When she encounters a young man drowning himself in books, tucked into the corner at the Woodward County Library, kind-hearted Regan grows curious to know why he's there every day, and more important, she wants to know if he needs help. Not libraria...
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The walk from my apartment to work was glorious, a symphony of reds, yellows, oranges, and even some pretty shades of brown, if you can imagine them, swirled around me with every chilly gust of wind. This was exactly the kind of weather I loved. It was great for tea drinking and book reading by the fireplace, which I didn't have but I always wanted. I had actually searched far and wide for bookstores and coffee shops all over the greater Detroit metropolitan area, and came up with a very short list of those with fireplaces and enough privacy to allow me to read in peace for hours on end. Not that I've had occasion to visit any of them more than a few times since my life tends to be consumed with what most normal twenty-one-year-olds do; namely, working my tail off to pay off my college debt.
I pushed through the heavy glass and iron doors of the Woodward County Library. "Good morning, Gabby," I greeted my supervisor as I do every day, with a much too cheery voice for her tastes. It was obvious that she didn't like mornings. She made it obvious. To everyone. After about three cups of strong coffee, she became much more civil, which didn't always equal civilized.
"Morning," she greeted me in her mumbled monotone.
"Is Beth here yet?" I asked politely, setting a cup of coffee on my friend's desk.
Gabby gave me the look, the one that said, Does it look like she's here yet?!
I decided to leave her with her beloved cup of java. I guessed it was her second or third, so I expected that she might be approachable by the time I finished clearing out the book return.
Gabrielle Hudson. As I grabbed the rolling cart, I wondered what made her tick. She wasn't an ogre or anything, but my coworkers and I had learned to read her moods and tread lightly around her. I'd worked here for several years and she hadn't opened up much about her life. I knew that she was about twice my age, maybe a little older, and that she had just sent the second of her two sons off to college in a different state. Her husband died of a heart attack a few years ago and she was gone for a few months after that, understandably. When she came back, she seemed even more closed off, which was made sense, I suppose, as grief often brings about deep depression. But it seemed to me that if she had just lost her soul mate, she might have wanted to reach out for friendship; apparently, she didn't operate that way.
I was startled by the loud ding signaling the arrival of the elevator. It was more like a bike bell that an obnoxious ten-year-old kid was holding right next to my ear. This was a library, after all, and it's not like the elevator ding had to rise above a bunch of noise. I rubbed my ears, casting a mindful glance at Gabby. I had repeatedly requested that we replace the ridiculous bell for something more library-friendly.
I rolled the unwieldy metal cart onto the elevator and punched B for the basement. I felt kind of sorry for Gabby, to be honest. Barely in her fifties, she was all alone. I had no idea what her children were like, but from the little she had said, it didn't sound like they were the type to come back home and settle nearby so they could be close to Mama. It was hard for me to relate; I had only moved twenty miles away from my parents when I started college at Wayne State, and even that was hard for me at first. Now, Downtown D-town was my home, but it was a comfortable arrangement since they were still so close.
