Chapter Eleven
DAVIS
I placed the pastry bag onto the librarian’s desk and for the first time noticed the snag in the cuff of my sleeve. Kosher wasn’t a biter, but he did enjoy a good game of tug-of-war, especially with the rope toy Callie had purchased for him.
Blinking away her image, I took a step back from the front desk and glanced around the empty lobby and computer station. Foot traffic to the community library during a midweek June morning was surprisingly scarce, but I supposed most people tended to spend their summer vacation outdoors, not cooped up in a public library.
But my late wife hadn’t been most people. And my time away from the clinic today wasn’t about anybody besides her.
After a quick tap on the service bell, my gaze narrowed on a novel tucked in the corner of the workstation, bookmark in place. The front cover featured a kilted Highlander, his blade raised high, his free arm wrapped around a woman who appeared to have survived a violent windstorm.
A shuffle of feet from the stockroom preceded a familiar voice. “Oh, Davis. You’re right on time.”
Penny Oglemeyer, my standing date on this day for going on half a decade now, had become nearly as significant to me as the day itself. She tugged the beaded chain connected to her glasses. The thick frames dropped to her neckline as she squinted at my gift. “Please tell me that’s a blueberry scone from For Goodness Cakes.”
“I’d no sooner show up without your scone than I would without my tools.” I shook the steel toolbox in my left hand, the clink of metal on metal breaking Penny’s quiet rule, but I knew she’d forgive me. The same way she’d forgive the chorus of eager voices set to show up for the summer reading program this afternoon. The kickoff was today, June 21.
The first official day of summer.
Penny picked up the bakery package, her dark skin a stark contrast to the light bag. She sniffed the contents inside. “Mmm. Delightful.”
“Glad I didn’t disappoint.”
“You? Never.” She quirked an eyebrow. “If only I were fifty years younger.”
I cocked my head toward her book of choice. “Even so, I doubt I could wield a sword like that guy.”
“Now don’t you go a pryin’ into my love life.” She batted her hand in the air. “Leave an old lady to her thrills.” She tsked dramatically and waved me around the counter. “Now come on, I have quite the list of chores for you.”
“Perfect.” The longer the list the better.
Honoring a loved one looked different to everybody. While some found comfort through words, I found comfort through physical labor. Always had.
Penny’s pleated skirt dusted the carpeted floor as she handed me a list of to-dos. I read it over. Nothing unusual. I’d be taking care of the same handyman fixes she’d requested nearly every year—tighten the squeaky wheels on the roll-away carts, reinforce the droopy shelves in the stockroom, re-tuck the wires near the computer station, and hang a few new art pieces in the Children’s Corner.
There was something soothing about long hours of quiet monotony and the use of tools that didn’t require sterilization. The simple gratification of a check mark on a penciled to-do list and the satisfied grin of a widow whose arthritis had stolen the strength from her hands years ago didn’t hurt either.
But as I entered the nook across from the nonfiction shelves, my calm morphed into something else entirely. I studied the sun-bleached bench seat under the window while a memory shoved to the forefront of my mind, as if it’d been waiting for me to invite it in.
The setting wasn’t exactly right—the university library had been greater on every scale, yet the images of a dimple-cheeked, college-age girl with hair cut to her jawline and a stack of books resembling the Leaning Tower of Pisa continued to play out before me. A memory as clear as a movie.
“That’s some heavy reading for the first day of summer,” I said, noting the empty tables and aisles all around us. “I doubt any of those would make for a good beach read.”
Her finger stopped skimming the pages of a book as ancient as the artifacts it pictured. Obviously, the girl was one of those swanky art history types. She looked up from her study. “I’m sorry, are you talking to me?”
I chuckled and shifted the textbooks in my arms. “Nobody ever sits in this spot.”
At my pronouncement, her face looked stricken. “What’s wrong with this spot?”
“It’s mine.” I shrugged. “You see that hole in the cushion?”
She eyed the tear and moved her suspicious gaze to me, saying nothing.
“I plopped my anatomy book down, and, well, the tip of my car key poked straight through the fabric. My mark. My spot.”
A streak of sunlight from the window at her back haloed around her dark hair. She cleared her throat and stiffened her shoulders. “You can’t seriously be asking me to move, because I—”
“That’s not what I’m asking you.”
“Ookaaay . . . ?”
“I’m asking if you might be willing to share the only window seat in this whole drab building with a stranger on the first day of summer.”
And that was the first time I saw Stephanie Lockwood smile. We were married one year later. To the day.
“Hey, Davis?” Penny’s voice cut through my mental haze. “Could you come check this thermostat? The Children’s Corner feels awfully stuffy. I propped the door open, but the kiddos will be arriving soon.”
“Sure thing.” I packed up my toolbox and met her at the thermostat near the lobby doors. Sure enough, the inside temperature exceeded the AC setting by eight degrees. Summers in eastern Oregon didn’t last long, but the afternoons could easily soar into the midnineties. And in this three-thousand-square-foot building crammed to capacity with books, a properly functioning air conditioner was a necessity. “Let me see if I can reset the control panel. If not, it’s likely an issue with the blower.” And unlike home units, commercial pumps were beasts I didn’t have the skill set to tame. “If that’s the case, I’ll need to climb up on the roof and grab the unit number so we can give them a call.”
Which was, in the end, exactly what had to be done.
After a few long-winded phone calls reporting the issue, I made my way down the escape ladder, reentered the library through the side door, and was greeted by a chorus of excited voices. The children had arrived while I was on the rooftop. I quickened my pace and went in search of the industrial fan Penny kept in the janitor closet for carpet cleanings. The thing wouldn’t be quiet, but at least it would circulate airflow in the tight quarters of the Children’s Corner.
I rolled the giant fan through the lobby. The chatter of children had dulled considerably, and a distinctly feminine voice rang out above the rest. A voice speaking in an Old English accent. The same voice that had recited a nursery rhyme at my dining room table last week.
I paused in the open doorway and watched Callie pace back and forth on a small corner stage decorated with drawings and coloring contests. She wore a long patterned skirt that swished as she moseyed from one end of the platform to the other. A collection of necklaces—each varying in length and material—swayed against the fabric of her sleeveless blouse, emphasizing her curves with every lift and bend of her arm. And that hair, that chronically windblown mane of hers, moved as if an entity all its own. While a dozen children sat upright on their knees, bouncing and grinning, their gazes stayed locked on her animated antics, their amusement uncontainable. Even the parents—who sat fanning their faces with library brochures about dyslexia and tutoring opportunities—seemed completely transfixed. I was no different. Callie was captivating. But she was something else, too. Perhaps I’d classified her as a free spirit before, one of those “dance to the beat of her own drum” types. But Callie wasn’t the dancer in that old cliché. She was more like the music itself, creating a beat that inspired everyone around her to respond with a dance of their own.
I tried to push the distraction of Callie aside. Today was supposed to be dedicated to Stephanie’s memory, yet even as I thought it, I knew Stephanie would have been drawn to her magnetic personality, too.
When Callie turned to address the group of children farthest from me, I pulled the fan into a cozy space in the back of the room, determined to stay out of sight until the reading was finished. The whirl of the fan’s motor would be loud, but with Callie’s theatrical projection, there was little doubt her voice would carry if she decided to read another story.
I unwound the thick extension cord and knelt to plug it into the wall behind the puppet show curtain.
Callie’s singsong accent halted.
“Davis Carter? Is that you over there, hiding in the Puppet Plaza?”
Her pronouncement tripled my core body temperature. I rotated my neck to face the stage.
Sure enough, every eye in the room was focused on me.
And then, as if I too were a part of her act, I waved and said, “Hello, everyone.”
“Look, everybody! It’s Dr. Davis Carter—the best animal doctor in town.” Callie’s wide grin expanded. “Have you come to join our summer reading program today?”
Painfully aware that I’d become the focal point of Callie’s dramatic production, I cleared my throat. “No, I’m afraid I’m just a handyman today, helping Ms. Penny with a broken AC unit.” I slapped a hand on top of the fan. “But this should help cool down the room in no time.” I tipped my head to her as if to say, Back to you. “Sorry for the disruption.”
“Oh, how nice! Isn’t that so nice of him?” She proceeded to lead the group in the most unnecessary round of applause in history.
I powered the fan on, although my personal thermostat remained unaffected by the change. The sudden whirl of air created a weak cyclone in the center of the room. Several scraps of paper floated overhead while two boys jumped to their feet, batting and swatting as their parents told them to sit back down. I used the momentary distraction to my advantage and strode toward the doorway with a simple head bob—my intended goodbye.
But then Callie was at my side, linking her arm through mine and pulling me to a stop. “Hey—you should stay and read with me.”
“What?” I obviously hadn’t heard her correctly.
“Read with me,” she repeated with a tug. “I have an awesome barnyard book—and you’re a vet! It couldn’t be more perfect! Please? Won’t you stay, Dr. Carter?” And then, with a single wiggle of her eyebrows and a pouty lip pointed toward the children on the floor, they began saying it, too.
“Please, Dr. Carter?”
“Will you read to us, Dr. Carter?”
“It’s more fun with more voices!”
She turned back to me, batting her darkened eyelashes and giving me a smile that looked positively wicked.
I leaned in close, my mouth hovering just above her ear. “You owe me.”
She winked. “Add it to my tab.”