Лори Касс - Lending А Paw

After I’d found, applied for, and been awarded a grant that covered a majority of the costs, Stephen had said, “Even if it’s empty, that room isn’t big enough to house a bookmobile collection.” After I’d found a system of shelving that went floor to ceiling, Stephen had sighed. “Now, Minnie, please don’t take this the wrong way, but height is not one of your sterling qualities.” But I’d been ready for that objection and handed over a catalog of library ladders before he finished his sentence.

The room was high and stark and I loved every inch of it. A few weeks back I’d convinced the janitor—with the help of some fresh doughnuts—to install a tiny drop leaf desk for one of the bookmobile’s laptop computers. I puttered away the rest of Saturday morning, the afternoon, and half the evening, moving from desk to shelves to desk, comparing the main library’s top circulating items against what was checked out on the bookmobile, comparing the checkouts against the lists of top bookmobile books other librarians had sent me, poking around, researching, thinking, and poking some more.

Early on, I tried to call Kristen, but was dumped into her voice mail. I sat there, gripping my cell phone, surprised at the depth of my disappointment. Until that moment, I hadn’t realized how much I’d wanted to talk to my best friend. I left a short message to call and went back to work.

The huge breakfast I’d eaten lasted me until midafternoon, and I ignored the gnawing in my stomach until I got a headache. By the time I walked home, took some ibuprofen, and ate cold cereal for supper, I was tired enough to crawl into bed with a book and an Eddie. I drifted to sleep so fast that I didn’t have time to wonder why I’d worked so hard all day.

• • •

Sunday morning, I woke to darkness and rain dripping off the eaves of the houseboat. A morning made for sleeping in. I rolled over, vaguely heard an Eddie-squawk, and closed my eyes.

Bright sunlight in my face woke me. I squinted at the clock. “Half past ten?” I grabbed the clock and pulled it closer. Sure enough, most of the morning was gone. By the time I was showered, dressed, and full of another bowl of cereal, the sky was so blue it was hard to believe it had been pouring rain three hours earlier.

My left-hand neighbor, Louisa Axford, nodded at me as I came out on deck. “Rain before seven, done by eleven,” she said from the comfort of her chaise lounge. “You must be busy up there at your library. I haven’t seen you in days, seems like.”

“Friday was the first bookmobile run.”

“That’s right.” She smiled. Everybody did when you mentioned the bookmobile. “Shakedown cruise. How did it go? Any problems?”

And to think I’d ever bemoaned the fact that people didn’t read the local newspaper. “The bookmobile ran fine,” I said. “No scratches, no dings, no generator issues, no engine problems.”

“Good for you.” She pushed back a strand of her long, gloriously white hair. Louisa and her husband, Ted, had owned some sort of manufacturing business downstate before they sold it and retired. Their houseboat was bigger and newer than mine, but not by much. I’d never figured out exactly what the business had been, but they affectionately referred to it as the cash cow. It had taken me some time to realize that they could have afforded Stan Larabee’s aerie. Could have afforded it, but didn’t want it. They preferred to travel, and did, at great length from September through May, all over the world. “Stop on by for a drink later on,” she said, “and we’ll celebrate.”

“I will, thanks.”

What Louisa and Ted didn’t do, however, was read. When I first met them and learned of their lifestyle, I’d assumed they were readers. All those airport waits, all those hotels. Perfect for lots of reading. But they’d smiled and demurred when I’d recommended Lee Child’s books. “No, thanks, hon. We’re not readers.”

I’d blinked. Not readers? They were smart and funny and had plenty of time—how could they not want to read? In spite of this, we got along fine as neighbors, to the point where we’d exchanged front-door keys, because you never knew what could happen. My right-hand neighbors, though . . .

“Have you seen the Olsons?” I asked.

Louisa laughed. “Have you seen the calendar?”

“I know they hardly ever come up until the end of June, but—”

“Try never.” Louisa picked up a glass of ice water. A wedge of lemon was perched prettily on its rim. “In the ten years we’ve owned this boat, they’ve never once been up before the Fourth. And am I complaining? No, I am not. Gunnar Olson is a horrible excuse for a human being and I will be forever grateful to you for occupying that boat slip. We see far too much of him, otherwise.”

She made a face. “Before you leased that slip, he made our lives miserable. Did I tell you he complained to the city that our boat’s engine violated the noise ordinance? And every time my Ted went on deck to smoke his pipe, Gunnar made sure to stand on his deck and make a show of coughing and wheezing. And that fuss he made over Holton’s dog, remember?” She cast a malevolent glance Olson-ward. “The man is a menace. Happily, he bothers you these days instead of us.” She toasted me with her water. “Thank you, dear. Thank you, thank you.”

Remember the low price of your boat slip, I told myself. Cheap is good. And Gunnar wasn’t up north all that often. “But if the Olsons haven’t been up, then . . .” I frowned.

“Then what, hon?”

“Nothing.” The boat lights I’d thought I’d seen on Friday night must have been the product of my weary and troubled mind.

Not that I wanted to see the Olsons. Mrs. wasn’t so bad, as far as I could tell from what little I saw of her. Mr., though, was as bad as Louisa said. There’d been a reason the lease for my boat slip was so cheap; I just hadn’t known what it was until Gunnar Olson showed up. Full of bluster and condescension, he’d spent his sixty years being sure that his opinions were the correct ones.

The day Gunnar berated me for not coiling my ropes properly—“They’re lines, little miss, lines !”—I went to talk to Chris Ballou, the marina’s second-generation owner, manager, maintenance guy, and boat repair guy.

He’d grinned, his teeth bright white against his sun-worn skin. “Piece of work, ain’t he? But you can handle him, Min. That’s why I let you take that slip.”

I’d looked at him sourly. “And why you leased it to me at a discount? You could have warned me.”

“And ruin the surprise?” He’d laughed and gone away whistling.

Now Louisa tipped her ice water in my direction. “Mr. Ballou was here earlier, looking like he was ready to burst. Said he needed to talk to you.” She took a sip and made a face. “Isn’t it five o’clock yet?”

“Did Chris say what he wanted?” Maybe he’d finally tracked down a used bilge pump for me. Chris was many things, but speedy wasn’t one of them. My boat’s bilge pump had been wonky since the end of last summer and I’d rather have the thing replaced cheaply before it died than expensively after the fact.

Louisa shook her head and turned her face up to the sun, closing her eyes. “Get some SPF fifty on, young lady, or you’ll end up like me, wrinkled as an old prune.”

“Good idea,” I said, and went to hunt down Chris. I found him behind the counter in the marina’s dusty parts shop, sitting in an ancient canvas director’s chair, his feet up on an equally ancient cardboard box. He was deep in a conversation about fishing lures with Rafe Niswander, a mutual friend and neighbor from up the road, and a boat owner who went by the name Skeeter. Whether that was a nickname or his given name I had no idea and had never asked. Some questions are best left unanswered.