Blame It On The Mistletoe - A Novel of Bright's Pond by Joyce Magnin Page A

ounce of my being that I wanted to fly.
    The library stood like a grand old lady on a hill just a little ways off the street. She was a fully dressed Queen Anne Victorian with rows of courses and miles of gingerbread, a wide wraparound porch perfect for sitting in the spring and summer and on warm fall days to read and chat. It made me a little sad that more people didn't come to the library to escape into a story now and again. Emily Dickinson said, "There is no frigate like a book, to take us lands away." She was so right.
    I turned the key in the ancient lock and pushed open the library door. A breath of cool, bookish air blew out. As usual I set about turning on lights, straightening magazine and newspaper racks all the time wondering if I would see any faces that day. Every time I opened the library I felt the same way, like I was preparing a place of solitude where I felt more in touch with my soul than anywhere, even perhaps, than in Cliff's plane.
    After the mail, I always returned books to the stacks with an eye out for misplaced volumes. The students were notorious for shoving books back wherever they wanted even though I told them a hundred times it would be better if they returned the books to the checkout counter. And I was right. I found a copy of How the West Was Won tucked on the end of the Microbiology section.
    I heard the little bell over the door ring—the bell was new. I asked Studebaker to install it for me so I could hear folks come in no matter where I was in the building. Not that I didn't trust anyone, I was just often in the back rooms or lost among the stacks, and people had been thinking I wasn't there and turning and leaving.
    It was Charlotte Figg from the trailer park. I liked the look of her. She wore a dress covered with purple flowers and she carried a small orange purse. Her hair was short, but not too short, manageable I suppose and mostly brown, the color of old oak with strands of gray here and there.
    "Can I help you?" I called from the Science section.
    She stood close to the door for second and then ventured farther inside.
    "You're Charlotte Figg, right?" I asked. I offered my hand. "I'm Griselda Sparrow."
    "Nice to meet you, Griselda." She shook my hand. "Ever play softball?"
    "In high school, a little. I liked it."
    "Well, the Paradise Angels are always looking for players if you want to come out next spring."
    "Maybe," I said. "I heard about your team. I think it's pretty neat, you putting the team together and all."
    "Ah, they really put themselves together, but thanks. Anyway, my friend Rose—"
    "The woman with all the tattoos?"
    She nodded and looked at me as if to say, "You don't get many visitors, do you?"
    I thought I should back off and let her be. But she kept talking, "That's right, the woman with all the tattoos. Boy, word travels fast in this town. But that's not the issue. Rose said you might be able to help me find some information on . . . " she whispered, "the Fountain of Youth."
    "Sure." It was a bit of an odd subject for someone in Bright's Pond.
    "I think you can start with the Encyclopedia Britannica. It will give you some info. May I ask what exactly you're looking for?"
    "Oh, I don't think I know for certain. It's just a hunch, really. Something sparked my imagination," Charlotte said. "I wanted some info on that explorer fellow they claim found it in Florida—Ponce de León."
    "Oh, no problem. I'm sure you'll find out all about him in here." I grabbed the book from the shelf. "And if you need more information, there's a whole section on world history over there, lots of books about the explorers."
    She took the thick volume and sat at one of the long tables.
    "I just wanted to tell you," I said, "that I have heard so much about your pies. Folks are even saying you should open a shop in town."
    Charlotte smiled and flipped to the page she needed. "I do like to make pies, and everyone keeps telling me to open a shop—even my mother."
    "Maybe you should.