She pointed. “Your pocket.”
Recognition dawned, and he patted the overall bib, coming up with a small pair of flesh-colored hearing aids. He popped them in, winced, made an adjustment and then said, “All better?”
Carrie smiled. Most people didn’t bother to know Mr. Peabody had been a Nashville studio musician back in the day when self-trained artists played by ear and before time took away his ability to do exactly that. Now he had nothing to fall back on and barely eked by on a meager Social Security check. She knew this because she volunteered at Interfaith Partnership, a social charity that collected and distributed food and clothing to the needy.
After Mr. Peabody settled onto one of the couches with a sigh and a groan, grabbing at his left knee, she handed him the Honey Ridge Register. “Do you need some aspirin for that knee?”
“Nah. Just an old man’s stiff joints. I must have sat too long with the good ol’ boys down at the café.”
The café was the coffee klatch of retired men who gathered at the Miniature Golf Café every morning without fail to shoot the breeze and resolve the political and social ills of the universe.
“Did you fellas come up with a solution to world peace?”
“Just about.” He nodded, chuckling. “Just about. Mr. B. says we’ll never get out of this world alive, so what difference does it make?”
Carrie laughed. Mr. B., short for Bastarache, a name few of them could pronounce, was the town undertaker. His fatalistic views were legendary.
“Well, that’s Mr. B. for you,” she said. “You tell me if you need some aspirin for that knee, okay? I have a bottle in my purse.”
He patted her hand. “You’re a good girl, Miss Carrie. Your mama raised you right.”
Carrie’s chest squeezed in affectionate sympathy for the man as she returned to the front desk.
“Why doesn’t he loiter somewhere else?” Tawny Brown, the other media specialist, ran the scanner gun across the bar code on the back of The Cat in the Hat. The computer beeped, and she crammed the book onto a roller cart for reshelving.
Carrie offered a sympathetic glance but said nothing. Tawny got all stirred up about the computer hogs and the regulars who hung out for lack of anything better to do. In Carrie’s opinion, everyone needed time in the safe haven of a library.
The thought of a safe haven brought Brody Thomson to mind, which brought Hayden Winters to mind, as well. The boy concerned her, but she didn’t know what to do about it. The man—well, he was a famous writer and she was a book person.
Beyond his incredible gift of words and the stormy night encounter at Peach Orchard Inn she didn’t know anything about him. He was an enigma even to book lovers.
Out of curiosity, she’d read his website bio, which was primarily about his novels and devoid of personal information. Because of his profession and hers, she also followed him, along with other popular authors, on Facebook and Twitter. Again, no personal information on Hayden Winters. Only book talk. A writer of his stature probably had an assistant handling social media anyway.
She’d had coffee, in her pajamas no less, with Hayden Winters.
Laughing at herself a little, she focused on work. The man had probably put her out of his mind the moment she’d driven away.
At noon, her sister Nikki came flying in, a swirl of energy and beauty. All the Riley siblings had dark hair, but Nikki took hers to a whole other dimension. Sleek as a mink and layer-cut in the latest style, Nikki’s hair gleamed. Today, the fashionista sister wore eggplant heels as high as the biography stacks. Carrie’s back hurt to look at them. No matter how hard she’d tried in high school, she’d never been able to pull off the beauty-queen look.
“What are you doing?” she asked. “Taking me out to lunch or jumping off into the deep to actually read something besides Fashion and Fad magazine?”
Nikki ignored the jab.
“Wasn’t this weekend at Peach Orchard Inn fun?” Her sister leaned an elbow on the circulation desk.
“Except for the tornado.”
Nikki rolled luminous brown eyes. “Don’t be a ninny. I slept right through it.”
“Two glasses of wine will do that to you.”
“Three, but who’s counting.”
“The hammer in my head was counting.” Carrie thanked a patron who dropped a couple of books on the desk and left. “One reason I seldom drink anything stronger than espresso.”
Hayden Winters flashed through her head again. Bold. He liked his coffee bold.
Nikki was nodding, her face repentant. “I don’t think Julia was particularly pleased that I’d brought wine in the first place. After we poured Valery into her bed, I understood why.”
“She did get a little crazy.”
“A little? Carrie, she was smashed. Having a glass of wine is one thing, but Valery didn’t seem to have a cutoff point.”
Carrie bit down on her bottom lip. “You sound as if you think she has a drinking problem.”
Nikki’s shoulders arched. “I’ve heard rumors, but you know how people like to talk in Honey Ridge.”
Yes, Carrie knew. She’d been the object of those rumors at one time, and the experience had made her cautious. The memory pressed in and caused an ache beneath her rib cage.
“If Valery has a problem, gossip won’t help. Nor will friends who come bearing wine. So, to be on the safe side, no more vino at our get-togethers.”
“Which means we have to have more.”
“Wine or get-togethers?” She beeped the wand across a bar code.
“Get-togethers, silly. Pedicures, weird hairdos and that hilarious Reese Witherspoon movie. Did I ever tell you about the time I saw her in Knoxville? We were in the same boutique, and she bought the exact scarf I had my eye on?”
“About a million times,” Carrie said, glad they’d moved away from the rumor mill topic.
She didn’t want Nikki rehashing the incident, which always brought on a painful slew of sympathetic hugs and the false assurance that nobody remembered anymore. She remembered.
“Some things are worth repeating.” Her sister hitched a purse Carrie recognized as a Coach only because it said so right on the front. “So are you in for some more fun?”
Carrie’s hand stilled on the two books she was now checking in. “Shoot! I let Maggie get out without paying her fine again.”
“Are you listening to me?”
“What? Oh, sure. Reese Witherspoon.”
Nikki exhaled in a long, beleaguered sigh. “Fun, Carrie. You know, something besides this musty library.”
