New Point (4 page)

“I have a feeling you’ll change your mind, big guy,” says a husky, familiar voice.

Strolling through the library like he owns the red brick building and every last book on the shelves is my delicious neighbor.

Before I can wonder how they’re related, the boy eliminates any confusion. “But I wanna play baseball, Uncle Miles.”

Miles tousles the boy’s hair affectionately, but his dark eyes are trained on me when he responds. “You’ve got baseball practice later this afternoon. Come on, I want to introduce you to someone.”

The wedge sandals I’m wearing make little noise on the carpeted floor as I circumvent my desk to approach them.

“Who would have thought that you were the new librarian Sharon raved about?” Miles drawls in his smooth twang. I don’t have to scan his expression to know there’s a playful glint to his deep brown eyes. It’s clear he knew where to find me.

Could someone else find me this easily? Will word spread that the Clarkes Shooting Heroine moved to New Point?
It’s nearly been a year, months since someone from the press tried to contact me with that stupid nickname. Roughly I push the racing thoughts away and force myself to center on the task at hand.

“Nice to see you, Miles,” I murmur, acknowledging him quickly. Then I focus all my attention on the boy who couldn’t be older than seven. According to my roster of readers, no child in my current group is above eight.

“Hi there. I’m Zoe.”

Shyness never knew this child. He waves and produces a toothy grin. “I’m Duke. It’s very nice to meet you.”

The politeness surprises and delights me as he extends a hand for a shake. “Are you my teacher?”

“No, not a teacher, but we will read together like you do in school.”

“Will there be homework?” he asks with earnest eyes.

My eyes flicker to the entrance when I hear more people walking through the door. A woman around my age in a pair of skimpy white shorts and a tight pink tank saunters inside with a small, nervous-looking girl hiding behind her legs.

“No homework unless you want to take a book home and practice reading. Think of this like another camp,” I tell him patiently.

“Miles,” skimpy shorts says breathlessly. Is she thrusting her chest forward?

My neighbor doesn’t stray from watching me with his nephew when he responds. “Good to see you, Lacey.”

His tone says it’s anything but
good
to interact with her, but Lacey pays no mind. She tosses her silky black hair over her shoulder with a huff. “Alexa, stop hiding,” she chides none too kindly to the girl eyeing me from her spot at Lacey’s hip.

“Zoe Baker,” I say offering my hand to Lacey. She scrunches her nose like she smelled something unappealing as she limply accepts my greeting. My mom always told me never to trust someone with a weak handshake. I almost smile at the memory but then remember where I am. “I’m running this summer program,” I explain. “And who do we have here?”

“Alexa Morgan.” Lacey places a hand on Alexa’s slim shoulder, scooting her from the defensive position. The little girl looks more like me –blond tresses– than Lacey’s dark coloring, and I wonder how they’re related.

Lacey must sense my confusion because she releases an annoyed exhale of breath. “I’m the nanny. It should say so on this.” She tugs out Alexa’s registration papers from a leather shoulder bag and practically flings them at me. I accept the papers from her and turn to Miles, who’s produced the same paperwork for Duke. After I place them on my desk, I turn back to engage Alexa.

But Miles beats me to it.

“Hi there, Lexi Loo.” He squats to her level, smiling a soft, friendly grin.

What’s that noise? The sound of my heart melting at the gentle way he coaxes Alexa out of her shyness. Miles is more than my intriguing neighbor. He’s the guy who cares enough about a sweet little girl ducking her head bashfully to flirt with her skimpy short-wearing nanny.

“Alexa, I’m Zoe,” I tell her. “Do you like to read?” When I address her, she nods and whispers a greeting.

“Me too.” I drop my lid in a quick wink then turn to face Miles and Lacey. “I assure you, they’ll be in good hands here.” It’s my not-so-subtle hint that they can leave.

“Great, whatever,” Lacey mumbles. “Can we talk?” she asks Miles rudely. It’s obvious there’s history between them. For a person who works closely with a young child all day, she hardly seems close to Alexa, and she hasn’t acknowledged Duke either.

“Sure,” Miles mutters stiffly.

“Come on, Alexa,” Duke says, “this will be fun.”

Like uncle, like nephew. My heart squeezes watching the sweet exchange. Something triggers in Alexa too, because she takes a hesitant step toward Duke.

Miles rights himself and when he does, his forearm brushes against mine. Yesterday’s physical reaction was no fluke, because as soon as his skin touches mine it causes my breath to hitch and visions of wrapping myself into his embrace flash through my mind.

“See you later, Zoe,” he murmurs in a low voice.

He knows exactly what he’s doing!

Mentally I shake off his impact, and I flash another smile at the children watching me expectantly. “We’ll see you later,” I tell Miles and Lacey. Luckily I’m saved from any further awkwardness because two other campers arrive with their parents.

While I’m introducing myself to the new kids and parents, I can’t help but send a second glance to Miles. I’m trying to be stealth, but he catches me anyway. He and Lacey paused at the doorway, she’s gesturing grandly and instead of indulging her, Miles’ watching me with an intrigued grin.

Holy New Point neighbor, what have I gotten myself into?

N
ew Point’s first summer reading group went as well as I could have hoped. All ten kids participated, most not even reluctantly. The ninety minutes with them went by as quickly as it started, with only one outburst from a crying child.

Now that my time with them is over, I corral the children outside the front door. A parent interested in signing her daughter up for the camp chats animatedly with me about the importance of reading, but I’m having a hard time listening. Out of the corner of my eye, a familiar gait catches my attention. Thankfully my autopilot feature functions well, and I’m able to answer the mother’s questions sufficiently.

A small hand brushes against my skirt. Alexa’s standing below me with wide, uncertain eyes. “Is Lacey coming to pick me up?”

For the tenth time since I’d met this sweet girl, I feel my heart pinch at her unease. It’s an emotion I’m well versed in. After I lost my parents, I practically glued myself to Blake’s hip. His patience was unending, omnipresent.

I smooth a hand down her thin, white blond strands. “Yes, she’ll be here soon,” I reassure her. “How about we wait together?” She nods, face full of trust.

Meanwhile Duke’s launching himself at Miles, who scoops his nephew up into a hug. He strides toward me and just like that, my heart rate picks up.

Finally I have an answer to the friends who asked me what my type is: sexy-slash-bartender-slash-great with kids. I’m trying to fight back the smile splitting my lips when Lacey arrives. She saunters toward us, tossing her hair as she walks. It’s a total throwback to high school cheerleaders.
I played field hockey, lady, I can take you.

Whoa. Was that a possessive thought for a guy I only met last night?

When our eyes clash, I swear disdain flashes through Lacey’s gaze. A tight smile stretches across her face when she reaches Alexa and me.

“Lex, you ready?” she asks shortly.

Okay, what have I done to piss Lacey off?

Alexa’s grip on my skirt doesn’t lax, in fact her eyes remained trained on me as if she wants my permission to leave. Compassion courses through me. This time I channel my reassurance into squeeze around her shoulder. “I’ll see you on Thursday. There might be cookies involved.” That makes some of the tension melt off her and she releases her hold on me. I wave goodbye as Lacey guides her away without a word to anyone.

“Hey, neighbor. What’s got you thinking so hard?” Mile teases, holding onto a squirming Duke.

The smile I offer isn’t my best. “Brainstorming for my camp,” I answer smoothly, not ready to admit I’m jealous over something I don’t understand.

“I’m going to play baseball!” Duke announces proudly, diffusing the exchange. It’s the third time he’s mentioned his love for the sport, not including when he requested I read
A Boy and A Diamond
to all my campers.

“Yes, you are. When you’re done with that will you come back to visit me next Thursday?”

He nods his head empathetically and demands to be let down. When Miles sets him on the ground, Duke lifts his palm in the air for a high five. We slap hands, and a sense of peace trickles through my chest.

This is where I need to be.
Nothing in my life has brought me as much joy as working with children.

“Bud, we’ve got to go or we’ll be late to your practice,” Miles informs us. When I return my gaze to him, I find him watching me the way he did yesterday after his fingers grazed mine. He stares intently, like I’m a riddle to be solved.

My throat constricts as I swallow. There’s parts of me I definitely don’t want to be analyzed by anyone, let alone Miles.

“Later,” he directs toward me, shaking off the gaze, a playful smirk back in place.

Later could mean anything. Later I’ll teach you to swim. Later I’ll borrow a cup of sugar. Later I’ll show you that you’ve never truly been kissed. Man, I hope it’s the latter.

Rolling my eyes at my hopeless crush, I turn back into the library to finish my first day at work.

S
and sneaks between my toes as I walk home barefoot later that evening. In the midst of my first day of work nerves, I forgot the video-therapy session with Dr. Greene after work. Now I’m close to late, scurrying across the shore of Lake Michigan back home.

Home.

Less than a week in New Point and I’ve already started thinking of this place as my permanent residence. Blake wouldn’t be happy to hear that, he thinks this is a jaunt in a small town to recharge, and I’ll be back in the city by the end of the summer. He’s wrong, and my mother was right. This place will heal me, and it won’t be easy to leave.

I strategically avoid glancing at Miles’ beach home, just in case he’s watching.

My sandy feet leave grains scattered across the hardwood floors as I enter the living room. I power up the Smart TV and dial into the video conferencing application. Only five minutes late, not too bad.

“Five days out there and you already look like a Michigander,” Dr. Greene observes with a wry smile when the call connects. He’s a fatherly figure, wavy salt-and-pepper hair cut conservatively and an ever-present sweater, no matter the temperature outside.

My nose wrinkles as I respond, “I’m sorry I’m late. And what makes one look like a Michigander? Is that even the right way of referring to a person from Michigan?”

He laughs at my typical oddball commentary. It’s partially part of my personality and partially an avoidance tactic. “Michiganders, especially the ones living on the lakeshore, have a relaxed stance. And you shouldn’t question my authority on American nomenclature. You haven’t won one of our quizzing contests yet.”

At the beginning of my therapy sessions, when I refused to talk about that awful day in September, Dr. Greene challenged me to trivia games. He won every time and eventually broke through my emotional deadlock. “Yeah, yeah, yeah,” I grumble good-naturedly. “What’s up, Doc?”

“I should be the one asking you that, Zoe. But, as I see, you’re visibly more peaceful than when you left. What’s different?”

“Today was my first day on the job and the start of my summer program.” There’s pride in my voice, yes, but also a touch of uncertainty.

Dr. Greene does his standard wait to see if I say anything else
.
When I don’t engage because I’m not sure what to say next, he launches into a line of questioning. “What was it like interacting with children again?”

In the nine months since Clinton Smith broke into Clarkes Elementary, I haven’t worked on anything other than reclaiming my mental health. Blake offered more than emotional support, he financially saved me, too.

“Since the moment I unpacked, it’s like I’ve been released from the shackles of prison. Not all, but some of the things worrying me are smaller hills for me to conquer. What I mean is, before I got here, I worried that being around kids would send me into flashback mode. In a way I did have a flashback, but it was positive. I was the version of myself who loved being in a school environment. I remembered what it was that drew me into this line of work in the first place, aside from a love of research and literature.”

Appreciation flashes from behind his wire framed glasses. “Talk more about that.”

“There was this small girl, Alexa. I know this will sound dramatic, but I saw myself in her. Down to the hair color and freckles, she reminded me so much of myself. Lost and needing to be found.” The room falls away when I picture the trusting expression she shared with me. “There’s an opportunity for me to connect with children and make a difference in their lives. Clinton robbed me of this back in Chicago, and it’s time I take it back.”

Dr. Greene nods, neither in approval nor disapproval. Neutrality is the theme to his therapy sessions.

“But,” I hedge not making eye contact with him anymore. “There’s a part of me that worries I should have told Sharon about my past. If I told her, though, that might have influenced her decision to hire me and I wouldn’t have this chance to work with kids again. Look at me, I’m not exactly one hundred percent with my mental health.”

Dr. Greene puts his pen down soundlessly and steeples his hands on the desktop. When he drops the pen, I know he’s serious. “Have you not the qualifications for the job?”

“There are pieces of paper that say I have the education to work here, but those don’t account for my shortcomings,” I say quietly.

“What was that?” he asks, not hearing me.

“There’s probably someone out there who deserves the job more than I do.”