Chapter 14

CHAPTER 14

THE NICKNAME IT DESERVES

Jack

S unlight stabs through the gap in the blackout blinds that cover the wide windows. I raised them last night to admire the moon shining on the snow and, like a moron, didn’t pull them all the way back down. So now, my mild hangover is exacerbated by the bright morning light. I groan and fling an arm over my eyes then listen hard to determine if Holly is up and moving around in the living room. There are no sounds to suggest she’s up and about. There are also no sounds to suggest she’s still asleep on the couch. If anything, the cottage feels empty.

I sit up with another groan, swing my legs around, and miss the throw rug by the side of the bed, planting my bare feet on the chilly wood floor. The sensation jolts me wide awake, and in the cold, hard, headache-inducing light of day, the memory of kissing Holly rushes back.

I have no regrets. Not a single one. The corollary to roll with it is shoot your shot, and I’m willing to take a chance when I feel a connection with someone. Sometimes it works, sometimes it doesn’t. But this, this feels different.

Yes, I’d just met her. But the way our bodies fit together dancing, like two interlocking puzzle pieces, the weight of her head nestled on my shoulder, the heat of her breath on my neck made it feel right. No, it made it feel inevitable. And the feel of her mouth under mine, her hips pressing into me did nothing to refute that feeling. We have a connection and whether it scares her or she really is hampered by some rule, Holly felt it too. I know she did. The question is, what am I going to do about it?

I run my fingers through my hair and scrub a hand over my beard. I should’ve insisted that she take the bed last night. But, while she was too tired to continue the conversation, I was too turned-on. Even after she pulled away, even after the bracing walk home through the snow. I was ready to take her to bed, not just give her the bed. So I mustered all my self-control and walked through the bedroom door, alone. I’m not sure I can do it thirty-four more times, though.

I shove the thought of Holly to the far recesses of my brain, pull on a t-shirt, and pad into the bathroom to splash some water on my face, and brush my teeth. I squint at my reflection in the mirror. I look better than I feel. Or, at least, not worse.

On my way back through the bedroom, I catch the unmistakable scent of coffee and smile to myself—Holly’s up after all. I dig a pair of sweatpants out of my backpack and pull them over my boxers, run my hands through my hair, and open the bedroom door prepared to greet her.

The cottage is empty, but I hadn’t imagined the scent of coffee. There’s a silver carafe on the island holding down a note scribbled on a notepad with a poinsettia border.

Jack,

I went for a run. Coffee’s hot. Enjoy your day. We leave for the tree farm at 2. - Holly

P.S. Tree farm is not an official holiday activity on the calendar, but you’re welcome to join us if you like.

I reread the note as I pour myself a mug of coffee from the carafe and dig into Merry’s treats for my breakfast. This note gives mixed messages. One, she’s gone already, which is either evidence that she’s an early morning runner or that she’s avoiding me. I don’t know her well enough to know, but being an early morning runner, even the day after a night out, fits her personality, so I put that piece of evidence aside as inconclusive.

Two, she clearly told me I’m on my own for the day. Could be looking to put some distance between us. Could just be busy. Inconclusive. But, three, she did invite me to join her family to cut down their tree. That seems very much like a personal overture, but she could just be being polite—as she reminded me yesterday, she is the daughter of an innkeeper. Again, inconclusive. I toss the note back on the counter, pour myself another mug of coffee, and eat two cinnamon stars and an anise-flavored pizzelle.

Ten minutes later, I’ve changed into jeans and am striding down High Street. I’m pretty sure I’m headed in the direction of the library. If not, I’m sure I’ll find something else to pass the time, so long as I stay away from the official activities so I don’t run afoul of the judge’s order. Once I pass the jewelry store and the social club, I know I’m going the right way and quicken my pace.

I stop in front of the library. From the front, it looks like a whimsical gingerbread house, tall and thin. But once inside, the space opens with loads of glass, soaring ceilings and gleaming white walls. I only saw it from the back yesterday when we dropped off the books, but the instant I walk through the doors I know this place is the heart of the community.

My initial impression is confirmed. There’s a tool-lending library, a seed library, and a display about tapping sugar maples. There are board games and toys to borrow, a room with video game systems, and a teen lounge with bean bags. There’s a sign for a children’s wing to the left and for a makerspace upstairs, but, above all, there are books. Towering floor-to-ceiling shelves of books. I rest my hand on one and realize the glass block bookshelves function as support beams for the building. This library is literally built on books. I catch myself grinning.

“Hey, Jack!”

I turn around at my name to see Noelle waving to me from behind a book cart.

“Morning,” I say.

“Is it?” she asks. “I got a text from Merry at three-thirty this morning. Sounded like the party went late.”

My grin falters. “Holly and I didn’t go out after the beer garden. We headed back to the cottage.”

“Did you enjoy your first night of Mistletoe Mountain social life?”

Unbidden, the image of Holly’s eyes shining up at me, her lips parted, fills my mind.

“I did,” I choke out.

“So, can I help you find something in particular?”

“No, I’m just killing time. Holly’s out for a run and I’m on my own until you all head to the Christmas tree farm. She invited me to tag along. I hope that’s okay.”

“Of course! You’re gonna love it.” She pauses. “Did your family decorate a Christmas tree back in Florida?”

I laugh. “Fake trees all the way.”

“Oh, well then you’re really gonna love the Christmas tree farm.” Noelle laughs with delight. “In the meantime, I can show you around the library or press a volunteer into service, if you like. It’s really something.”

“I can see that,” I tell her. “I’ve been to a lot of libraries. I can already tell yours is a standout. But, I’m good to just wander on my own.”

Her cheeks flush with pride. “Thanks. Well, make sure you pop into our children’s wing. It’s one of a kind.”

“I will,” I promise.

She’s about to walk away when a thought occurs to me. “Do you have any law books?”

She wrinkles her forehead. “Are you researching your case? Really, Holly’s an excellent attorney. You don’t need to do that.”

“No, I just have a very specific question about the rules of professional conduct.”

Noelle blinks, and I can see her curiosity warring with professionalism. The librarian wins out, and she doesn’t ask for any details. Instead, she says, “There’s an alcove on the second floor in the back right corner that functions as the county law library. Once most people moved to online research, the bar association didn’t want to maintain a physical library anymore, so we adopted it for them. The case reporters may not all be up to date, but I know the rule books are. I can show you where it is.”

“I’ll find it,” I assure her.

And I do. I follow her directions to a quiet corner on the second floor where two built-in bookcases flank a tall window with comfortable reading chairs positioned to capture the natural light. I run my finger along the book spines until I reach a volume titled Vermont Rules of Court. I grab the book off the shelf, flip through it until I find the section labeled “Rules of Professional Conduct,” and sink into a chair to scan the mind- numbing legal verbiage. Rule 1.8 must be the one Holly’s hung up on. I read the section, then read it again more slowly.

I stand and return the book to its shelf, frowning in thought. Holly wasn’t exaggerating; starting a “sexual relationship” with a current client is explicitly forbidden. But the rule says nothing about what’s allowed after the representation ends. I file these details away and stretch, ready to explore the rest of the charming library.

I wander around for a while then make my way toward the reception desk. I’d spotted the director’s office behind it earlier and figure I can find Noelle in there. Instead, she’s sitting behind the desk with a box full of books spread out on the table. I recognize the titles instantly. She looks up as I approach, puts aside the copy of Fahrenheit 451 , and smiles expectantly.

“Well, what’d you think? Find everything you were looking for?”

“I did, and then I spent some time checking out the library. I wish there’d been a library like this when I was growing up. The makerspace is extremely cool. But that children’s wing is something else. There’s an impromptu puppet show going on, and some little guy is hustling people at the chessboard.”

She roars with laughter. “Brent Stillwater, the town chess prodigy,” she tells me. “They must be tourists because everybody around here knows better than to get into a game with Brent. He’s not playing for money again, is he?”

“Looked like candy canes.”

“Hmm, that’s marginally better, I guess.”

I point my chin at the books on the table. “How can people think reading is so dangerous?”

Her voice grows serious, “People fear ideas. They’re afraid of their children being exposed to different perspectives and questioning what they’ve been taught. It’s so sad.”

She picks up a book and brandishes it at me. “I mean, look at this. Have you read The Sign of the Olive and the Dove? It’s the first book in Jackie Samuel’s YA resistance dystopian series. She’s brilliant. It’s brilliant. But it’s been banned all over the place because it teaches kids to defy authority.” She shakes her head and sighs. “They plot to overthrow the government.”

This conversation hits a little too close for comfort, so I change the subject. “Last night, you said that you have a Bookmas event to run. What are you planning?”

“I wish I knew,” she says absently, still tapping the book cover. “Every year we do something literature-related to tie into the festivities. We’ve done Christmas classics, a book and a movie, a few different ‘twelve days of’ themes, but this year we only have one day on the calendar, so I need to make it count.”

I pull the calendar in question from my pocket and smooth it over the table. I point to a date two weeks in the future labeled “To Be Determined Book Event at the Library.” “This one?”

“That’s it,” she confirms.

Her eyes flick back to the books on the table. “I wonder,” she rubs her chin, “if there’s something we could do with these books to tie in to the importance of standing up to book bans.”

I snap my fingers. “Banned book bingo.”

A smile crosses her face. “Banned book bingo—I love it!”

“I can’t claim credit. A few different advocacy groups have done some version of it. But maybe there’s a way to make it holiday themed.”

She waves a hand. “Believe me, you can turn anything into a holiday theme in Mistletoe Mountain—the prizes, decorations, music will all carry the theme. Banned book bingo it is!”

“I’d be happy to help you with it,” I say. “Obviously, this is an issue I care about, and I have nothing but time. Plus you can give some of my books as prizes, too.”

“Oh, Jack, I welcome your help, for sure. But, you don’t need to donate books. I have a budget for this.”

“Please. I’m probably going to be gun-shy about sticking them in people’s libraries once I get my criminal matter cleared up.”

We’re chuckling at the absurdity of my criminal matter, when a teenager runs straight toward us, her headscarf streaming behind her.

“Noelle!” she pants, screeching to a halt in front of the reception desk.

Noelle’s eyebrows furrow. “Farah? What’s wrong?”

The girl takes a breath. “I was leading the preteen art project when Mrs. Swanson came stomping in and thrust these at me. She told me I have to hang them up.”

She passes a pile of flyers to Noelle. I lean over her shoulder, and we read them together. In neat letters, someone has written with a thick marker, “Citizens Upholding Normal Traditions!” with a hand-drawn pile of books with an X over them. Under the drawing, there’s a line listing the date, time, and place of the first meeting of “concerned citizens against inappropriate books.”

Noelle begins to giggle.

I shoot her a look. “What’s so funny?”

The giggle turns into full-blown laughter as she points to the flyer. “ C itizens U pholding N ormal T raditions!”

“Right, so?” Farah gives her a worried look.

“The first letter of each word is bold. Once you see it, you won’t be able to unsee it.”

“Oh! Oh, no!” Farah’s eyes go wide, and her hand flies up to cover her mouth.

“Oh, yes!” Noelle manages between cackles.

“I can’t put these up,” Farah says.

“Oh, we’re putting them up. Vicky’s right. The bulletin boards are designated for publicizing community events. As long as the event in question doesn’t violate our anti-harassment policy, we’re obligated to post the announcement.” She wipes a tear from her eye. “Do me a favor, though. Make sure you post these prominently around the tween and teen rooms.”

“Why?” Farah asks.

Noelle cuts me a sly look. “I want to make sure Vicky’s group gets the nickname it deserves. And I know I can count on the young people to do that.”

A reluctant giggle escapes from Farah’s mouth, and she clutches the stack of papers to her chest. “Okay, Noelle.”

We watch her leave, and then Noelle collapses into a fresh round of laughter. I smile, too, but I have an ominous feeling about this concerned citizen group, despite its oddly appropriate and hilarious name.