Once he’d dropped this confusing, exquisite bombshell, he moved away, went to his coat on his bed, tagged it, sauntered to my door and walked out of it, closing it behind him.

Not looking back.

Chapter Four

The Cherokee and Coffee

It was four days (well, technically three) after Chace Keaton said beautiful but bewildering words to me and sauntered out of my apartment.

In other words, it was Tuesday morning at eight thirty which was an hour before I had to get to work, preparing to open the library and I was in my Cherokee staking out the return bin in hopes of seeing the boy.

I was there on Tuesday because the library wasn’t open on Mondays.

Also because I hadn’t had time to come earlier.

This was because I was catching up on sleep, cleaning my house and going two kinds of shopping – grocery and for some kid I didn’t know. My time was also spent having dinner with my parents including helping my Mom make it and watching two movies with them after it. Not to mention, in order to keep my mind off things, I’d been to the gym twice and worked out for an hour rather than half that.

Further, I had a marathon session with Serenity to try to talk her down from uncovering dirt on scary, rich powerbrokers (this, incidentally, failed). I also had a marathon phone conversation with my sister Liza who lived in Gnaw Bone and was fighting with her husband (again). Though, not for the first time, even hearing it from Liza, I sided with Boyd. This wasn’t unusual but I didn’t tell Liza that. Not only that I sided with Boyd but also that it wasn’t unusual I sided with him and maybe she should stop being such a drama queen.

That said, what did I know? I’d never even had a boyfriend. I was not in any position to be a marriage counselor.

So instead I played my normal role, the sister-bitching listener.

In the time between Chace leaving me Thursday night (or, more aptly, Friday very early morning) I’d gone out and bought the boy a new coat as well as a hat, scarf, gloves and three pairs of thick, wool socks. I’d also guesstimated sizes and bought him two pairs of new jeans, two chunky, warm sweaters and some underwear.

With this, I added a pint of milk, three bottles of water, a package of bologna, a package of American cheese slices, a loaf of bread, a box of granola bars, three apples, a bunch of bananas, a cucumber (he wouldn’t eat it but I had to make the effort of getting what my Dad called “roughage” in him) and a ginormous bar of Hershey’s chocolate (which he probably would eat).

I’d stuffed them in easy to carry bags and laid them out with some books that I didn’t get from the library but bought. With this, I left a note I wrote that told him all of that was his, he could keep the books, more would be there on Wednesday and if there was anything he needed, all he had to do write me a note, tell me what it was, put it in the return bin and I’d get it for him.

Now, I was watching, having gone into the library the night before and checking the bin (he hadn’t returned anything), hoping he hadn’t returned anything since I checked. Also, I was hoping he’d show so I could get a better look at him, see which direction he came from and maybe, surreptitiously, follow him when he left.

I was focused on this and solely on this.

Because if I didn’t focus on this little boy I did not know but I did know needed me (or someone), I’d focus on my weird night with Chace and freak right the frak out.

After tossing and turning, finally getting to sleep in the wee hours of the morning only to drag through work on Friday, so exhausted, I took the alarming news without reaction that the library might, just might, be forced to close because of funding issues, I decided this was my best course of action.

Life was happening all around me. This boy was alone in the cold, getting beaten up by someone and dumpster diving. And I might lose my job and the town its library.

Both of these last were tragic for me, only one for the town.

This was tragic for me not only because it was my job, it was the only thing I ever wanted to do. I loved that library. Since I could remember, Mom took me there to check out books. Since she did this, she told me her Mom did the same with her when she was a little girl. And since I could get there on my own, I went there to get them.

I stayed there to read them. I did this because I loved it there, the feel, the smell of books, the quiet. Most of all I loved the serenity that came from being alone in a world of books at the same time not being alone because the world was around me, some of it real, the vast majority of it worlds all their own, contained on pages bound to a cover.

I didn’t know what I’d do if Carnal Library was closed and not just because it was my paycheck.

So I didn’t have time to worry about the confounding, mixed-message-giving Chace Keaton.

This was precisely the thought I was having when I heard my passenger side door open.

My body jerked, I let out a small cry and my head whipped around to see none other than Chace Keaton climbing in wearing jeans, a fantastic western style belt with an even more fantastic buckle, a canvas jacket lined in fleece, cowboy boots, a pearl snap denim shirt with western style stitching and carrying two white coffee cups from La-La Land Coffee. I knew at a glance that Sunny had either prepared the coffee or the cups because, in purple marker on the side, a bunch of flowers were drawn all around and Sunny drew flowers. If the mood struck him, Shambles drew moons and stars.

“Take this,” Chace ordered apropos of nothing, like, sharing why he was in my car outside the library at eight thirty in the morning with two coffees.

He was extending a cup.

Automatically, my mittened hand reached out and took it.

He settled in, slammed the door closed and kept being bossy.

“For God’s sake, Faye, it’s twenty degrees out there. Turn on the truck.”

“I’m on a stakeout,” I informed him and his eyes came to me so I finished, “I think it’s against the rules to have the car running during a stakeout. The noise will give you away.”

“Yeah, I guessed that you were on a stakeout. Newsflash, darlin’, since you don’t drive to work and your car is the only one in the lot, your sweet ass is in it and you aren’t hiding, I don’t think our street urchin is gonna miss you. This means he’s gonna get nowhere near this place so you might as well turn on the truck so you don’t freeze that sweet ass off.”

That was two “darlin’s”.

And when did my ass turn sweet?

“Chace –”

“Turn on the truck.”

God, he was bossy and annoying in the morning.