Holly Jacobs - A Valley Ridge Christmas

Maeve studied him carefully. “So, what you’re saying is, you live under a rock when you’re not filling in for your uncle.”

“Can anyone join? I could check out a copy and read it.” He wasn’t sure why he said that. He read. But his tastes leaned toward nonfiction. Biographies lately.

“Sorry. The library’s copies are all signed out. The school bought copies for the students.” She paused and looked as if she was trying to decide something. “But you can borrow my personal copy if you want.”

“You’re sure it’s okay if I borrow it and join your book club?” That seemed highly unlikely as she continued to look at him with an expression somewhere between exasperation and annoyance.

“The book club is open to all Valley Ridge residents,” was her prim response. “You might be a temporary resident, but you qualify.”

“Maeve,” the old guy hollered again.

“I really have to go. If you want the book, let me know. You can pick it up at my house after I’ve closed here, or I can drop it off at the store tomorrow.”

She rushed back to her circle, her hair bobbing as she crossed the room. She smiled at something the old man said.

Aaron walked over to the bookshelves, but he couldn’t help taking note of the people who made up the book club. There were a wide range of ages, male and female. There had to be about twenty people crammed into the limited space.

After a few minutes, Maeve stood. “I want to thank everyone for being here tonight. Don’t forget, we’ll still have our regular meeting in January to discuss The Hobbit, but instead of a December meeting, we’ll have our Riddlefest next week before the holiday activities begin in earnest. We’re hoping to get a lot of young people from the school joining us.”

She stopped and spoke to a few individuals as she made her way to the counter and began checking out books. A man with three kids in tow—a boy and two girls—put a large number of books on the counter. “Stamp ’em, Miss Maeve, stamp ’em,” the youngest girl commanded.

Maeve pulled out an old library stamp and thumped it against the card at the back of each book. It made a satisfying ka-thunk. Aaron had never given it any thought before, but he liked the sound.

He remembered his once-a-week visits to the school library where the librarian had used the same kind of date stamp. It was a nostalgic sound and reminded him of those carefree days.

“Last one’s for you, Mica,” Maeve said, passing the stamp to the little girl. The boy picked her up and held her while she stamped the card with far more energy than required.

“See you next week,” Maeve said to the family.

Slowly, the line of people shrank. Maeve spent a long time talking to a tall man Aaron didn’t recognize. He’d visited his uncle on occasion and knew a few people here in town, but not this guy.

When the man smiled and nodded, Maeve walked around the counter and gave him an enthusiastic hug.

Aaron realized he’d been staring at Maeve rather than looking at books, so he grabbed the closest book to him and took it to her.

Maeve asked for all his pertinent information, including an email address. “I’ll give you a shout if someone else asks for this title, but I think you’re safe keeping it as long as you need to. I don’t get a lot of requests for Julia Child. Are you cooking for someone special?”

Aaron glanced down and realized he had picked up a cookbook. A very old cookbook. “No. No one special.”

Maeve nodded and looked at him expectantly. “Was there anything else?”

“Yes. If you meant what you said earlier, can I borrow your copy of The Hobbit?” he asked.

“I’m sure you can, but you also may,” she responded with a grin.

“Funny,” he said, which made her smile wider. “I’m not known for my social skills, but my mother taught me better than that.”

“Give me a minute to turn out all the lights and make sure everything’s locked,” Maeve said.

He waited at the door as Maeve walked through the library.

A few minutes went by before she grabbed a coat from behind the counter, slipped it on and joined him. “I’m only next door.”

After Maeve switched off the sign in the window, and locked the door behind them, she and Aaron carefully made it through the snow-covered parking lot and past the RV to her door. His sneakers had begun to dry out in the library, but were now soaked again.

Maeve paused for a mere second and said, “You might as well come in.”

They entered a tiny mudroom, and when she opened the second door, they walked into a small kitchen. There was a table, a woodstove and cabinets that looked as if they were original to the house, a circa 1960s laminate counter and basic white appliances that seemed ancient.

There were glowing embers behind the glass in the door of the stove. She flipped on a light and said, “It will only take me a moment.”

She went through the archway and turned on another light, this time illuminating a cozy living room. A living room where every wall was in actuality a floor-to-ceiling bookshelf. The only breaks in the shelves were for doors and windows. And each shelf was bursting with books. It was easy to see that there were double rows of books on many of them.

“Wow,” he said.

She gave him her first genuine smile of the night. “I’m out of room again. My stepfather is giving me another wall of shelves for Christmas.”

There were no more walls available anywhere that he could see. Even in the kitchen, the walls were lined with cabinets. “Where will you put them?”

“My bedroom. Two of the walls are slanted from the roof line, but there are flat walls on either side. He’s building the shelf around the windows and my bed. I can’t wait.”

“What will you do for shelves after you fill those?” he asked because he was absolutely sure she’d fill them, too.

Maeve dragged the footstool from in front of the rocker over to the shelf that framed the front door and climbed up on it. She pulled out a large book. When she came closer, he could see that it was green leather and in a slipcase. “When I run out of shelves, I’ll think of something else.”

“You could start reading ebooks,” he said.

He waited for her to laugh at the suggestion, as he recognized the expensive book in his hand.

But she didn’t laugh. Instead, she sighed. “I already read ebooks. But my first love will always be printed books. A bound book is a work of art in itself. Speaking of which, hang on while I get a bag for you. I’d rather this one didn’t get waterlogged if it starts to snow or sleet again.”

The slipcase of the green leather book read The Hobbit and the spine was embossed with gold and red lines and decorative squiggles. “I can’t borrow this. I thought you were offering me a paperback. You’re right. A book like this is a work of art.”

She reached out and ran a finger over the leather binding, obviously savoring the feel. “I know. I found it while I was browsing through the bookstore when I was in college. I didn’t have any money to spare. I took a job as a housekeeper full-time at a hotel, did work study on campus and still had classes. No time, no money. I didn’t want this book, I needed it. I ate peanut butter and crackers for weeks to save enough money to pay for it. But it was worth it. What a wonderful way to read the book the first time round. Don’t get me wrong, I have plenty of paperbacks, but there’s something about a leather-bound book. The heft of it. The smell. There’s even the sound. That creak as you open the cover. It tells you that the book was stitched together, not simply glued. A book like this is meant to be enjoyed. Savored even.”

“I’ll be very careful with it.”