“How are your tatted snowflakes coming for the booth at the Lights on the Lake festival?” Barbara asked.
“Fine,” she lied.
The truth was, while she had loved the craft she learned from Mariah—the delicate knots and rings with thread to make lace—lately she had struggled to summon any enthusiasm. Sitting in her huge Victorian with her cats and her tatting made her feel so old and spinsterish.
“Can you believe it’s Thanksgiving in two days and then all the holiday craziness is upon us?” Barbara’s eyes gleamed with an anticipation that made Julia tired.
“Where did the year go?” she asked rhetorically. She knew too well. It went to working, dealing with the house, fixing the furnace, visiting her mother, then arranging her mother’s estate after her death.
“Are you sure you won’t come over for dinner?” Barbara asked when Julia finished checking out her books. “We’ll have a full house and would love one more.”
“Thank you again for the kind offer but I’ll be fine. I’m already signed up to help out at the nursing home. I’m taking Muriel Randall.”
“Oh, that will be good for her.”
The place in Shelter Springs where her mother had spent her last few months had several patrons without families. Julia didn’t love it there but also couldn’t bear the thought that anyone might feel alone.
“Well, I’d better run,” Barbara said after they chatted a bit more. “I would love to finish a few chapters of that new Nora Roberts book before some of our houseguests show up in the morning.”
“Enjoy,” she said.
Julia was busy most of the afternoon with patron questions and checkouts. She answered three phone calls to the reference desk, asking how to thaw a turkey. There would be more the next day, she suspected.
By early evening, her headache had abated, leaving just an echo of throbbing.
She made the rounds to the few groups of teenagers at the study tables to make sure they knew the library would be closing soon. When she rounded a corner of the stacks, she found Davy and Clinton, the boys from the day before, quietly playing a card game at a table.
She hadn’t seen them come in. Perhaps they had entered the library when she had been taking a break.
Both boys looked up with wary expressions when she headed in their direction.
“Hi, Davy. Hi, Clinton. How are you boys this evening?”
Davy gave a dramatic sigh. “I’m hungry, but Clint says he’ll make me another peanut butter sandwich when we have to go home.”
That particular statement disturbed her on several levels. Julia tried to conceal her reaction. Where were their parents? From what she had seen firsthand and from what she had inferred from Davy’s comments, it seemed Clint was doing more parenting than an eight-year-old boy should.
Something was going on here, but she had no idea how to figure out what or how to fix it. She did know Davy was hungry, and she had the means to remedy that.
“You know,” she said casually, “I happen to have a sandwich in the back. It’s turkey instead of peanut butter, but I think you’ll find it quite tasty.”
“Really?” The little boy’s eyes lit up. “I thought we weren’t s’posed to eat in the library.”
“Food isn’t allowed out here in the book stacks, but you’re fine to eat in the back. I do it all the time. Do you know, if we cut the sandwich in half, I think it would be more than enough for two boys.”
She’d had such good intentions that morning when she packed her lunch, but her hangover had been too wicked earlier in the day to tolerate anything solid. She had ended up heating a cup of soup in the microwave.
“Did you hear that, Clint? Miss Winston has a sandwich she said we could eat!”
While the younger boy looked thrilled, his brother’s reluctance showed through. He shook his head with a stubborn look. “No. We’d better not. Thanks anyway, Miss Winston.”
“Nonsense,” she said in a brisk tone. “You’re hungry, and I have an extra sandwich that will only go to waste if you don’t help me out by eating it. Think of it this way—you would be doing me a favor.”
Davy looked at his brother. “Mom said we’re supposed to help other people out when we can, especially this time of year. Remember? Miss Winston needs someone to help her eat her sandwich.”
Clinton didn’t look particularly convinced by that argument, but after a moment he shrugged. “I guess it would be okay. As long as we’re helping you.”
She smiled, touched beyond words that these two boys in their threadbare coats were concerned about helping others—but she was also undeniably troubled. She admired their mother’s sentiment about helping people out, but where was the woman? And why was she allowing her young boys to go hungry?
“Why don’t you both come to the back with me, and I’ll find the sandwich for you? There might be a cookie or two in my desk, as well.”
They stuffed their belongings back into their backpacks and followed her through the door that read Library Staff Only, to the inner workings of the library. Three doors down, she led them to the small room her staff used for breaks.
“Sit down and I’ll find the sandwich for you.”
From the refrigerator she pulled out her favorite reusable lunch bag with the pink and purple flowers and pulled out the sandwich. It was an easy matter to cut it in two and set it on paper plates for the boys.
“Look at this. There are chips and carrots here, as well as a brownie.”
She had been looking forward to that brownie, a leftover from last night’s book club, but she would willingly sacrifice to these two little boys, who inhaled the sandwich as if it were the best thing they had ever eaten.
Once she set the bounty in front of them, Julia took a chair at the table and sipped at the water bottle that hadn’t left her side all day. Hydration was one of the best cures for a hangover, she had read online that morning through the blur of her headache. It hadn’t worked yet, but she could still hope.
“I bet your mom fixes you nice lunches for school, doesn’t she?”
Davy looked at his brother, then quickly back down at his plate. Neither boy answered her. They simply shrugged. Obviously this was a sore spot.
“What about your dad?”
“Our dad died,” Clint said, his voice flat. “He was in the army, and he got shot three years ago.”
Emotions clogged her throat at the no-nonsense tone. “Oh, no. I’m so sorry.”
“I was only three,” Davy informed her. “I don’t even remember him much. Clint was five, though.”
They couldn’t have been from Hope’s Crossing or even Shelter Springs. She would
