I’d moved Stephen’s notes on employee handbook revisions from one side of my desk to the other. I’d tidied up the books sent to the library for donation purposes and for which thank-you letters should be sent. I’d scrawled out a short list of possible Thessie Replacements, made a few phone calls, and subsequently had to draw a line through each of the names.
So, how much had I accomplished that morning? Basically nothing. Clearly, what I needed was a hefty dose of caffeine.
My empty Association of Bookmobile and Outreach Services mug and I made our way to the break room, which was also empty. Odd, for noon, but I reminded myself that I wasn’t there to socialize. No, indeedy, I was there for fluid replenishment and to stretch my legs.
Still, I took my time, sipping at my coffee until it was half-gone, then filling the mug again slowly. I watched the dark liquid stream down, watching its smooth texture, thinking about the long history of coffee, wondering how far these particular beans had traveled, guessing that they’d come much farther than I’d ever gone and—
“Hey.”
My arm jerked, coffee spilled, and a small brown puddle spread itself across the counter. “Hey, Josh.” I put the carafe back on the burner and yanked a paper towel out of the holder. “How was your weekend?”
I heard a male grunt followed by the whir of a dollar bill being sucked into the soda machine followed by the thunk of a can dropping out of the machine. I tossed the sodden paper towel into the garbage and got out a fresh one.
“That good, huh?” I asked Josh. “I thought it was the big second date with Megan. Weren’t you going up to the Side Door?” The Side Door Saloon in Petoskey, with its multiple televisions, was a hot spot for the sports-minded. It had excellent food, too, but I wasn’t sure Josh cared much about that.
Megan was a neighbor of Holly’s, and ever since Megan had stopped by to talk to Holly about babysitting Holly’s children, Josh was smitten. He’d been casting goo-goo eyes at her for months, and we’d all cheered when he finally found the gumption to ask her out.
Josh shoved the can of diet soda into an outside pocket of his baggy pants and whirred another dollar into the machine.
I finished cleaning the counter and turned to face Josh. “Are you okay?”
The second soda can dropped down. He picked it up, popped the seal, and slugged down half the contents. He wiped his mouth with the back of his hand. “We got talking about baseball.”
Josh was a big football fan, but he was a huge baseball fan. Huge with a capital H, U, G, and E. He cared about things like spring training and openly pitied anyone who didn’t understand the infield fly rule. He could recite baseball statistics from before he was born and was too much of a purist to consider putting together a baseball fantasy league.
“You know,” I said, “it’s okay if she doesn’t like baseball. Some really smart, funny, and good-looking people don’t know much about the sport.” I tossed my hair back, but he wasn’t catching on. “Maybe you could teach her. Maybe—”
“She likes baseball just fine.” Josh upended the soda can, tapped its rim against his lower teeth, then tossed the empty can into the box of returnables.
“Well, that’s good, isn’t it?” I tried to imagine a scenario in which having a baseball-fan girlfriend would upset Josh. Remembered one of his rants and dredged up a comment. “She’s not a fan of the designated hitter rule, is she?”
“She’s a White Sox fan,” he snapped.
I almost choked on the coffee I’d been swallowing. Josh was a true-blue die-hard Detroit Tigers fan. Listening to him talk about his team often brought to mind the reality that the term “fan” was short for “fanatic.”
“Her parents are from Chicago.” He shoved his hand into his pants pocket and extracted another dollar bill. “She said going to the old Comiskey Park is one of her earliest memories.”
I watched him jab the dollar into the machine and made a mental note to call the vending guy for an early refill. “Well,” I said lamely, “at least she’s a baseball fan.”
He pounded the machine’s plastic button with his fist. “The White Sox,” he muttered. “I can’t believe it.”
I couldn’t believe he was so upset over what was essentially just a game, but I also knew better than to say so. Of course, I’d once broken up with a boyfriend after a heated debate about the usefulness of a public library system in the age of the Internet, but that was much different.
Since Josh was obviously determined to wallow in his bad mood, and I wasn’t quite ready to go back to work, I wandered out of the break room with the intention of chatting with Donna, this morning’s front desk clerk.
I was barely halfway there when Stephen barked out my name. “Minnie!”
Through a combination of sheer luck and exquisite hand-eye coordination that no one except me would ever appreciate, I did not spill the contents of my coffee mug. I pasted on a polite smile and turned to face my boss. “Good morning, Stephen. How’s the report progressing?”
One of Stephen’s pet projects was a multipage saga presented to the library board on a quarterly basis. He would have loved to present one at every monthly board meeting, but they’d kindly told him that his time was valuable and could be better spent directing the library, and that a quarterly report was fine. Annual might be even better.
“The report is exactly why I’m down here.” Stephen adjusted his tie, today a knit version. “I’ve come to the section regarding any difficulties in the library and I need to know that you have the situation in hand.”
I looked at the mug I was holding. No, that couldn’t be what he was talking about. Or was it? Though he hadn’t laid down a forbidding law, Stephen did frown on liquids anywhere except in the break room. The transportation of a spillable item from coffeepot to an individual office was tolerated, but only because no tragedy had yet occurred. If anyone, especially anyone whose name started with the letters Minnie, ever had an accidental spill on library-owned material, a new policy would be instituted at eighty words per minute and posted on walls everywhere. “Um…”
“Minnie,” he said sharply. “Please tell me that you remember our conversation regarding a particular library patron.”
“Of course I do.” I just wasn’t sure what to do about it.
My thoughts must have leaked onto my face, because Stephen held up his index finger. “Two weeks, Minnie.” The words came out almost as a growl. “I want to see progress within two weeks. If there is none, the library board will be apprised of the situation.”
I watched him stride down the hallway, his pant legs swooshing lightly against each other. Only when he started up the stairs and left my field of vision did I let out the sigh that had been building inside me.
Bleah. Where on earth was I going to find the time to solve the Mitchell Koyne Conundrum? “Almost sounds like a Nancy Drew title,” I murmured, which amused me immensely. All I needed was a roadster, a housekeeper, an attorney father, and a couple of good friends and I’d be all set.
What color was that roadster? I frowned, trying to remember. Blue? No, it was red. Or was it—
There was a thump on my shoulder. “Ah!” My shriek filled the echoing hallway and my backward leap flung coffee all over the tile floor.
“Good jump,” Mitchell said, nodding approvingly. “Your vertical must have been six inches.”
I made an ineffectual attempt to brush coffee drips off my jacket sleeve. “You could have said something instead of scaring me like that.” How such a big man could have moved so silently was another mystery for Ms. Drew.
“I did,” he said in a hurt voice. “Honest, I did, Minnie.”
Which was undoubtedly the truth as he knew it, because Mitchell had a complete inability to see the world from anyone else’s point of view. Of course, in many ways this made his life far simpler than mine, which didn’t sound bad right now. “Sorry,” I said. “What can I do for you, Mitchell?”