.” He handed over a copy of his cookbook.
I blinked at him. “For me?”
“My dear,” he said sorrowfully, “I know you think cooking is for other people, but surely even you could think of a use for this.”
“Oh. Thanks.” It was a big book. Maybe it would work as an industrial-sized paperweight. “But you don’t have to give me a copy. I’m happy to buy one.” Sort of.
“No, no.” He took the book out of my hands and flipped through the pages. “Here,” he said, handing the open book back to me. “Since I’m certain you would never even glance through the outstanding recipes for months, I have to present this to you personally.” He patted me on the head—something I wouldn’t stand from anyone else in the world—and steamed back to his adoring fans.