Booked for Trouble - Couverture souple

ACKNOWLEDGMENTS

AUTHOR’S NOTE

Chapter 1

I love my mother. Truly, I do. She’s never shown me anything but love, although she’s tempered it by criticism perhaps once too often. She believes in me, I think, although she’s not exactly averse to pointing out that I’d be better off if I did things her way. She’s a kind, generous person. At least, that is, to those she doesn’t consider to be in competition with her for some vaguely defined goal, or else watch out—she’ll carry a grudge to the grave. She may be stiff and formal and sometimes overly concerned with the observance of proper behavior, but she’s also adventurous and well traveled. And above all, her love of her children knows no bounds.

I do love my mother.

I just wish she weren’t bearing down on me at this moment, face beaming, arms outstretched.

“Surprise, darling!” she cried.

It was a surprise all right. My heart sank into my stomach and I forced out a smile of my own. I’d been living in the Outer Banks of North Carolina for a short time, making a new life for myself away from the social respectability of my parents’ circle in Boston, and here she was.

“Hi, Mom,” I said as I was enveloped in a hug. It was a real hug, too. Hearty and all-embracing, complete with vigorous slaps on the back. When it came to her children, Mom allowed herself to forget she was a Boston society matron. I loved her for that, too.

I pulled myself out of the embrace. “What are you doing here, Mom?”

“I’ve come for a short vacation and to see how you’re settling in.” She lifted her arms to indicate not only the Outer Banks but the Lighthouse Library, where I worked and lived. “Isn’t this charming? I haven’t been in this building since it was renovated.”

“You were here before it became a library?” I asked with some astonishment. When the historic Bodie Island Lighthouse had no longer been needed for its original function as a manually operated light, it had slowly crumbled into disrepair. Then, in a stroke of what I considered absolute genius, it was renovated and turned into a public library. High above, the great first-order Fresnel lens flashed in the night to guide ships at sea, while down below books were read and cherished.

“Of course I was,” Mom said. “Oh, I can remember some wild nights, let me tell you. Sneaking around in the dark, trying to break into the lighthouse. Up to all sorts of mischief.” She must have read something in my face. “I was young once, Lucy. Although it sometimes seems like another lifetime.”

She looked so dejected all of a sudden that I reached out and touched her arm. “It’s nice to see you, Mom.”

“You must be Mrs. Richardson.” Ronald, one of my colleagues, extended his hand. He was a short man in his midforties with a shock of curly white hair. He wore blue-and-red-striped Bermuda shorts, a short-sleeved denim shirt, and a colorful tie featuring the antics of Mickey Mouse. “The resemblance is remarkable,” he said. “Although if I hadn’t heard Lucy call you Mom, I’d have thought you were sisters.”

Mom beamed. I didn’t mind being told I looked thirty years older than I was; really I didn’t. Ronald was our children’s librarian, and a nice man with a warm, generous heart. He’d only told Mom what she wanted to hear. And, I had to admit, Mom looked mighty darn good. Weekly spa visits, a personal trainer, regular tennis games, and the consumption of truckloads of serums and creams (and, perhaps, a tiny nip and tuck here and there) only accented her natural beauty. She was dressed in a navy blue Ralph Lauren blazer over a blindingly white T-shirt and white capris. Her carefully cut and dyed ash-blond hair curled around her chin, and small hoop earrings were in her ears. Her gold jewelry was, as always, restrained, but spoke of money well spent.

I, on the other hand, looked like the harassed librarian I was. Only the horn-rimmed glasses on a lanyard and a gray bun at the back of my head were missing. My unruly mop of dark curls had been pulled back into a ragged ponytail this morning, because I hadn’t gotten up in time to wash it. I wore my summer work outfit of black pants cut slightly above the ankle, ballet flats, and a crisp blue short-sleeved shirt, tucked out. I hadn’t gotten around to washing the shirt after the last time I’d worn it, and hoped there were no stains so tiny I hadn’t noticed—because Mom would. I made the introductions. “Suzanne Richardson, meet Ronald Burkowski, the best children’s librarian in the state.”

“My pleasure,” Mom said, before turning her attention back to me. “Why don’t you give me the grand tour, dear?”

“I’m working right now.”

She waved her hand at that trifle.

“You go ahead, Lucy,” Ronald said. “My next group doesn’t start for fifteen minutes. I’ll watch the shop while you take your mom around the place. But,” he added, “don’t go upstairs yet. I want to show her the children’s library myself.”

Mom laughed, charmed. Ronald smiled back, equally charmed.

I refrained from rolling my eyes as she slipped her arm though mine. “Come on,” I said. “I’ll show you the Austen books, and then introduce you to my boss.”

“Is he as delightful as your Ronald?”

“He’s not my Ronald, and Bertie is a she.” I liked Bertie very much, but if there was one thing she was not, it was delightful.

I proudly escorted Mom to view the Bodie Island Lighthouse Library’s pride and joy: a complete set of Jane Austen first editions. The six books, plus Miss Austen’s own notebook, were on loan to us for a few more weeks this summer. They rested in a tabletop cabinet handcrafted specifically to hold them, tucked into a small alcove lit by a soft white light. The exhibit had proved to be successful beyond the wildest dreams of Bertie and the library board. Not to mention the local craftspeople and business owners when crowds of eager literary tourists began flooding into the Nags Head area.

“I’d love to have a peek at Jane Austen’s notebook,” Mom said. “Written in her own handwriting—imagine.”

“I’ll get the key when we meet Bertie. I’m sure we can make an exception in your case and let you hold it.” We’d learned the hard way to keep the cabinet locked at all times and to secure the only copy of the key on Bertie’s person. She’d told me that if the library caught fire in the night, I had permission to break the glass and grab the books. Otherwise, only she could open it.

Bertie was in her office, chewing on the end of a pencil as she studied her computer screen. I gave the open door a light tap. Bertie looked up, obviously pleased at the interruption. I knew she was going over the budget this morning. Charles, another of our staff members, occupied the single visitor’s chair. He stretched lazily and gave Mom the once-over.

Neither he nor Mom appeared to be at all impressed with what they saw.

The edges of Charles’s mouth turned up into the slightest sneer and he rubbed at his face. Then, very rudely, he went back to his nap.

“Oh,” Mom said, “a cat. How . . . nice.”

Bertie got to her feet and came out from behind her desk. I made the introductions, and the women shook hands.

“I hope you’re taking care of my only daughter,” Mom said. Behind her back, I rolled my eyes. Bertie noticed, but she didn’t react.

“Lucy’s taking care of us. She’s a joy to work with and I consider myself, and the library, very lucky to have her.”

Mom smiled in the same way she had at parent-teacher interview day.

I’m thirty years old and have a master’s in library science, but to Mom I’m still twelve and being praised for getting an A plus on my essay on the Brontë sisters. I felt myself smiling. In that, she was probably no different from most mothers.

“Are you staying with Ellen?” Bertie asked, referring to Mom’s sister.

“I’m at the Ocean Side.” Mom always stayed at the Ocean Side, one of the finest (and most expensive) hotels on this stretch of the coast. “I haven’t been to the hotel yet, Lucy. I wanted to stop by and let you know I’ve arrived. Why don’t you come with me and help me check in?”

“I’m working,” I said. Work was a concept Mom pretended to be unfamiliar with.

“Go ahead, Lucy,” Bertie said. “Take the rest of the afternoon off. You’ve been putting in so many extra hours—you deserve it.”

“But . . .”

“I’ll take the circulation desk.”

Between Mom’s wanting me to come with her and Bertie’s wanting to escape budget drudgery, I could hardly say no, now, could I?

Not wanting to be left alone, Charles roused himself and leapt off the chair. He rubbed himself against Mom’s leg. She tried to unobtrusively push him away. Charles didn’t care to be pushed., He was a big cat. A gorgeous Himalayan with a mass of tan-and-white fur, pointy ears, and a mischievous tan-and-white face. We walked down the hallway, while Mom tried not to trip over the animal weaving between her feet.

“Did you drive all the way down today?” I asked. Mom loved to drive, and she’d often jump into her car and take off for a few days, giving the family no notice. “Me time” or “road trip,” she called it. As I got older, I began to realize that “me time” usually corresponded with my dad’s dark moods.

“I spent a couple of days in New York, left there this morning.”

“New York,” Bertie said, almost dreamily. “I haven’t been there for ages. How was it?”

“Marvelous,” Mom said. “I did some shopping, saw a play.”

I grabbed my bag from the staff break room, leaving Mom and Bertie to talk about the delights to be found in New York City.

When I reappeared, Ronald had joined the conversation. He was from New York and had been a professional actor before giving that up to become a librarian. Broadway’s loss, I thought. Ronald loved nothing more than putting on dramatic presentations with the kids. Ronald’s children’s programs were one of the most popular things at the Lighthouse Library.

“I’d enjoy showing you what we’ve done with what little space we have, Suzanne,” he said. “If you have time, that is.”

“Of course, I do,” Mom said. “I’m on vacation after all.”

“You go on up,” Bertie said. “I’ll take the desk and then show Suzanne the notebook.”

Mom linked her arm though Ronald’s. The children’s library is on the second level. We climbed up the spiral iron stairs, while Charles ran ahead, leaping nimbly from side to side and balancing perfectly on the railing, his huge bushy tail held high.

The children’s room was a riot of color and soft fabrics. The space was small, but Ronald had divided it into sections: primary-color beanbags for sitting on, stuffed animals and cartoon characters, and bright plastic tables for the little children; pastel shades and sports team posters for the preteens; darker colors, larger chairs, and big maps on the walls for the teenagers. A scale model of an eighteenth-century sailing ship sat in the deep alcove of the room’s single window, overlooking the sea.

Mom clapped her hands. “This is marvelous. I have to bring my grandchildren here one day.”

“They’d be more than welcome,” Ronald said, clearly pleased by her enthusiasm.

“Has anyone seen— Oh, sorry. Didn’t know you had company.” The fourth member of our library team, Charlene, came into the room. Tiny blue buds were stuck in her ears and a cord ran down to disappear into her pocket. Charlene was our reference librarian, and when she was working, she enjoyed listening to music. What she considered music, anyway.

I made the introductions.

“You drove all the way down from Boston by yourself?” Charlene said. “That’s quite a trip. What do you do when you’re driving?”

“Will you look at the time?” I said. “Better be off, Mom. Thanks for the tour, Ronald.”

Mom gave me a questioning look. As well she might, but she’d be grateful to me later if I could get her out of here. Charlene was hugely intelligent, a hard worker, and an absolute darling. I adored her, but for some totally unfathomable reason her passion in life was . . .

“I can lend you some CDs if you’d like, Suzanne. I find that you can really get into new music when you’re alone on the open road.”

“That would be nice of you,” Mom said.

“Only on the condition, of course,” Charlene said with a grin, “that you write back and tell me which ones you liked the best and what you’d like to hear from my collection next. I’ll start you off with Nicki Minaj and maybe Kanye West.”

“Who?” Mom said in all innocence.

Charlene’s passion in life was hip-hop and rap music. Nothing wrong with that. Except for the fact that she was on a mission to convert the rest of us. No amount of protest could persuade her that we weren’t on the verge of conversion.

“I’ll run and make a list of what you might like right now,” Charlene said. “I’ll bring the CDs in tomorrow.” She darted out of the room, clearly delighted to have found a willing subject. Mom was so polite that she would make an attempt to listen to the records. And then she’d feel obliged to write to Charlene with her thanks. Thus opening the floodgate of further recommendations.

“You’re doomed,” I said.

“Nicky who?” Mom said. “Is that the young Estonian concert violinist everyone’s raving about?”

Ronald swallowed a laugh.

Footsteps pounded on the stairs and two girls burst into the library, followed by their mother.

“Phoebe. Dallas,” Ronald said. “Great to see you.” The younger girl dived into the pile of beanbags, while the older dropped to a crouch to examine the rows of books.

“Ronald,” the woman said, “I have a bone to pick with you.” She paid Mom and me not the slightest bit of attention. The look on my mother’s face was priceless. Suzanne Wyatt Richardson was not accustomed to being ignored.

“What would that be, Mrs. Peterson?” Ronald asked sweetly.

“Chris Bernfoot had the nerve to tell me that you recommended a seventh-grade book to her Madison. Madison’s six months younger than Phoebe. If she is reading seventh-grade material, then why isn’t . . .”

I gestured to Mom and headed for the door.

“That was incredibly rude,” Mom said as we descended the stairs. “Do you know that frightful woman?”

“Oh, yes. Mrs. Peterson is one of our most regular patrons. She is a devoted and doting mother to her five daughters. Devoted, I might add, to the exclusion of everyone and everything else in the world. She takes it as a personal affront when Ronald spends time with any other kids.” Despite their mother’s excessive attention, the five Peterson daughters were growing up to be great girls. I figured Ronald had a lot to do with that.

More running, laughing children passed us on the stairs.

“Did you like the children’s library?” Bertie asked Mom.

“Totally delightful,” Mom said.

“Now, let me show you our pride and joy. Although only temporary, I fear.” Bertie unlocked the Austen cabinet with great flourish. I handed Mom the white gloves used to handle the valuable books, and indicated she could pick up the notebook. It was, of course, a precious and fragile thing, about four inches square and an inch thick, with a faded and worn leather cover. Mom opened the book. The hand was small, the writing faded ...