some of the more opinionated book-borrowers had made.
Most of the notations were innocuous corrections of typographical errors, but some were rather testy asides, apparently meant to talk back to the author, or, she supposed, to alert the future readers of the book to its inadequacies.
A few were obscene.
“What are you smiling about?” Faye Paxton asked as she pushed the book cart to the check-out counter.
“Someone in this town is a pervert.”
“Just one? That’s a disappointment.”
Georgia shook her head and kept erasing. “Don’t be. This is a world-class pervert.”
“Oh? Let me see.”
“Never mind.” She flipped through the pages of the book, scanning for further notations. The pervert had used a red pencil to make sure his or her comments would be noticed.
As if anyone could ignore them.
“Speaking of the sexually imaginative,” Faye said, lowering her voice although there was no one to overhear, “did you happen to notice yesterday that little Brucie Shaw was spending a lot of time thumbing through those paperback bodice-rippers?”
“Was he?”
“Was he ever.” Faye took the books Georgia was finished with and put them on the cart. “It used to be that the male adventure books had the hot stuff, but these days it’s the romance novels that’ll steam your clams.”
“Faye!”
“It’s true. But my point was, kids start at a younger age than you and I did.”
Georgia lifted an eyebrow.
“Well, maybe not me. But he’s what? Eleven?”
“Ten.”
Faye opened the book Georgia had just finished with. “Ten years old and already hot-blooded. Doesn’t that bother you?”
“Why should it bother me? I’m not his mother.”
“But you have a daughter.”
Georgia felt a tingle of apprehension and she frowned. All at once she had the strongest feeling that something was wrong.
“What is it, Georgia? What’s wrong?” Faye asked, reaching across the counter to touch her hand. “You look as though you’ve seen a ghost.”
“I don’t know.”
“Are you feeling all right?”
“Yes, I’m—” But she couldn’t go on. Her mind was racing, but somehow her mouth refused to form the words she wanted to say.
“Maybe you should go in the back and rest for a minute,” Faye suggested.
Georgia nodded mutely.
There wasn’t a couch, but Faye helped Georgia to the only comfortable chair in the library, an overstuffed monstrosity that had been around for longer than anyone could remember.
Georgia sank into the cushions and it seemed to swallow her up.
“Let me get you a glass of water,” Faye said when she was settled, and crossed to the water fountain. She took a Dixie cup and filled it. In her haste, she spilled some on the floor.
Georgia took a sip. “Thank you,” she whispered, finding her voice.
“Should I call a doctor?”
Despite her sudden malaise, she knew that it wasn’t she who was ill. “No, but—”
“Dave? You want me to call Dave?”
She shook her head. “The school. Call Jill’s school.”
“The school, okay.” Faye hurried across the room, nearly slipping in the water. When she’d reached the phone she turned and faced Georgia, her expression doubtful. “Why am I calling the school?”
“I think something’s happened to Jill.”
“The line’s still busy,” Faye reported and hung up the phone.
“Keep trying, would you?”
“Sure.”
Georgia watched as Faye punched out the number for what had to be the twentieth time. Even from where she sat she could hear the drone of the busy signal. “Call the operator,” she suggested. “Tell them it’s an emergency; they can break in on the line.”
“An emergency. What if they ask what kind of an emergency?”
“They won’t. Please, Faye.”
Faye depressed the switch hook. “If it’ll make you feel better—”
“What’s that?”
“What?”
“Don’t you hear that?” Georgia concentrated on the sound. “A siren.”
Faye’s brow furrowed. “I don’t hear
Most of the notations were innocuous corrections of typographical errors, but some were rather testy asides, apparently meant to talk back to the author, or, she supposed, to alert the future readers of the book to its inadequacies.
A few were obscene.
“What are you smiling about?” Faye Paxton asked as she pushed the book cart to the check-out counter.
“Someone in this town is a pervert.”
“Just one? That’s a disappointment.”
Georgia shook her head and kept erasing. “Don’t be. This is a world-class pervert.”
“Oh? Let me see.”
“Never mind.” She flipped through the pages of the book, scanning for further notations. The pervert had used a red pencil to make sure his or her comments would be noticed.
As if anyone could ignore them.
“Speaking of the sexually imaginative,” Faye said, lowering her voice although there was no one to overhear, “did you happen to notice yesterday that little Brucie Shaw was spending a lot of time thumbing through those paperback bodice-rippers?”
“Was he?”
“Was he ever.” Faye took the books Georgia was finished with and put them on the cart. “It used to be that the male adventure books had the hot stuff, but these days it’s the romance novels that’ll steam your clams.”
“Faye!”
“It’s true. But my point was, kids start at a younger age than you and I did.”
Georgia lifted an eyebrow.
“Well, maybe not me. But he’s what? Eleven?”
“Ten.”
Faye opened the book Georgia had just finished with. “Ten years old and already hot-blooded. Doesn’t that bother you?”
“Why should it bother me? I’m not his mother.”
“But you have a daughter.”
Georgia felt a tingle of apprehension and she frowned. All at once she had the strongest feeling that something was wrong.
“What is it, Georgia? What’s wrong?” Faye asked, reaching across the counter to touch her hand. “You look as though you’ve seen a ghost.”
“I don’t know.”
“Are you feeling all right?”
“Yes, I’m—” But she couldn’t go on. Her mind was racing, but somehow her mouth refused to form the words she wanted to say.
“Maybe you should go in the back and rest for a minute,” Faye suggested.
Georgia nodded mutely.
There wasn’t a couch, but Faye helped Georgia to the only comfortable chair in the library, an overstuffed monstrosity that had been around for longer than anyone could remember.
Georgia sank into the cushions and it seemed to swallow her up.
“Let me get you a glass of water,” Faye said when she was settled, and crossed to the water fountain. She took a Dixie cup and filled it. In her haste, she spilled some on the floor.
Georgia took a sip. “Thank you,” she whispered, finding her voice.
“Should I call a doctor?”
Despite her sudden malaise, she knew that it wasn’t she who was ill. “No, but—”
“Dave? You want me to call Dave?”
She shook her head. “The school. Call Jill’s school.”
“The school, okay.” Faye hurried across the room, nearly slipping in the water. When she’d reached the phone she turned and faced Georgia, her expression doubtful. “Why am I calling the school?”
“I think something’s happened to Jill.”
“The line’s still busy,” Faye reported and hung up the phone.
“Keep trying, would you?”
“Sure.”
Georgia watched as Faye punched out the number for what had to be the twentieth time. Even from where she sat she could hear the drone of the busy signal. “Call the operator,” she suggested. “Tell them it’s an emergency; they can break in on the line.”
“An emergency. What if they ask what kind of an emergency?”
“They won’t. Please, Faye.”
Faye depressed the switch hook. “If it’ll make you feel better—”
“What’s that?”
“What?”
“Don’t you hear that?” Georgia concentrated on the sound. “A siren.”
Faye’s brow furrowed. “I don’t hear
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