Page 54 of Sugar & Shadows

I stopped, admiring the We Support Mayor Gabe sign inside Bean There, Done That—my new favorite coffee shop—though when a frigid breeze ruffled my jacket, I quickly continued to the library.

People were angry and frustrated. They were searching for answers and in need of leadership. Their fears were valid. But while the recall supporters were dead set on taking Gabe down, not one had come up with a solution or a viable replacement, and if he were removed from office without a secure plan, that would cause more delay, loss, and confusion.

Not that I planned to die on that particular hill today.

With my coat pulled tightly around me, I hitched my bag on my shoulder and pushed the heavy oak door open. There was too much work to do.

As I stepped into the familiar building, my blood pressure immediately lowered. The library was warm and inviting and surprisingly busy for nine on a Saturday morning. This had been my haven growing up. A quiet place to study, to get away when life was overwhelming. And it had been filled with all the escapism a kid could ever need. Since then it had gone through updates and improvements, but the feeling remained. As well as the smell. Books and leather and a hint of sweetness.

My mom, who stood behind the main desk, rocking a mint green cardigan and her jeweled glasses, leaned across it to kiss my cheek. “I just started a fresh pot of coffee.”

I gave her a smile. “Thanks.”

“Meg sent me a bunch of email attachments to print for you. Are they safe to open?” She winked.

With Meg, one never knew, but I suspected they were the state finance audits I’d requested.

After I’d confirmed that she could, I went left. I had just approached the back hall where the meeting rooms were tucked away when a familiar voice called out.

It was deep and masculine. But also animated and silly.

And it was followed by raucous higher-pitched giggles. A lot of them.

My feet stuttered to a stop, my body knowing before my brain had caught up.

Holding my breath, I slunk toward the children’s room.

“And then the brave little sloth said I don’t think so!”

The group of kids erupted into giggles again.

In the reading corner, sitting on a tiny red stool, was Gabriel Harding himself, holding up a picture book up so the assembled crowd of children hanging on his every word could see pictures as he read.

He was committed. With silly faces and character-specific voices.

Not polite or performative, but fully in the moment. He went on, something about a snake, and leaned in conspiratorially. “Guys, do you think Sammy the Sloth should open the door?”

“Nooo,” screamed the chorus of voices.

Gabe widened his eyes and reeled back, feigning surprise. “I don’t know. Seems trustworthy.”

“Never trust a snake,” one kid yelled.

With a gasp, Gabe pointed at him. “You think he’s lying?”

The kids lost it. One fell over, giggling, as others shouted theories.

“Snakes are slimy and will make a mess in the house.”

The charming scene made my heart flutter strangely.

“What about the baboon?” one kid shouted, pounding his little fist on the floor. “He’s up to no good.”

Gabe turned the page with flair, affecting a new high-pitched voice. “I knew I’d regret this,” he squeaked.

I leaned against a shelf, unable to walk away, despite how annoyed I was by how good he was at this.

His deep voice was smooth and even. Slowing down and speeding up at precisely the right times. His performance reminded me of how good he was at debate.