Page 29 of Lightning in a Mason Jar
To reveal their character. Or discover red flags.
Russell was all character and charisma.
Had I—out of necessity—waited too long?
Then a slow smile spread across his face. “Yes, I would very much like to join you on a picnic. Under one condition.”
“What would that be?” I asked, enjoying the new flirty nature to our exchange.
“Let me pick you up.”
My breath hitched. This was it. Something I’d fantasized about but barely dared dream could happen.
“It’s a deal.” I extended my hand and he clasped it in his, his calloused palm warm against my own work-roughened hands. Seven years of anticipation flowed between us, back and forth. Exciting, and frightening as well after all I’d been through. But I wanted to try. With him. Later, I would figure out what that might look like. I’d learned these past years about caution. Finally, I was ready to take a risk. “Saturday at one o’clock.”
His smile widened. “It’s a date.”
2025
Bailey Rae stifled a yawn, and it wasn’t even suppertime.
Radio blasting, she steered her pickup into the lot behind the library, where staff parked. The habit had begun when Winnie brought Bailey Rae with her, and it seemed natural to continue even when driving on her own. No one questioned.
She’d just picked up her last paycheck from the Fill ’Er Up Café while Gia and Cricket attended story hour at the library under the combined watchful eyes of Thea and June. Soon, Bailey Rae would be her own boss. She would have control over her life, thanks once again to Winnie and Russell.
But first, she needed to tie up loose ends with Gia and Cricket, plus finish her market days.
Another yawn caught her by surprise, her jaw popping at the stretch. Sleep had been tough to come by even after the cops finally arrived and came to the same conclusion as Martin. Someone had been snooping around the yard, but no way to tell who. Gia’s husband? A Peeping Tom? Or even the missing fisherman ... except he wouldn’t have a four-wheeler.
The gravel crunched as she crossed the lot, then climbed the concrete steps, a smaller staircase than the sprawling one out front made to accommodate larger groups entering and exiting, such as class field trips. Gripping the metal railing, she could almost imagine she held Winnie’s hand again, coming to story time led by Libby while Winnie volunteered reshelving books.
The place felt like a second home. She’d spent countless hours deep in one of the fat beanbag chairs, escaping between the pages. Winnie would say that art had a transformative power that couldn’t be found anywhere else.
Well, her aunt had said it in easier-to-understand language back then. But coming from such a nuts-and-bolts, practical person, it surprised Bailey Rae enough to make her sit up and take notice.
A familiar voice drifted past the rows of shelves, Libby leading story time, thanks to the “chauffeuring” help of June and Thea. Libby might not always remember her own name, but she could still read books to children. The doctor had told them Alzheimer’s looked different for each person diagnosed. He had a patient who no longer recognized any of his family members but could keep track of sports scores.
Very little had changed at the library over the years. The scarred tables had been refinished. The card catalog had been traded out for a long line of computers, each with its own privacy cubby. Above the fireplace, a framed and matted fourteen-by-eighteen photo of Russell’s grandmother Annette stared down at them with eyes so like Russell’s.
Careful not to distract, Bailey Rae allowed herself a moment to breathe and tugged a chair from one of those cubbies.
As Libby continued to readThe Three Billy Goats Gruff, she drew interactive responses from her young audience filling the rug.
“Who’s that stomp, stomp, stomping across my bridge?”
Tiny feet hammered the floor.
Most of the faces were familiar but welcoming, since it seemed there was often someone’s cousin, brother, or sister visiting. Except for the police officer sitting by the front door thumbing through aField & Stream.
Smack dab in the center, Gia sat cross-legged with her arms wrapped around her daughter in her lap. Cricket had stayed even closer to her mother since the brief stint with child services while her mother was in the hospital.
This evening, Martin would be picking her up to ride along when taking Gia and Cricket to a new shelter. One with tighter security. So far, they hadn’t been able to persuade Gia to file a police report. She insisted that it wouldn’t work and if her husband found her, he would only be angrier.
No doubt, the woman spoke out of fear for her life and her child’s.
Bailey Rae didn’t remember her own mother being that terrified—or that concerned for her child’s well-being. Yvonne had rarely grieved for the last guy, always focused on the next man and his potential drug stash.
Bailey Rae shoved the memories aside like reshelving a one-star book she’d finished and hoped never to read again.
