Lethal Literature. Kym Roberts
so much. Most mornings he waited for a cup of joe until he got to the bookstore; on the days he didn’t open The Book Barn Princess, he had a cup of fresh brew at home in his state-of-the-art kitchen.
I looked down at the two plastic cups of sweet tea in my hands and wondered why I’d bought two. Two empty coffee cups were sitting on the kitchen table. I set the tea on the table, picked up the coffee cups, and carried them to the sink.
Dad had just shared a cup of coffee with Ava after their night together—though I really didn’t want to think about his night with Ava. But it was stuck in my brain like the sound of a greased pig squealing in an arena full of kids. Nipping at this end of my brain and screaming at the other, sending it straight through my right lobe into my left, it wouldn’t shut up or disappear.
“So . . . is this the beginning of something new?” I asked.
“Are you planning to bring me breakfast from the diner every morning?”
I rolled my eyes at his attempt to hide what I’d seen. “You know what I’m talking about, Daddy.”
“I think you’re stepping into waters you don’t belong in, Princess.” My nickname rolled off his tongue with more than a hint of irritation.
I searched his face and could see he was dead serious. He wasn’t going to discuss Ava James with me. I didn’t know if that meant they were serious or if it meant they were less than serious. His face was a mask of discretion. He was not going to discuss her with anyone. Ava James had his ear . . . and more.
“You’re right. I’m sorry, Daddy. I was out of line questioning you about your love life. When you’re ready to talk about it, I’m here.”
Dad reached over and squeezed my hand. “Now let’s see what you brought for breakfast. At this point, I’m pretty sure I could eat the bag and think it tasted good.”
We ate our breakfast of eggs, bacon, and waffles made out of Texas Toast while discussing our upcoming fundraiser for foster kids. Ava James had pitched the idea to my dad and he’d been all for it. I was too, but now I wondered how personal that pitch had been.
Ava had been a customer of our family bookstore for as long as I could remember. When I was a kid she used to come in every now and then with Isla Sperry, the old sheriff’s wife. When I was a teenager, she was a dispatcher at the sheriff’s office, working for the same sheriff who spouted scriptures every time I so much as breathed in the direction of trouble. When the sheriff brought me to the station after a wild night of leading a cheer from the top of the town’s water tower, it’d been Ava James sitting at the one-person phone system in the sheriff’s office who tampered down his lecture straight out of 1 Peter 3:3–4.
“‘Women with unfading beauty of a gentle and quiet spirit are precious to God,’” Sheriff Sperry had said.
Ava had turned around and looked at him with one eyebrow raised. “You can’t tell Princess to be quiet and gentle, then turn around and quote John 10:10 to me. Princess is literally stopping ‘the thief who comes to steal and kill and destroy’ by sharing her joy with the world. Remember? ‘Jesus came that they may have life and have it abundantly.’ Princess has life—abundantly.”
At that moment, I’d felt like I had a big sister looking out for me. It was wonderful. I’d never be able to quote scripture in an argument. But Ava could, and she did it effectively.
The sheriff’s authoritarian attitude had turned into a pained expression as he looked between the two of us. Even at my tender age, I knew there was something important hanging in the air between them. And when the sheriff walked down the hallway to his office, I’d dared to complain to Ava about the old coot.
That had been a mistake.
My big sister disappeared. Ava had practically raised her claws in his defense. He’d been like a father to her when she’d aged out of the foster care system. Without him, she wasn’t sure what street corner she would have been sleeping on. It was the last time I’d complained about her boss. At least to her. It also explained why she went to work for Sperry when he became a judge, and it explained her passion for collecting the books we couldn’t sell, to give to foster children every month.
My dad broke into my memories. “When are you leaving for Dallas?”
“Tomorrow evening after I get off at the bookstore. I’m going to stay for the weekend and do a little shopping.”
Dad’s lip quirked. “I hear Mateo has the weekend off as well.”
“Oh?” I began clearing the table to avoid any further comments. The last thing I wanted to discuss with my daddy was Mateo Espinosa. Mateo and I hadn’t told anyone that we were going to a concert in Dallas together. For him, it was a privacy issue. For me it was complicated. We were taking a big step I wasn’t sure I was ready for. During the past month, I’d found myself questioning my intelligence. Mateo was the current county sheriff, and I’d already had one bad relationship with the lead law enforcement officer in town. What if things went south between the two of us?
Would he quote the Bible to me as well? Would he be there every time I went two miles over the speed limit? Come running when I didn’t cross the street at the intersection and tell me I was jaywalking? Or would he focus on first-time offenses I hadn’t been old enough to experience with the old sheriff? Like shake his head at the “wild girl” in town when I came out of the Tool Shed Tavern a little tipsy after a Monday night football game, then arrest me for public intoxication. Those fears were very real . . . to me, anyway.
When my thoughts went in that direction, breathing became difficult, and as the weekend drew closer, those moments of panic seemed to be increasing. I finished clearing the table as my dad leaned back and patted his belly.
“Is Ava still working as Judge Sperry’s clerk?” I asked.
Dad stiffened, the way he always did when I talked about the county judge who used to be my archnemesis. Unlike Ava, my relationship with Judge Sperry didn’t contain fond childhood memories. They consisted of the man who had been sheriff looking for every reason in the world to spout the Bible to me. If I breathed a hint of rebellion, I somehow ended up staring at the gold star on his chest, saying “yes, sir” and “no, sir” before I’d even made a nuisance of myself. It always ended with Sheriff Sperry telling me my evil ways would send him to his grave.
I never quite understood why. Maybe that type of tough love had been a saving grace for Ava. For me, it’d been a pain in my backside and his nickname “the Judge” seemed to fit very well since the man had been evaluating my behavior since I stepped into town at the age of eight.
“Yes, but that may change soon,” Daddy answered.
“Why?”
“Ava said Isla Sperry’s Alzheimer’s has taken a dramatic turn for the worse in the past month. She keeps wandering away from the nursing home and making wild accusations about the people she cares most about. The Judge is thinking about retiring.”
“What? I had no idea she was suffering from Alzheimer’s disease. I’m sorry to hear that. Isla Sperry was always good to me. I hate that she’s going through that.”
Dad cleared his throat, and I could have sworn there was a shimmer of tears in his eyes before he stood up and turned toward the hallway. “Me too. Me too, Princess.”
As he walked down the hallway I couldn’t help but wonder if I was missing something once again, but then his voice turned loud and clear when he said, “I’m going to take a shower. You better get to the store and open it. We don’t want the customers busting down the Barn door.”
We both knew there was no threat of our customers breaking down our doors. We also knew that something was bothering him, and my daddy wasn’t about to talk about it . . . yet.
Chapter Two
I made my way to the Barn and slammed the truck door closed before approaching the store. My lighthearted mood had turned sour. Princess number two greeted me on the porch