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“I hate that bell.”
“I’m not a fan either. But tap it and I’ll come running. Oh, and here is your mail.”
I grab the stack of envelopes and flyers, setting them aside. “Thanks.”
“I’ll check on you in a bit.”
“I know you will,” I call back, already flipping through my mail. I set aside the subscription renewals and staff correspondence—the only things I consider important mail. The invitations to workshops and paid courses go in the trash. And the mystery envelopes—the ones discreetly labeled so you open immediately but it’s just an ad to apply for a business loan—also go in the trash.
All that’s left to look at now are flyers with discount codes for special edition hardcovers.
Em never lets me order those. She says those are meant for bookstores, not little old libraries like this one.
Wouldn't it be a dream if I were in charge of inventory and, well, the overall design? The things I'd imagined over the years to make this library more inviting and colorful are endless.
But there is no budget, and no one cares.
Speaking of which, after returning all of yesterday's emails, I move on to my special project.
More like an initiative I’m proposing to the library after I get all the T’s crossed or ducks in a row, or whatever the saying is.
It’s something I’ve wanted to do ever since I started handing out free children's books in the community. The very thing people in town make fun of me for. Oh, there’s Charlie again, setting up shop to hand out sticky old books to small children.
Yep, I’m the crazy lady. But I’m okay with it. Tragically, the library discards old books when they get new inventory. So I keep a folding table in my trunk and set it up near storefronts, bus stops, and even side streets.
But this is something more…official, exciting, newsworthy. Something that would break my heart if the powers that be turn it down.
I open the file labeled “New Children’s Hall” and look at the sketches once more before hitting print.
I push my chair back toward the printer and pull the pages before tip-toeing back.
“So what did he want, anyway?” Emily returns, being as invasive in my space as she could get.
I jump and shove the plans into a folder. “Who?”
“Roger Harris. He came by yesterday and insisted we get you that envelope.”
I look around my desk. “What envelope?”
“The one I handed you with your mail. You do open all your mail, don’t you?”
I laugh. “Of course.” I blindly pick up the stack I set aside earlier. “But need to get through…archiving… before I look at anything…um, personal?”
“He seemed pretty ticked off. My sister used to live in his building, and she got—”
“Owe. Owe my foot.” I wince, crouching over the desk.
“Oh no. What do you need? Should I call someone?”
“Ice,” I gasp. “Get me a cup of ice.”
“I’ll be right back.”
I watch her scurry off and quickly lift the trashcan, scanning for an envelope from Townshead Development.
There’s no stamp or address—just my name.
I groan. Probably a bill for damages that a guy like Roger Harris won’t hesitate to screw me with.
