Page 6

IT TOOK ANOTHER three full days before Aunt Harriet went for the jugular.

She’d allowed me to hang around in my room, and apart from the visit to the grocery store, I hadn’t explored any more of Caldwell Crossing.

She’d commented on how tired I looked—I told her I was okay, and didn’t mention dreams or the overriding worry that I was heading for prison.

Stay positive. Enjoy staying here.

Relax.

Only today, I’d run out of Aunt Harriet’s caring patience.

“So, what’s the plan?”

I paused mid-bite.

“For today?”

“Yes. And no.” She set her mug down, folding her hands neatly in front of her.

“What will you do here in town?”

“I don’t know how long I’ll be here. Maybe a few more weeks if that’s okay.”

She smiled.

“The apartment is yours for as long as you need it. But what about your time here? Do you need to find work?”

“Not yet. I’m okay for money to cover rent here, and —”

“That’s not why I asked, and I won’t be taking your money.”

“That’s not—”

“No argument.”

“Then you need to let me…” I glanced around at her pristine house and through the window to her cared-for yard.

“… help around here.”

“You can fix my back fence,” she announced.

I blinked at her. “Okay. Sure.”

I’d never done DIY, fixed a faucet, painted a wall, or rebuilt a fence, but that was what YouTube was for, right?

Her gaze drifted to the book I’d taken from my pocket and laid on the table, the one I’d been reading to quieten my mind.

On the Lake’s Edge was the latest thriller from Adam Nelson and the one I had all the issues with.

She picked it up, turning it over.

“You’re never far away from a book.”

“Never.”

“Is this a good one?”

At last, a non-personal question I could answer.

I’d always loved reading, sinking into a story, and letting it pull me out of my head for a while.

When I was growing up, books were my constant.

They didn’t judge, and they didn’t expect anything from me.

I could lose myself in a thriller, fall for the hero in a romance, or puzzle over a mystery for hours.

But it wasn’t only reading.

I loved reviewing on the WordBook platform—getting my thoughts down and shaping them into something helpful or insightful.

It was a way to connect to other readers and give back, maybe, to the authors who’d given me so much.

I liked dissecting a plot twist or praising a well-crafted character.

There was something satisfying about finding the words to explain why a book worked—or didn’t.

I liked thinking that maybe my reviews helped someone decide to pick up a book or even inspired an author to push their craft further.

It felt like being part of the conversation, part of something bigger than just me and the page.

Only I’d learned that posting reviews when my life was upside-down was a bad thing.

“It’s a re-read.”

“That good?”

“No. Yes. I mean, when I first read it, I wasn’t impressed. It’s lacking in detail, given it deals with white-collar crime, and it’s set in small-town New Hampshire, it feels like he’s made it up.”

She laughed then.

“Isn’t that what authors do?”

“Authors should research,” I grumped, and she smiled.

“My online book club discussed it when it first released, and we wondered if a ghostwriter wrote it instead of Nelson himself.”

“Is that a thing?” She didn’t seem quite as affronted as my online book club, and I did.

“It is,” I summarized.

“And it’s a shame if he did.” Not that this was what I thought, but everyone else had jumped on my review and accused me of accusing him.

Fuck my life.

Harriet stirred her fragrant tea, her calm, piercing gaze settling on me.

I’d learned by now it meant a question was coming—usually one I wasn’t ready for.

“So,” she said, her tone light but deliberate, “was there someone waiting for you back in the city?”

“‘Someone’?” I asked, buying time as I tore a piece of pancake and dipped it into the syrup.

“A boyfriend,” she clarified, her words careful, as if she thought she might startle me.

“Someone waiting for you and wondering why you left Boston.”

I froze and could feel her watching me, waiting, but I didn’t look up.

“No one,” I said finally, keeping my voice even.

“There wasn’t anyone.”

Harriet eyed me as though she didn’t quite believe me but didn’t want to push.

“No one at all?”

I shrugged, forcing a half-smile I hoped was convincing.

“Owen—my ex—wasn’t interested in… after… he just wasn’t interested in me.”

Her silence was heavier than the words she wasn’t saying.

When I glanced up, her expression softened, and the sadness in her eyes made something twist in my chest. I wouldn’t say I liked that expression—the way it made me feel I’d failed at something I hadn’t even tried for.

“You’re young, Ben,” she said gently, stirring her tea again.

“You should have someone. Someone to—” She stopped herself and smiled.

“Well, never mind.”

I popped the bite of pancake into my mouth to keep from saying something I’d regret.

Harriet didn’t ask me anything else, and for the first time since I’d arrived in Caldwell Crossing, I felt like running again.

We ate in silence a bit longer.

“Why don’t you help me out and volunteer at the library until you decide what you want to do next?” she asked, setting the book down.

“We could use the extra hands, and I could use the company.”

I hesitated, not because I didn’t want to, but because the offer felt…

easy and something I’d enjoy.

Jeez, I hadn’t enjoyed much in a long time.

She raised an eyebrow.

“We have some boxes of estate sale books that ended up not selling and were donated, but I promise I won’t make you catalog whole collections. Unless you’re into that.”

“I don’t know the first thing about working in a library,” I admitted.

“That’s what I’m here for,” she said breezily.

“You’ll catch on.”

It was an easy sell.

I nodded, setting my fork down.

“Okay. Yeah. Why not?”

Her smile widened as if she’d expected that answer all along.

“Good. We’ll leave at eight-thirty. And yes, you’re dressed fine,” she added before I could ask.

“Jeans and a shirt are all you need. Just make sure you have layers—the archive room is cold.”

I glanced at the clock, seeing I had over an hour to prepare.

Harriet’s way of welcoming me to Caldwell Crossing might be wrapped in pancakes and old books, but it was clear she wasn’t about to let me sit around and waste the day.

And for once, I didn’t mind.

“Thanks, Aunt Harriet,” I said as I finished my coffee.

“For breakfast?” she teased.

“Or for something to do?”

“Both.”

THE CRUNCH OF snow underfoot was the only sound between us as Harriet and I walked to the library.

It was a five-minute walk, and I offered Aunt Harriet my arm.

“I don’t mind this at all—on the arm of such a handsome young man.”

I snorted but didn’t argue.

Harriet had a way of delivering compliments that made you believe them, even if you weren’t used to hearing them.

The air was crisp with the kind of icy cold that stung your nose but felt refreshing.

Harriet, bundled up in her usual scarf and hat, walked beside me, her breath puffing out in small clouds.

“So,” she began, her tone casual, which I didn’t trust. “I heard you ran into Sam Caldwell at the grocery store.”

I glanced at her.

Why didn’t it surprise me that she knew that?

“How’d you know about that?”

She gave me a knowing smile.

“I’m in the same crafting circle as his mother, Melanie. She mentioned it yesterday in the group chat.”

“Of course,” I muttered, shaking my head.

“Small towns.”

Harriet chuckled.

“Sam’s a lovely young man, you know. Polite, hardworking. He runs the maple farm with his parents. It’s no small feat, especially this time of year.”

I nodded, unsure where this was going but feeling cornered.

“He’s only nine years younger than you,” she continued.

“Good future ahead of him. And from what Melanie says, he’s not in a relationship.”

I glanced sideways at her, catching the subtle twinkle in her eye.

“Are you matchmaking, Aunt Harriet?”

She shrugged, unbothered.

“I’m just saying, he’s a catch. A kind soul too. He and his friends have helped me more than once when I needed something fixed around the house.”

“He seems nice,” I admitted carefully.

“He’s more than nice,” she said.

“Also, he likes boys, the same as you, if that’s what’s worrying you.”

Heat crept up the back of my neck.

“That’s not—It’s not about that,” I stammered.

“I just… honestly, I don’t know how long I’m staying here, Aunt Harriet.”

She stopped walking, turning to face me.

Her expression softened, her usual bluntness giving way to something gentler.

“I know, Ben. But what’s waiting for you back in the city? You said the firm has let you go, I haven’t seen any friends checking in, and you say you’re not with whatshisname.”

“Owen,” I corrected.

She shook her head. “Who would let you go?”

Someone who wanted me for my money?

I didn’t say that out loud because that fact embarrassed me.

I thought I’d had something with Owen, and it had been yet more smoke and mirrors.

“Maybe it’s time to stop thinking about how long you’re staying and start thinking about what makes you happy. Think about it, okay?”

The tech experts finding my original audits, clearing my name, and not having a sword hanging over my neck would make me happy.

I nodded, unable to meet her gaze.

“Okay,” I said and started to walk again.

The library loomed ahead, and Harriet didn’t push further, but her words lingered.

When we reached the library, I stopped before it, letting go of Harriet’s arm so she could lead the way.

The building was a beautiful mashup from different centuries of stone and wood blended in a way that shouldn’t have worked but did—a place that felt as if it had grown naturally over time, each addition telling its own story.

“It’s one of the oldest buildings in Caldwell Crossing,” Harriet said, pride clear in her voice.

“Built by Samuel P. Caldwell, founder of the town and your Sam’s great-great-grandfather.”

“He’s not my Sam.”

She squeezed my arm.

“Sorry, I misspoke,” she said, although the glint in her eye suggested the use of the word had been deliberate.

Inside, the library was warm.

Old radiators warmed the corners, surrounded by wooden book stacks arranged in neat rows, their shelves crammed with books of every shape and size.

The smell of books had always been my favorite—paper, ink, a hint of dust—it was like stepping into a sanctuary.

Libraries had been my safe haven, providing an escape from chaos as a child, cramming for exams in college, and even later, fitting in visits during my lunch breaks in Boston.

No matter where I was, a library always felt like home.

Two computers sat on a desk near the front, next to a sign offering internet access, and a bulletin board beside it listed community events in uneven rows of colorful flyers.

Harriet gestured toward the back.

“Come on, let’s get you settled. I’ll show you the coffee machine and then the archive room.”

I nodded, following her deeper into the library, my footsteps echoing on the worn wooden floors.

For the first time in what felt like ages, I felt as if I could breathe.