Page 50 of Charlotte

Lottie liked it at once. Then she saw Jack’s face and understood liking it did not mean she had the right to use it.

The red-bearded logger noticed too late the room had not followed his amusement. He pushed away from the doorframe. “Well, we ought to get back before the boss has our hides.”

“You never borrowed a thing,” Olsen said.

“I borrowed the sight of a shelf. That’s enough education for one day.”

They left with more noise than purpose. Lottie remained behind the lending table with Peterson’s ledger entry open before her.

PETERSON.

Only Peterson.

She touched the blank space after the name with the end of the pencil, then pulled her hand back. It was not hers to fill.

The day warmed as it went on. By early afternoon, Mrs. Beck had brought cookies “for library encouragement,” which proved successful with children and deeply suspicious to Delly when she passed the door on her way toward the camp road.

“You are bribing readers,” Delly said.

“I am nourishing them.”

“That is what bribery often says when it comes in a napkin.”

Lottie took a cookie and handed it to her. “For your husband.”

Delly looked at it as if it were an argument wrapped in sugar. “He may not like cookies.”

“He likes pie.”

“That is documented.”

“Then document a cookie.”

Delly accepted it, though she tried not to look pleased.

Not long after, a call came from the direction of the camp. It was distant, carried thin by the wind, but sharp enough the two boys on the meeting hall steps stopped their game. A second shout followed. Then the sound of running feet on the road.

Lottie went to the door.

“Someone’s hurt,” one boy said, and darted toward the street before she could ask how he knew.

The town seemed to hear the news before the news had words. A man ran past toward Dr. Paine’s office. Mrs. Schulte crossed herself and started toward the church. Lottie stood in the doorway with one hand against the frame and thought of Delly carrying a dinner pail toward the camp.

Peterson appeared at the bend in the road.

He was walking fast toward the meeting hall, a nail box in his left hand. He stopped when the runner reached him. The boy pointed uphill, talking too quickly for Lottie to hear. Peterson’s head turned toward the camp.

He set the nail box on the boardwalk and started back the way he had come.

“Mr. Peterson!”

He looked over his shoulder.

“Is it bad?”

“Likely.”

“Is Delly there?”