Chapel Bay Secrets

Two days before Thanksgiving, Harriet Conley woke with a start, sat up, and rubbed her arms against the chill in the room. But it was more than the cool air, more than the fog outside her window that made the hairs on her arms stand at attention. She felt like she’d forgotten something important, and it unsettled her.

In her dream, she was in a bookstore. An author was signing copies of his book. Harriet blinked. How is that related to me?? Book talks were fun and all, but if she was honest, they sometimes left her remorseful, and a little envious. It had been ages since she’d felt the urge to write. The short stories she’d published after college were gathering dust inside a folder on a shelf in the study. After Arthur died, she’d stopped going to her book group. She hadn’t even crossed the threshold of the local library in over six months. I blame it on that terrible fake reincarnated Ben Franklin jerk who gave the dumb book talk, but there’s something else …

She rubbed sleep from her eyes and sat up in bed. Wait—didn’t I see a flyer about a Meet the Author event coming at the end of the week? Was that what spurred my dream? Harriet rose, dressed, and made her way to the kitchen. She put her drip coffeemaker onto the brew cycle. Where was the Meet the Author event taking place? Was it at the local bookstore? No — that wasn’t right. Her memory was suddenly less like a steel trap and more like a leaky faucet.

Inhaling the rich aroma of her prized Jamaican Blue coffee, Harriet walked into her sitting room. On the walnut secretary, underneath a magazine, she saw her laptop. She pulled out the black swivel chair—ergonomic, naturally—and with just a little searching, she found Chapel Bay’s upcoming literary event. It was only a few days away, sponsored by the library. Lucky I had that dream!

Back in the kitchen, Harriet poured coffee into her favorite mug. It was light blue and displayed Yosemite’s Half Dome. The cup reminded her of the wonderful trips she and Arthur had taken to Yosemite. I miss those days.

As she took another drink of her coffee, Harriet’s thoughts returned to the matter at hand. The magic elixir allowed a plan to form in her mind: Go to the library and find out whether I can help with Friday’s event. The website mentioned that Franklin Fargo was the featured author. Oh, I know who he is …. Dad did legal work for him in the past. He even came over for dinner once or twice. Harriet raised her eyebrows, remembering that Franklin had once been quite handsome. The website displayed a recent photo of him, revealing thinning hair and more eye wrinkles than she remembered, but he was still a good-looking fellow! No harm in looking him up, right?

Decision made, she grabbed an apricot scone, refilled her mug with coffee, donned her raincoat, and headed out the door. Two minutes later, she found a parking spot in front of the library. As she approached the heavy metal and glass door, a lanky man wearing a hat was opening the door from the other side. He held it for her. The guy looked at her for a second longer than decorum dictated.

“Good morning, milady!”

“Oh, thank you very much!” replied Harriet, glad to be out of the chilly air.

“You’re welcome. My pleasure.”

She noticed his eyes were a startling shade of blue, almost azure. Wait ... have we met? Was this the same guy who was walking his dogs on the trail by my home the other day? Harriet shook off the thought and went to the library’s circulation desk. There was work to be done, a plan to be executed.

“Excuse me,” she said to the young man at the desk. “I’m interested in speaking to whomever is in charge of this week’s Meet the Author event. I think it’s Brenda Kato, right?”

Nodding, he picked up the telephone receiver and punched in an extension.

Brenda appeared from the hallway to the left of the desk a few minutes later. Dressed in black pants and an expensive-looking peacock green sweater, she walked toward the desk, a sense of purpose in her long strides. Although she wore a slight smile, her eyes conveyed irritation. Harriet wondered what important library task she’d interrupted.

“Good morning, I’m Brenda,” she said, removing her reading glasses. “I understand you have a question.” Her tone was flat, matching the business-like look on her face.

“Yes, hi. My name is Harriet Conley. You may not remember me, but we met at one of your Meet the Author talks about a year ago. The one by the man who claimed to be Benjamin Franklin reincarnated? Anyway, I’ve lived a few blocks from here for years. My passion is books—reading them, writing them, the whole shebang. I heard about your Meet the Author event this coming Friday. This time, you’re hosting someone special and I would just love to help!”

“Well, that’s wonderful, Ms. … what did you say your name is?” asked Brenda in a slightly warmer tone.

“Oh, just call me Harriet.”

“Okay, then. Harriet, let me put you in touch with our volunteer coordinator. I’m sure she still needs folks to help with serving snacks, setup and cleanup, that kind of thing,” Brenda said.

“Is it possible to obtain Mr. Fargo’s contact information? He’s an old friend of the family and I would just love to have some time to chat with him away from the event. I have a spacious Victorian home, and I know he would enjoy coming over. In fact, he had dinner there with me and my family many years ago. You must have his cell number, right?” Harriet asked, left eyebrow raised in what she hoped was a somewhat authoritative manner.

“Oh, no, I don’t think I can give out his private number, Harriet. I’m sorry, but I need to keep that sort of information confidential. Perhaps if you help during the event, you can strike up a conversation with Franklin and make time to get together that way,” replied Brenda.

Harriet pursed her lips. This wasn’t going the way she had hoped. She’s obviously a “rule follower,” Harriet mused, stifling a snort. Well, you can hardly blame her. Poor thing probably has to answer to a curmudgeon.

“Oh, I see. Well, could you at least give him MY number? Here, I’ll write it down.” Harriet pulled out a pad of yellow Post-it notes and her green pen.

“Thank you, Harriet. I’ll let Mr. Fargo know you came by. And here comes April, the volunteer coordinator. Would you like to speak with her about volunteering on Friday?”

“Oh, sure.” Harriet thanked Brenda, and walked toward the tall, slender, red-haired woman who had ducked in from the hallway. The woman asked for her contact information and promised to get in touch.

I guess serving cheese and crackers is better than nothing. It wasn’t all that Harriet had hoped for, but at least she could start getting back into the local literary scene. Perhaps even renew her acquaintance with the dashing Franklin Fargo!

Harriet’s head spun with literary possibilities. Could I write a novel about people I admire? Perhaps members of this community, or maybe people from the past who shaped the Chapel Bay of today? With a spring in her step, she walked outside. The scent of rain was in the air. Harriet put her raincoat on and got in the car just before the raindrops hit the pavement.