Checked Out

Chapter One-2

I snorted. “If I wanted to see the cat at all, I’d have to keep it here. You know I’m here practically daily and on weekends. A cat would be sorely neglected at my house.”

Wilson sighed. “All right. So here’s the game plan. We’ll let the vet have the cats. We’ll take the cats back here after the vet is done and post pictures to try to find them homes.”

I reached out and stroked the orange cat. “Perfect. And I’ll try to screen the patrons who display interest, since I know most of them pretty well.”

Wilson stood up, brushing the cat fur off his suit slacks and looking relieved. “That’s settled, then. Hopefully, we can find money in the budget to pay the vet.”

One of the other librarians opened the lounge door and introduced the vet, who was carrying two cat carriers. Wilson and I quickly introduced ourselves and I gestured to the tabby and said, “That’s the one who seems injured.”

The vet gently examined her and nodded. “Her leg is broken, for sure. I’m going to need to take her back to the office and set it.” She knelt by the orange cat and rubbed and talked to him as she examined him next. “This guy looks to be in perfect shape, however. He’s young and strong. In fact, if I had to guess, I’d say the injured cat is probably his mother.”

I felt myself choking up and blinked impatiently a few times. There was something about animals that always got to me. “He wouldn’t leave her. I didn’t even see the tabby at first and the orange cat was determined to stay put until we helped her.”

The vet straightened up and said, “He sounds like a really special cat. I’m going to take him with me, too. I’ll want to check both cats for microchips and give them their shots. And fix them, of course, too, if they haven’t been spayed and neutered.”

Wilson winced a little as if wondering what the bill for all of the vet care might be.

“That’s perfect. Thanks so much.” I paused. “The two cats seem really close to each other. Is it all right to separate them?”

The vet said, “I think that may just be the circumstances in which they found themselves. Usually kittens are separated from their mom at about ten to twelve weeks old. The orange cat is far older . . . likely one year old. If it makes you nervous, you could always suggest a reunion later and see how it goes. And also monitor how the cats behave when they’re apart from each other.”

“Good ideas,” I said. “Thanks. I don’t want to create any problems for these sweeties.”

The vet smiled at me. “That’s no problem at all. And no charge for any of this—I’m just grateful you went beyond the call of duty and were able to rescue these cats.”

Now Wilson was beaming with relief at the vet, which made me smile, myself.

“All in a day’s work for a librarian,” I quipped. And I wasn’t stretching the truth. You never did know what was going to happen at the library. Except most of the time the adventures revolved around a jammed copy machine and a botched storytime.

“I’ll bring the orange cat back here tomorrow,” said the vet as she carefully put the cats into the crates. “Possibly the tabby, too. I’ll have to see how she does.”

“So soon?” I asked, wrinkling my brows. It seemed like major surgery to me, but then I hear of people getting pacemakers in outpatient, so what do I know?

“He’ll be fine and will even have slept off the anesthesia by then. The tabby might be well, too. They’ll just need to stay quiet. I have a feeling that won’t be a problem here,” she added with a twinkle in her eye.

Wilson snorted. “When was the last time you were in a library?” he asked. “This place is a zoo most days. Even without a couple of cats.”

The vet frowned. “Would you prefer if I kept them at the office and tried to find an owner for them there? Or perhaps just brought the orange cat back here? Would that make things easier?”

Wilson said, “Why don’t you bring the tabby back here as a temporary measure? Perhaps we can try finding out if these cats have an owner. Worst case scenario, I’ll see if one of our patrons might be able to give her a good home.”

“Sounds good,” said the vet. “And, again, I’ll waive the charges for their care.”

Wilson put a hand up to his forehead as if it had started aching.

“I’ll take a couple of pictures of the cats and post them on the bulletin boards here to see if anyone knows who they might belong to,” I said.

Wilson made a face. “Perhaps that would have been better when they were snuggled into the beach towels and not crouched in carriers.”

“I’ll just open the crate doors and use my flash,” I said. I snapped a picture with my phone and then looked at the results. “Ugh.” I tried again. “All right, this one is a bit better. Regardless, if the pictures don’t find her a good home, then she can stay here at the library while she heals up and I’m sure someone will want her.”

Wilson carried one of the carriers and the vet the other and they trundled off to the parking lot while I picked up the towels and put them in a trash bag to take home with me to wash later. Then I printed out flyers with the cats’ pictures and ‘found’ on them and posted them several places in the library. After that, since my feet were still sloshing in my shoes, I retreated again to the breakroom.

Wilson came back in a few moments and quietly regarded me as I took off my shoes and dabbed fruitlessly at them with paper towels.

“I think you’re forgetting something,” he said.

Those words made me catch my breath. If there was one thing I hated, it was being late for something. “What is it?” I asked. “Don’t tell me we have some sort of bedtime storytime tonight for the kids.”

“You have that blind date tonight,” Wilson said with a chuckle. “You asked to leave here early, remember? Don’t you want to slip out of here and head home to change clothes?”

“Noooo. Ugh, I’d totally forgotten.” One thing about being single in your early thirties was that there were gobs of well-meaning patrons dying to set you up with someone. It was both touching and incredibly frustrating. “I have an extra outfit here in case of emergency,” I answered automatically.

Wilson said, “I know how organized you are and I don’t doubt it. But, and forgive me for bringing it up, your hair and makeup leave something to be desired. It’s doubtful they’re appropriate for a date. It’s even debatable whether they’re appropriate for working in a library.”

I craned to see myself in the mirror over the breakroom sink. Wilson was absolutely right. My shoulder-length black hair was stuck to my head, and the ends were still dripping tiny rivulets of rainwater down my soaked black blouse and khaki pants. My mascara and eyeliner had run, giving me raccoon eyes. There was also the fact I had muddy paw prints and cat fur all over me.

I grinned at Wilson. “Actually, this is perfect. Now I can scare him off and not have a second date.”

Wilson snorted and shook his head at me. “You’re being silly, Ann. For all you know, this guy could end up being someone you could have a real relationship with.”

“It’s a blind date. Nothing good ever comes out of a blind date. Believe me, I know. I could likely write a book on them I’ve had so many. It’s been pouring all day and all I want to do is get home and get in my pjs and cuddle in my bed with a book. Besides, I’m not really in the mood to give a relationship a go right now. Things are busy at the library,” I said.

Wilson said, “Things are always busy at the library. If you’re waiting for that to change, you’re going to be single a long time. And you’re in your early 30s now. I’ve known you to go on dates, but never second dates. Not that it’s a bad thing being picky, of course. It’s just sometimes it feels as if you’re burying yourself in the library instead of venturing out to find someone to spend your life with.”

I quirked an eyebrow at him. “You’re starting to sound like some of our elderly female patrons. Or the guys in the library film club.”

He ignored this. “Besides, that patron was being sweet to set you up on a date, wasn’t she?”

I sighed. “Emily is always sweet. She can’t help it. But I have the feeling she’s thinking more of her great-nephew than she is me. This evening has disaster written all over it. But you’re right—maybe I’m subconsciously trying to sabotage it.”

“As your director, I’m urging you to go home and get ready.” He paused and then continued in a rare show of kindness, “We have plenty of help here today. We’ll manage just fine. And tomorrow, we have our new children’s librarian coming in, so we’ll have even more help,” said Wilson.

I smiled at him. “Got it. Okay, I’ll go ahead and head on back. I’m taking the wet beach towels with me to wash. And you’re right—tomorrow will be fantastic with a new librarian here.”

“Of course, you’ve done well filling in for the various storytimes,” he said stiffly. I hid a smile. I didn’t quite believe him.

“Thanks. But somehow, I don’t think working with children is exactly my gift,” I said. I was definitely enthusiastic about the children’s lit. I loved everything from Babar, the Elephant to Don’t Let the Pigeon Drive the Bus. But somehow, the kids always seemed especially squirmy when I was in charge of storytime . . . which I had been for several months while Wilson struggled to fill the children’s librarian position.

I lugged the trash bag of wet beach towels to my aging Subaru and drove home. Fortunately, home was only a few minutes away, not that anything was very far away in Whitby. It’s a beautiful mountain village with lots of old buildings and even older trees. It’s the kind of place families vacation in to escape the city and to see fall leaves change on the Blue Ridge Parkway. There was also a quiet lake nearby, perfect for fishing and lazy afternoons on the water.

My house was admittedly more of a cottage, although I loved the place. After my mother died when I was little, my great-aunt took me in and raised me there. When she passed away five years ago, she left the cottage to me. The outside was a riot of rose bushes, gardenias, and azaleas. Flowering vines ran up the stone exterior and the entire effect was one of something out of a storybook. Which, as a librarian, suited me perfectly.

For the most part, I loved my neighborhood. It was a street of older homes, but the kinds of older homes with lots of character. A couple of them were old Craftsman houses, which I thought was really cool. Everyone tried to keep up with their yards, with varying degrees of success.

I was lucky in that my aunt had planted an amazing garden and I was only tasked with keeping it up. What’s more, every time I saw the garden, I thought of her. It used to be the memories gave me a sharp pang in my chest from missing her quick wit, but now they finally made me smile . . . it had taken a while.

Most weeks I can spend some time maintaining the yard, even if I didn’t really know at first what I was doing. I did a lot better with it after I’d checked out a few books and magazines from the library—and even better when I’d invited our county extension office to give a talk about caring for local shrubs and flowers. I still had plans to plant a vegetable garden in the backyard someday like my aunt had done yearly. After an honest assessment of the amount of free time I had, though, I reluctantly shelved this idea for later.

There were only two people on my street who made me uncomfortable, and in different ways. One of them was Zelda Smith, an older woman with henna-colored red hair who chain-smoked constantly.

The other person on my street who could easily throw me for a loop was a guy who’d just moved in down the street. He seemed cheerful, witty, and handsome and somehow turned me into jelly when he glanced my way. As yet, I hadn’t even spoken to him, but I’d seen him interact with other neighbors.