Lakeshore Christmas (10 page)

A
fter Daisy and her little boy left, Maureen was covered in
essence de bébé,
from holding Charlie in her lap. The scent of tearless shampoo and the powdery smell of disposable diapers lingered in her sweater and skirt.

Maureen didn’t mind. She loved babies, probably more than anyone suspected. That was because no one really knew Maureen; she didn’t let them into the locked-up past she never talked about. It wasn’t a calculated move on her part, just the way she was. And unlike some people around town, she didn’t regard Daisy as someone to be pitied or scorned. Maureen had heard the whispers. And the criticisms spoken aloud. What a shame, some people said, such a bright girl from a good family got herself in trouble like that. She made a life-changing choice before she even had a life.

Maureen didn’t see it that way at all. To her, it looked as if Daisy was doing quite all right. There were moments when Maureen found herself envying women like Daisy, even though life as a single mom couldn’t be easy. She knew that there were some unwritten categories for unmarried women. A woman in her twenties
was simply known as single. Unattached. There was no stigma; people in their twenties were
expected
to be single and unattached. It was interesting, she mused, the way attitudes about dating shifted depending on a person’s age. People who were in their twenties, and single, were regarded as normal. However, this was understood to be a temporary state. Maureen was still in her twenties. For a few more months, anyway.

Singles in their thirties were regarded as quirky, but in a good way, and their friends often felt obliged to fix them up. Pressure mounted to get married, or at least to be part of a couple. If a woman stayed single in her thirties, people started to worry about her. Maureen was not looking forward to this phase.

Nor did she look forward to her forties. Once a person hit her forties, she came under suspicion. Not that there was anything wrong with being forty, but singles in their forties were categorized either as spinsters or closeted gays. Fifty-something singles inspired pity—had life passed her by?—but if you could make it to your sixties and still be single, you were suddenly respected again, regarded as independent and enjoying life’s freedom. You didn’t have a boring spouse or bitter ex, or boomeranging adult children. You simply had your own life on your own terms, and probably a clutch of adoring nieces and nephews. There was always an element of pity, though; a never-married woman was all alone except maybe for her cats.

Men operated under a different set of rules. Nobody seemed bothered by a single guy at any age. If you were George Clooney, you got a free pass. If you were Eddie Haven… Maureen reeled in the errant thought.

In addition to a stack of picture books, Daisy had selected some self-help titles on making a relationship work.
Maureen hadn’t commented or judged, of course, and she tried not to speculate. Her patrons’ privacy was of tantamount importance to her. Yet she admired Daisy’s determination. In many ways, self-help was one of the most important sections of the library. Even the name—
self-help
—implied its importance. The entire library was about people helping themselves, improving their lives, striving to get better. Yet another reason the library closure was so unthinkable.

One of her favorite volunteers was currently emptying the return bin. Maureen went over to lend her a hand. “How are you this evening, Mrs. Carminucci?” she asked the older lady. Penelope Carminucci ran an old-school boardinghouse called Fairfield House, yet she always managed to give the library a few hours of her time. “Started your shopping yet?”

“Goodness, no,” Mrs. Carminucci declared. “I haven’t even begun to think about the holidays just yet. I’ll probably go into panic mode a week before. That’s my usual routine. How about yourself?”

Maureen added some books to the return cart, a series of thrillers and a book on empowerment through yoga. “I think about Christmas all the time,” she said, scanning a book of cookie recipes.

Mrs. Carminucci paused, touched her arm. “I’m so sorry about the library, Miss Davenport. We’re all just devastated.”

“Thanks.” Maureen hadn’t realized she was wearing her feelings on her sleeve.

“I have half a mind to donate my entire shopping budget to the cause,” Mrs. Carminucci said.

“I wish more people thought the way you do.”

“What way?” asked the next patron, stepping up to the desk.

“Hey, you guys,” Maureen said, her face lighting with a smile at the sight of her sister Renée, and Renée’s three kids.

“Aunt Maureen! Hi, Aunt Maureen!” crowed Wendy, her five-year-old niece.

“Hush,” Renée cautioned. “Remember your inside voice.”

“Hi, Aunt Maureen,” Wendy said in a stage whisper.

“Hi, yourself,” Maureen whispered. “Hi, John, hi, Michael. How are the best niece and nephews in the world?”

“We’re good,” her nephews—six-year-old twin boys—said solemnly, without looking up from their Matchbook cars, currently making their way along the edge of the counter.

“I got a book about angels, see?” Wendy showed off an oversize picture book. “I saw an angel in the reading room.”

“You did? That’s fantastic.” Maureen exchanged a glance with her sister, who was rummaging in her purse for her library card. “How did you know it was an angel?”

Wendy shrugged. “Eyelashes.” She flipped open the book to a close-up illustration of a serene face with enormous eyes, beautifully fringed with perfect lashes. So cheesy, Maureen thought. Like a Maybelline ad.

“Did you talk to the angel?” she asked, stamping the pocket of the picture book with the date.

“Yep.” Wendy grabbed the book and stampeded for the exit. “I talk to everybody.”

“What can I say, I have a kid who sees angels.” Renée checked out car books—what else?—for the boys and one on time management for herself.

“She is a big fat liar,” Michael declared.

“Hush.” Renée gave him a nudge. “If your sister says she saw an angel, then she did.”

“I want to see the angel,” John said.

“Go ask your sister,” Renée said. She grinned at Maureen. “So…touched by an angel, or touched in the head? You decide.”

“Are you kidding? I have a niece who sees angels. You think I want to mess with that?”

“Thanks, Maureen.” Renée put away her library card. “See you at Dad and Hannah’s on Sunday?”

“Of course.” Sunday dinner with the family was a routine that almost never varied. It expanded and contracted to include various family members and guests who happened to be around. Sunday afternoons had always been a special, quiet time, away from the bustle of work and school. There were no elaborate productions; the Davenports simply took time to hang out together. Depending on the weather, they might take a long walk, play with the kids, organize a game of touch football or organize a Scrabble tournament. Then everyone pitched in to fix an early dinner. The only rule was that no one was allowed to think or talk about work or school during the time they spent together. For most of the Davenports, this made it the most cherished time of the week. Maureen was looking forward to not thinking about the library disaster, at least for an afternoon.

At the end of each business day, the library closed in the same fashion. Five minutes prior to closing, the lights blinked to signal to people to finish up what they were doing—print their school papers, check out their books, finish up their computer games, fold away newspapers and magazines.

Maureen liked being around at closing time. There was a sense of control in supervising the orderly exodus and
then surveying the building one last time at the end of the day. She and the volunteers finished up and bid the last of the patrons good-night, even though it was hardly night. It was a six o’clock closing today. Maureen would have preferred that the facility stay open much later, but the budget wouldn’t allow it, and hadn’t for a long time. She should have seen the closure coming, but hadn’t wanted to.

Feeling a press of anxiety on her shoulders, she thought about taking one of those heavy-duty headache pills her doctor had prescribed long ago. She suffered from infrequent but intense migraines, and they tended to come over her when she was fretful and stressed.

First she needed to lock up for the day. She had her keys in hand when a shadow loomed behind her.

“Jabez! I didn’t realize someone was still here,” she said, standing aside to let the stray patron pass.

“Sorry. I guess the time got away from me. I kind of got lost in something, in the reading room.”

“Did you need to check something out?” she offered, unconsciously rubbing her temple.

“No,” he said, “but thank you.” He paused. “How are you, Miss Davenport?”

“Bit of a headache, but I’ll be all right. Nice of you to ask. How is Avalon treating you?”

“Just fine,” he assured her. “See you around.” He offered a nod of farewell as he passed through the door. He had such a pleasant face—olive-toned skin and the most enormous eyes, fringed by dark lashes.

“Good-night,” said Maureen, watching after him thoughtfully as he took off into the twilight. He was barely adequately dressed for the weather, in an army surplus jacket and high-top canvas sneakers. He seemed perfectly comfortable though, strolling at an unhurried pace.

“Hey, you dropped something,” she called, stooping to pick up some object. It was a key on a small bit of string.

He returned and took the key. His hand was surprisingly warm as it brushed against hers. “Great, thanks,” he said, then headed off into the night.

Maureen went to her desk and opened the drawer, grabbing the bottle of pills. She hesitated before opening it. Funny, the gathering storm clouds of the headache had disappeared. Grateful, she put away the pills and straightened up her desk. The space was little more than a work cubicle. In her dreams, she had a proper office, maybe an airy space high up in the building, where the light flooded in and she could see down into the atrium as well as across the grounds outside. She’d designed that office over and over again in her head. Now she wished she’d spent the time and energy doing something else.

“Enough’s enough,” she muttered under her breath. “It’s not as if somebody died.” Yet she recognized the feeling of mourn ing that made her heart ache. “Think of something else,” she commanded herself. “I could spend my pension money on a really decadent vacation. Yes, a vacation, that’s just the thing.”

She hadn’t really gone anywhere since her college semester abroad, which she now thought of as a disaster abroad. She needed to go someplace, to replace the harsh memories with fresh, pleasant ones. Yes, that was what she’d do, right after the first of the year. She’d find a place where she could lie on a white sand beach beneath a nodding palm tree. Basking in a warm breeze, she would while away the hours, reading big, juicy novels and ordering drinks with tiny paper umbrellas in them.
Yes.

“You will not,” she fussed, knowing she’d probably chicken out. She rationalized her fear the way she always
did—what good was a vacation if it meant leaving her family behind? How could she have a good time all by herself? How could she rationalize squandering money when she was unemployed? She knew she’d spend the whole time wishing her family could be with her, phoning them and writing e-mails. That was no way to spend a vacation.

She did a final lockup and headed for her car. As she was crossing the parking lot, a dark sedan swung in beside her. A man got out, his long, elegant overcoat swirling on the wind as he approached her. “Miss Davenport?”

“Hello, Mr. Byrne. I’m afraid the library is closed for the day.”

“So I see,” he said. For a moment, his attention seemed caught by a retreating figure, halfway down the block, walking with shoulders hunched against the cold. “Who was that?” he asked.

“A boy named Jabez Cantor. He’s new around here.”

Mr. Byrne frowned. “He struck me as familiar….” Then he shook his head slightly. “No matter. I came to speak to you. Do you have a moment?”

She wondered what he could possibly want from her or what she might say to him, and still remain civil. Gee, I’m a little busy now, she might say, but once you sell the town library down the river, I’ll have nothing but time on my hands. “I was just leaving for the day,” she said, hedging.

“I won’t keep you long,” he said. “It’s about the library.”

“Has something changed?” She allowed herself to feel a flutter of hope.

“I’m told you’re in charge of this year’s Christmas pageant.”

She nodded, startled. What did that have to do with anything?

“My son recently moved to Avalon with his wife and son. This pleased Mrs. Byrne and me immensely, because we only have the one son, and one grandson—Cecil. He goes to the high school. Perhaps you’ve met him?” He softened when he spoke of his family.

“Perhaps. Most of the high school students are regulars at the library.” She couldn’t help but add, “It’s a key part of their education.”

He didn’t take the bait. “I’ll be as frank as you seem to be, Miss Davenport. Cecil has been having trouble settling in at school. He hasn’t quite found his place. But he’s a talented performer. I believe if he’s given the lead role in the pageant, it will help with his self-confidence. Give him a chance to make some friends.”

Maureen had to break it to him—performing in plays and pageants was not exactly a way for a boy to prove his coolness in high school. “Believe me, sir, giving him the lead part is not going to rock his world,” she said, remembering her own high school days. She had been active in drama, something that surprised people who hadn’t known her back then. She’d left her dramatic self behind long ago.

“I think I know my own grandson,” said the older man.

“Then I hope he’ll come to the auditions.”

“Oh, there’s no question of that. He’ll be there.”

“Very good.” She moved toward her car, feeling mystified by the encounter. “Er, good night, Mr. Byrne.”

“We understand each other, then. Cecil will play the lead role.”

She stopped, turned back to him. “I can’t say at this point. The role will go to the student who can do the best job.”