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  "Soufflé is overrated," Kathy agreed, smiling. An image came to my head, of Kathy in a kitchen, proudly offering someone a wedge of her prized quiche.

  I didn't know where the idea had come from, but I ran with it. "But you know what's not overrated? Quiche."

  Her orange-brown eyes widened behind her round glasses, and she hooted, "Whoooo doesn't love quiche?"

  I got a mental image of a box of recipes. "I'm on the hunt for a great quiche recipe," I said, which was a string of words I'd never expected to hear coming from my mouth. I've never been a fan of cooking by the rules, or cooking at all. Recipes, I've often joked, were for the olden days, before the invention of takeout menus.

  Kathy grabbed a pen and note card from a nearby stack and began hastily writing something out. Her handwriting matched her appearance. Her v's were small and pointy like her nose, and her o's were perfectly round like her glasses.

  "You'll love my recipe for asparagus and crispy bacon quiche," she said.

  I took the note card and held it to my chest. "Thank you so much," I said. "Now, are you going to tell me what FPF stands for?"

  She glanced over at the remaining cake. "Fresh Pastry Friday," she said with a sigh. "It's also the day we clean out the fridge."

  "Put me on the rotation for this week," I said.

  She gave me a blank look. "So, you're staying?"

  "Of course," I said. Why wouldn't I be staying? Don't tell me you guys have a trap door here, leading to a dungeon where you dispose of new librarians who don't fit in."

  Her blank look became one of puzzlement. "Trap door?"

  "Never mind." I gave her a big smile. "Break time's over. Back to acronyms. Tell me more about your WSC and ILL."

  * * *

  Kathy continued to train me throughout the morning.

  The library's procedures were not atypical, but the place did have some interesting quirks.

  One unusual thing in particular was the Grumpy Corner. This was a darkened corner of the staff lounge that was outfitted with beanbag chairs, big pillows, and two space heaters for winter use. Any member of staff could go there to chill at any time, even outside of official breaks, without judgment.

  "That's a really good idea," I said when Kathy showed me the Grumpy Corner.

  "Isn't it, though? I love being a librarian, but, well, you know."

  I agreed completely. Being a librarian is a wonderful job, but like all careers, it comes with specific stresses. Patrons expect you to have all the answers, and sometimes you don't. When one thing goes wrong, it can become a cascade. A patron complaining about the homeless gentleman snoring in the science fiction section can lead to tension that aggravates the RSI earned from hours of repetitive book shelving. And then there's the local Conspiracy Guy, the students who expect you to do their homework for them, and the people who hand you their phone because they can't understand the accent of the person they've reached at customer service for their online banking.

  At lunch time, Kathy forced me to go on my break. I wanted to keep learning more, but she insisted I take my mandatory meal break.

  Alone in the staff lounge, I nibbled through my lunch while jotting down a to-do list for home. I wrote finish unpacking. That didn't feel very inspiring, so I wrote underneath it, buy new boots to celebrate being unpacked. Then, upon further consideration, I crossed out everything except buy new boots.

  I finished my list and still had a few minutes left, so I looked around for a way to make myself useful. Kathy had mentioned that a fridge clean-out happened on Fridays, so I got a head start on things. I opened the staff fridge and removed all the plastic containers holding moldy leftovers and mystery mush, chucked the food into the compost bin, and gave all the containers a good scrub with hot, soapy water.

  I dried my hands and ran out to the circ desk to relieve Kathy for her own break.

  She returned a few minutes later, clutched my arm with her cold hand, and whispered, "Who threw out my lunch? Whoooo?" Her golden-orange, owl-like eyes blinked behind her round glasses.

  "Who?" I winced and thumbed my chest. "That would be me. But I swear I only tossed out the old stuff that looked gross."

  "You threw out my acorn jelly?" Her voice cracked like she was on the verge of crying.

  "Was it a brown, gelatinous sludge?"

  Kathy nodded sniffed. "It's called dotori muk. My Korean neighbor made it for me."

  "Does your neighbor not like you very much?" I grinned, waiting for her laugh, but it never came.

  "Who would throw out someone's lunch? And then joke about it? Did Vinnie put you up to this? I should have known better."

  I didn't know who Vinnie was, but didn't ask her to clarify. I hung my head. "It was all my idea. Just me. I'm so sorry, boss. I'll run out now and buy you a whole new lunch. What do you want? Sushi? Pizza? Let me make it up to you." I gazed at her with my most repentant expression.

  "Never mind," she said softly, turning away. "You have a patron waiting at circ."

  She was right. A woman stood at the counter, impatiently tapping her library card on the top of a stack of books. Card tapping was the height of passive aggressiveness in a library, but maybe I deserved it.

  I checked out the patron's books, and when I was done with her, I popped my head into the staff lounge.

  Kathy was sitting in the Grumpy Corner with a blanket over her face.

  My heart sunk.

  So much for my first day.

  My Monday had started off so well. The patrons I'd met so far were wonderful. I'd introduced some juvenile readers to the perfect new series. And I'd experienced the profound joy of reuniting an older gentleman with a beloved story he'd feared he'd never see again, its title forgotten long before the emotional resonance. With the book in hand, he'd practically skipped out the front door.

  But all of that felt hollow now that I'd failed to win over my new boss.

  I wanted to throw myself at her feet and beg forgiveness. If she were my daughter, I'd know exactly what to do. I'd tickle her and wrestle her for the best beanbag chair. But Kathy Carmichael was an adult, a grown woman with somewhere between two and five full-grown sons—she'd kept mentioning various sons in passing but hadn't gone into detail.

  I left the head librarian alone and decided to try harder on Tuesday.

  I kept my head down for the rest of the day and focused on doing my job.

  At the end of my shift, I used the library's old-fashioned punch card system to punch out my time card with a loud KERCLUNK.

  The loud punch card system was another of the institution's strange little quirks. It was an awfully noisy choice for a place of quiet.

  As I exited through the front door, I pulled out my phone and checked my daughter's recent messages. According to the last grouping of texts, she'd had a smooth first day at her new school. She was staying late to get some extra homework. The teachers didn't want to overload her, but she insisted.

  I smiled. That was my Zoey.

  Since I had some free time, I took out my to-do list to figure out what to do next.

  There was only one item: buy new boots.

  Chapter 9

  After the dry air of the library, the outside world felt moist and breezy. The clean, floral scent of spring invigorated me. I had a spring in my step as I walked down the street. The pretty town of Wisteria was all around me, so charming with its old stone buildings and many downtown churches. I'd never seen so many churches in such a relatively small area.

  Something dark in the sky caught my eye. I looked up at the biggest bird I've ever seen. Was it a bald eagle? They did nest in this area. But no, the huge bird's head wasn't white. And if anything, this winged beast was larger. What was bigger than a bald eagle? My librarian brain kicked into research mode. By biggest, are we looking for heaviest by weight, or longest wingspan? I'd looked up this exact question earlier today, for a patron. The Andean Condor of South America is the largest flying bird in the world by combined measurement of weight and wingspan
. It has a wing span of twelve feet. What does the Andean Condor eat? Anything it wants!

  The giant bird, which couldn't have been the Andean Condor given I wasn't currently in the Andes Mountains, flapped away out of my sight.

  My fingers twitched. I rubbed my hands together while I kept my eyes on the sky. My hands felt funny, like they were crackling.

  The strange tingling sensation was probably my skin getting used to the particular brand of hand sanitizer used at the WPL. There's nothing quite like an alcohol-based lotion to let you know how many fresh paper cuts you've acquired during a day at the library.

  The bird didn't reappear, so I continued my walk.

  I reached a corner and turned left without thinking, as though I'd lived in the town far longer than three days plus two nights.

  Strangely, there seemed to be something pulling me from the inside, guiding me somewhere. I kept walking, following the pull, curious to see what would happen next.

  I'd never felt anything quite like this. It was like hunger, but not hunger. I did have a powerful craving for something. Fried chicken? Carrot cake? That Malaysian durian fruit that smells like rotten onions and pungent gym socks? No, this craving was more complex.

  The feeling, which was near my stomach but not in my stomach, tugged me down the street. An image of leather boots came to mind.

  Wow, I thought. I must really need to buy new boots.

  As I passed a store window and glanced at my reflection, I noticed a familiar figure behind me, across the street. Had Zoey finished at school already and come to meet up with me? When I turned to wave at my daughter, though, she wasn't there. Just happy-looking people walking to and fro. I caught a glimpse of the back of a woman who had long, red hair. But she wasn't my daughter. Zoey would never wear a big skirt with giant flowers all over it, let alone paired with a floral blouse.

  A door opened next to me, and the scent of leather hit my nostrils.

  My brain practically screamed, new boots!

  I wasn't normally such a shopaholic. I was a little concerned about these new compulsions I was feeling. I had half a mind to go straight home and put my feet up until it passed, but the other half of my mind was already propelling me through the shoe store's entrance.

  I decided to roll with it. Even if there was some mystical force compelling me to visit that particular store on that particular street, what was the worst thing that could happen?

  I looked around and got my bearings.

  Like most of the stores in Wisteria, this was an independent seller, not part of a chain. The decor was old-fashioned, but the store had wonderful boots, in every heel height and color imaginable.

  A friendly-looking man with a white mustache gave me a cheerful sales pitch. "We're having a special today, since it's Monday. You can try on every boot in the store for free." He grinned to show me he was joking. "That's the special deal we run on days that end in Y. Left foot and right foot. All test-walks inside the store are free."

  I smiled back. "Is everyone in this town so delightful?"

  "Yes," he said with a serious nod. "It's the law, ma'am. See any shoes you like?"

  I pointed to some cute saddle shoes with dark laces. "I'd love to start with those if you have them in my size, which is—"

  He held up one hand and cut me off. "Don't tell me! Most people don't know their true size anyway, so we'd better get you measured up." He waved me over to a bench. "Have a seat, please, and remove those horrendous things."

  I gave him a mock-indignant look as I started unlacing my shoes. They were basic and comfortable, but I couldn't defend them. They really were horrendous, and we both knew it.

  The door to the shop jingled, and another customer came in. The white-mustached man did a double-take as he greeted the new customer. I was curious about who or what had surprised him, but when I turned to look, the customer had already ducked behind a display.

  The white-mustached man kneeled before me, lifted one of my feet carefully, and started to measure it. To my surprise, he didn't use a metal or wood device. He placed my foot against his forearm. Sole to skin. He had small markings up and down his forearm, possibly tattoos. The fitting process was more intimate than I'd expected, but after a few days in Wisteria, I was starting to expect the unexpected.

  "Interesting," he said. "You have a foot twin, and she's sitting right behind you."

  "Foot twin?" I glanced over my shoulder. The other customer who'd just arrived had taken a seat on the wooden bench behind me. I couldn't see her face, but her long hair was the same shade of red as mine.

  The shopkeeper didn't say more about my alleged foot twin. He winked at me and said, "I'll be back in a jiffy with your new favorite boots."

  When he returned, he had a long box containing boots. He'd completely ignored my request to try on the saddle shoes. He must have known I wasn't serious about buying them. The boots he'd brought out were buttery soft and fit like they'd been custom made. I hadn't even finished lacing them, and they were already my new favorite boots. I reached for the price tag with some trepidation, but the price was very reasonable.

  "Perfect," I said. "I'll take these ones, and I'll even wear them out."

  "Of course you will." He wore a wide grin below his bushy white mustache. He flicked his gaze up at something behind me, frowned, and looked into my eyes again. "I hope you don't mind me asking, but how closely are you two gorgeous redheads related?"

  I turned around just as the woman on the bench behind me turned. We looked into each other's hazel eyes.

  I felt my eyebrows rising with surprise. I saw hers rise in unison. I opened my mouth. She opened hers. The effect was like looking in a mirror.

  The stranger and I had the exact same coloring, from our red hair to our hazel eyes, and the same oval-shaped faces. She was a few years older than me, but I could see why the store owner pegged us as being related. To me, the woman with the red hair looked like a computer simulation of an imaginary person, halfway between me and my mother. I tilted my head to the side, wondering who I looked like to her.

  Without waiting for an answer, the shopkeeper said, "You must be sisters."

  "I don't have a sister," I said, breaking eye contact with the woman to take in her floral blouse and flower-dotted skirt. She had been the person who'd caught my eye from across the street.

  The woman smiled. "Such a shame you don't have a sister."

  "But I do have a few stray relatives," I said. "Weird ones."

  She gave me a knowing look. "Is that so?"

  I folded one leg under me so I could face her squarely. She looked exactly like my mother, the way I remembered her. I reached out and touched my finger to her shoulder to make sure she was solid. She was real.

  "I know your name," I said. "You're Ms. Riddle."

  She smiled. "I am."

  "And you know a man named Griebel. He's a short man who looks like a gnome."

  Her eyebrows rose higher. "Have you been following me around, Zara?"

  I looked down at the flowers on her skirt, and it hit me. My mother had always refused to wear anything floral because it reminded her too much of her weird, bratty little sister.

  I snapped my fingers. "Aunt Zinnia!"

  My mother's younger sister smiled. "In the flesh."

  "Well, this is quite the coincidence," I said.

  She narrowed her hazel eyes and pursed her lips. "Don't tell me your mother raised you to believe in coincidences."

  Chapter 10

  I stared at my long-lost relative.

  Aunt Zinnia didn't think that the two of us bumping into each other in a small town boot store was a coincidence?

  Wow. She was exactly as crazy as my mother had always said.

  The eager shopkeeper, who'd been listening quietly the whole time, clapped his hands. "How wonderful! A surprise family reunion happening right here in my shoe store. I knew something was afoot, so to speak, when I noticed you were foot twins."

  I couldn't tear my eyes aw
ay from my aunt. She looked so much like my mother, who'd been dead for five years. It had been at my mother's funeral where I'd last seen my aunt. Before that, she hadn't been part of our lives.

  Since the last time I'd seen Zinnia, she had grown to look even more like my mother. Looking into those familiar hazel eyes was like staring at a ghost.

  My whole body was numb. My jaw ached, and my eyes burned.

  I didn't know whether to laugh, cry, scream, or put my head between my knees and wait for the nausea to pass. Just when I thought I was going to embarrass myself by exploding into a million sobbing pieces, a cool breeze tickled at the back of my head.

  The coolness reached around, pressing on my forehead like a cool hand. My ears and nostrils felt icy, as though the air around me had turned to liquid peppermint and I was breathing it in.

  The coolness floated up, through my sinuses.

  I sneezed three times.

  And then, a wave of tranquility washed over me. I was staring into the eyes of my crazy aunt, who I never thought I'd see again, and I knew exactly what to do.

  I heard a little voice in the back of my head. Never pass up the opportunity to be a gracious hostess and make the first move!

  "Zinnia, darling," I said calmly. The words flowed from my mouth like liquid peppermint. "You simply must come for dinner at my house. We shall have rack of lamb, and you can meet my daughter. How about seven o'clock? We'll have cocktails at seven and dinner by eight, like civilized people. How does Friday work for you, darling?"

  Zinnia's hazel eyes twitched. Her jaw moved a few times but no sound came out.

  We faced off a full minute before she slowly turned away from me, leaned forward over her knees, and began taking off her shoes.

  "Friday works for me," she said without looking up.

  The shopkeeper, who had disappeared while I was sneezing, returned with a tissue for me and a pair of boots for Zinnia.