The White Bridge

By Nona Austin Roberts

On August 31, 1940, a beautiful warm summer night, a night when no one could have imagined that something so evil could happen, an innocent young White girl, barely fifteen, named Claudine Williams, was murdered under the White Bridge, in a small Southern town of Pixley, by Olin Chilton, a fourteen-year-old Negro boy who was immediately arrested, convicted, and forgotten until fourteen years later when Jake Ross, a Yankee attorney, comes to town and lets it be known that he is there to prove that the Negro boy was innocent.

Rachael McAllister, the twenty-four-year-old young woman who is head librarian and town historian, is one of the first to encounter Mr. Ross when he comes to see her to request her permission to look at the town's records. Rachael knows nothing of his purpose, and since she believes that the books and the information in the library are for everyone--and the only requirement is that you follow the rules, she allows him unrestricted access.

In the time of Jim Crow, the Southern town of Pixley is not about to let this Yankee attorney destroy their past and disparage their integrity without a fight, and a can of worms is opened, which ultimately involves the whole town.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Christian Faith Publishing, Inc.
• Release date: Feb 16, 2022
• ISBN: 9781639618439

Book preview

Chapter 1

May 1954

Rachael pulled on her stockings and hooked them to her garter belt. In less than a month, it would be warm enough to justify not wearing them at all. But not quite yet. That would be against convention. Not that she was totally opposed to going against convention, but she usually chose her battle lines a little more carefully than a pair of nylons. Besides, she noticed, while straightening the seams in front of the full-length mirror, they did make her legs look nice. Still, she wouldn’t be unhappy when the end of May came, and she could wear her dresses without nylons and feel the material against her bare skin.

It was promising to be a warm day with only a slight possibility of showers, so she chose a light, short-sleeved green sweater and a straight, similar-colored skirt that came down below the crown of her knee. After she slipped on her low-heeled pumps, she moved to the dressing table, brushed her thick shoulder-length, auburn hair back behind her ears on both sides, then swept it up into a bun and held it there with a wire holder and some well-placed barrettes. She applied some mascara, a little rouge, some lipstick, and took a long last look at herself in the full-length mirror that stood by the chest of drawers.

Satisfied that everything was correct, she went back to the dressing table, kissed the tip of her finger, and placed it against the picture of a young, handsome man in a uniform.

It was always the last thing she did whenever she left her room. When Roy was first killed in Korea, it seemed necessary to her, part of the grieving process. Now, four years later, it was more habit than grief, but somehow still necessary.

Sometimes, when she looked at his picture, she saw his father, Roy Sr., same wavy brown hair, same sparkly hazel eyes and wide smile. Other times, she would try to imagine what he would look like now, at twenty-nine, or try to recall his face when they said goodbye at the train station. That was the hardest part because she couldn’t remember it very well.

It was December 1950 when he left. A light sprinkling of snow was on the ground. She had the flu and the aches and pains and everything else that went with it. It took all the strength she had just to be there. After her third trip to the restroom, Roy had insisted his parents take her home, and even though she protested vehemently, they did. Her last memory of him, alone on the platform, in his uniform, holding his suitcase, was blurred by weeping eyes and overwhelming nausea. She couldn’t even remember if they had kissed goodbye.

After one more quick look in the mirror at the seams in her nylons, she went downstairs to the kitchen.

Aunt Ella, short for Ellamane, was sitting at the kitchen table with the Bible open in front of her, when Rachael walked in. She looked up, closed the book, and removed her glasses. You look nice, she said. I’ve always said that green is very becoming to you with your auburn hair and blue eyes. You look so much like your mother. Green was a great color on her too.

Rachael was accustomed to being compared to her mother, Bonita Sue. It had been happening for about eight years now ever since she turned sixteen and put on heels and lipstick for the first time. Anyone who ever knew her mother mentioned it, including her daddy. Most of the time she didn’t mind since the majority of what she knew about her mother was complimentary.

She was said to have been beautiful, smart, and kind, with a loving nature and a good figure. There were two character traits, however, that Aunt Ella frequently mentioned over the years that she seemed to consider to be flaws. You’re too stubborn, Rachael, she would say. Just like your mother, or, You’re too independent, also like her mother, as though independence was something to be scorned.

Rachael didn’t know it (because it was never mentioned), but her independence came as much from her aunt Ella as it had from her mother. It was also said that, sometimes, she had too much pride too. But that was attributed to her father, not to her mother. She often thought it was nice that there was at least something she got from her father.

Thank you, Auntie, she said, giving her a hug.

There’s a biscuit in the oven for you, she said, and you’re welcome.

I only have time for a cup of coffee this morning, Auntie, she said, grabbing herself a cup from the pot on the stove. Do you need anything from the store? I can pick it up on my way home tonight.

No. I’m going to the missionary meeting with Daisy. She’ll take me to the store after the meeting.

Are you sure, Aunt Ella? she asked, looking lovingly at her. You know I’d be glad to go, and it wouldn’t be any trouble.

Ella lifted her coffee cup, took a sip, and answered stubbornly, I know you would, but it’s just not necessary.

Rachael smiled at her aunt’s insistence. Okay. Well, I’ll see you when I get home then, she said and kissed her goodbye, shaking her head and thinking, What would I do without my aunt?

Ellamane McAllister had been living with her and her father since her mother died. At first it was supposed to be temporary, just until her father could find a nurse and a housekeeper. But it hadn’t worked out that way. She was her daddy’s older sister and a spinster by choice, or so her father had told her. But over the years, in bits and pieces, here and there, Rachael felt she had learned the truth. When Aunt Ella arrived, she was engaged to be married. For six months, her fiancé had sent her letters twice a week, professing his love, and she had written back twice a week. But then, abruptly, the letters had stopped. He had married someone else. Her aunt had never spoken of it, so she had never asked.

Chapter 2

The large wooden door of the library opened with the key and a familiar loud squeak. Rachael went inside, pulled the key from the lock, and made a mental note to oil the hinges as she bent down to the floor and picked up the mail that had been pushed through the slot in the door. For some reason, it never seemed to land in the box that was attached to the door for that purpose, but she had given up complaining about it because it didn’t do any good.

Art, the mailman, who had been on the job for over thirty years, was about ready to retire and didn’t have much use for the library because he and his World War I buddies had wanted the old mercantile building for a meeting place for themselves. But Rachael had convinced the town council and the mayor that a library was needed and that it should be right there in the middle of town.

To be fair, though, she had found Art and the other veterans another location for their meetings, but he wasn’t satisfied. She guessed the mail on the floor was his small way of punishing her or of reminding her to feel guilty. But it didn’t work, for she loved the library and truly believed it was needed, and she was committed to it.

As she proceeded to her office in the far-left corner of the room, she drank in the odor of leather, wood, and books all mixed together. It gave her so much pleasure. That books even had an odor was hard for most people to believe, so she usually kept that observation to herself.

Once inside, she laid the mail on her desk, opened one of its deep drawers, and slipped her purse into it. Then she walked back through the library, making sure the books were in even rows and in their proper places on the shelves, the chairs were positioned correctly at the three reading tables, and everything was properly dusted and there were no smudges on the windows.

These were the tasks she did routinely before the library opened. They were very ordinary tasks, but Rachael was never bored by them because she was devoted to the library and had a passion for books, rarely missing an opportunity to share that passion in the hopes that it would be catching and more people would come to love books as she did. She believed that everyone had that capacity and only needed the right book to make it happen.

Her favorite part of the job was seeing someone’s face light up when she found that right book for them and sparked the joy of reading. Once you had that, she believed, you were hooked for life.

Abruptly, there was a frantic banging on the front door. Rachael muttered, Oops, under her breath and hurried to open it. Good morning, Clorisa, she said cheerfully.

Clorisa gave her only a half smile, which was really more like a grimace, as she charged inside. You forgot to unlock the door again, Rachael, she said, admonishing her. I don’t like standing out there waiting on the steps. It makes me feel like I don’t belong here.

I’m sorry, Rachael said as she released the lock on the door to make sure it would remain unlocked for the rest of the day. Her apology was genuine and without any excuses.

Humph, Clorisa said, and rushed past her down the hall near the back door to a small room where she hung her coat. There was also a small table pushed against the wall, with a chair on each side that could be used for eating lunch or taking a break, and a square mirror on the wall, next to the bathroom, that she and Rachael used.

Rachael watched Clorisa’s fast walk thinking of how many times she had apologized to her in the last two years for small, real and imagined, indignities. Cranky Clorisa was the name most people had given her, and it was well-founded, not that they would say that in front of her.

How can you work with that woman? Aunt Ellamane asked whenever she came to the library. She finds something to complain about in everything. Surely you could find someone more pleasant to be here. Her thoughts were echoed by others, including the mayor, Mr. Johnson, whose continued support of the library she needed, along with the city council. Nevertheless, Rachael wasn’t persuaded. She knew the bookshelves like the back of her hand, but Clorisa knew them just as well or better. It was the same with the reference books. Clorisa was just as skilled as she was. But most importantly, Clorisa shared Rachael’s devotion to the library and its value to the community.

This was necessary since Rachael fought a constant battle to keep the library open, making speeches at women’s luncheons and calling on businesses to solicit donations. It also meant that there were times when she and Clorisa voluntarily reduced their already small paychecks because they needed more money to pay the bills. Clorisa complained about it bitterly, but she stayed, and Rachael knew she would be there as long as the library was open. Consequently, there was almost nothing that could make Rachael fire her. And Clorisa knew it. This made her comfortable with being as cranky as she wished to be, and that was considerable.

Minutes later, Rachael was in her office going through the mail when Clorisa burst in with the next week’s schedule in her hand. Dropping it on the desk where Rachael could see it, she asked, in a huff, Am I reading this right? You have two school groups coming in on the same day?

Rachael was aware of what it said, but she gave it a long glance anyway just so Clorisa couldn’t say she wasn’t paying attention. Then she looked up at the impatient, waiting Clorisa, making sure to catch her eye.

Clorisa was particular about her appearance (everyone else’s too, for that matter) and, as usual, was put together well from her short, weekly-coiffed silver hair and simple, perfectly applied makeup, to her fitted clothes, manicured, but not polished, nails (polish looks cheap on older women, she said) and fashionable, low-heeled pumps.

You read it right, Clorisa, Rachael said. But it couldn’t be helped. Miss Lilly and Miss Vivie had other school projects, and it was now or not at all for the rest of the semester.

Clorisa’s eyebrows rose, causing her blue eyes to open wide. Miss Lilly? she said, her voice full of controlled disdain. Well, I don’t believe for one minute that she has a school project planned. She just wants to come here with Vivie so someone else can watch those children and she can go outside and sit at that picnic table and smoke cigarettes or file her nails. She probably hasn’t read a book since 1949 when she was still in college, if ever.

Rachael’s expression stayed the same—calm and serene. That might be true, Clorisa, but I seriously doubt it.

Wagging her head back and forth, Clorisa interrupted, Well…she’ll keep on doing it as long as you put up with it.

Miss Lilly’s habits, reading or otherwise, don’t interest me all that much, Clorisa. But those third graders, I still have a chance with them. If I can reach even one of them and help them find a love of reading, it will be worth the trouble and the money. A mist rose in Rachael’s eyes, and Clorisa knew that any more harangue would be useless.

Trying to keep the irritation out of her voice, Clorisa asked, What book have you chosen to give them?

Oh, didn’t I tell you? Hans Christian Andersen’s ‘The Ugly Duckling’ and ‘Black Beauty.’ They’re on the bottom shelf behind the counter.

Two different books? Clorisa snapped. For both classes?

Softly, Rachael replied, Yes, Clorisa. Two books.

Clorisa grabbed the schedule and began to spew, Those poor little brats of Lilly’s and Vivie’s from that one-room schoolhouse out on the ridge have about as much chance of becoming booklovers as they do of becoming president. They’re poor and ignorant just like their parents, and most of them will quit school before they’ve finished the eighth grade, and become pitiful farmers for the rest of their lives. You should’ve learned that by now. With that, she turned and walked out the door, pulling it shut behind her.

Education was a privilege to Clorisa, not a right, and any person who was fortunate enough to be able to go to school should show their appreciation by hard work and good behavior. She would never have allowed a class like Miss Lilly’s or Miss Vivie’s to come anywhere near the library ever again, let alone give them free books, which they would probably, in her opinion, misuse. It was, she believed, such a waste of money they didn’t really have. And if it were anyone other than Rachael, she would’ve refused to be there.

But Clorisa had such love and admiration for Rachael, she couldn’t do that. Rachael didn’t know it, but she was, to Clorisa, the daughter she had never had but had always wanted.

She had met Rachael in the library a couple of months after it moved to the old mercantile building. She already knew that Rachael had saved the library from extinction and that she had enlisted her father, the owner of the local sawmill, to refurbish the inside with oak panels and paint and more shelves, and had browbeat civic groups, including Clorisa’s own garden club, to donate two leather chairs, a dozen folding chairs, three tables, the desk in her office, the counter by the front door, and books by the hundreds.

And each donation, and there were now quite a few, was recognized with a small plaque on the wall with their name on it and a letter written and signed by Rachael herself. For goodwill, she had told Clorisa. But Clorisa knew she would’ve done it anyway, goodwill or not, just because she was so grateful.

They had gotten into a conversation on that day, and Clorisa had been impressed with Rachael’s dream of a permanent library open six days a week, from nine to nine, filled with people who loved books. Not that Clorisa believed that that was possible in a small Southern, farming town like Pixley. She had actually grown up in Campbell, twenty miles up the road, the home of a junior college where the library was well-stocked and well-used.

On the contrary, she agreed with the civic leaders who not only thought that Campbell’s library was close enough but also believed that it was just a matter of time before Rachael ran out of money and had to close it down. And there had been several times in the last two years that it had almost happened. But somehow, Rachael would always come up with the money to pay the bills to keep the library open, albeit just five days a week, from ten to six. Nevertheless, it was still open.

Clorisa was inspired. Alone at fifty-nine, having lost her husband three years before to a heart attack and her son in World War II, she felt here was a place she could be useful. Here was a place where she was needed again, so she put up with people like Miss Lilly and her class and its bad behavior.

Chapter 3

Rachael came back after lunch in a good mood, for she had just been given permission by a prominent member of the city council (one she had accidentally on purpose run into at the diner) to speak to them, again, about the financial needs of the library. As she walked across the room to her office, she was so engrossed in thoughts of what she would say at the meeting that she didn’t see or hear Clorisa rush up behind her.

Rachael, she whispered, "he’s here looking for you."

Sometimes, Clorisa, when she was excited, left out the most important information. With a slightly mocking tone, Rachael whispered in return, He…who?

Clorisa frowned. That man, she said, turning around and pointing toward the front counter. I don’t know his name. The one everyone is talking about. He’s an attorney from New York.

Rachael stepped backward and was about to ask, what man, where, and who’s everyone, as, at first, she didn’t see a soul at the counter, when he suddenly appeared from between the rows of bookshelves like a flesh-and-blood apparition and put out his hand. Hi. I’m Jake Ross. And you must be Miss McAllister.

Startled, Clorisa stalked off, chin in the air, grumbling something about how he should’ve waited at the counter until he was called into Rachael’s office.

For a moment, Rachael was equally startled by his sudden appearance, but then he smiled a smile so warm and wide that she was charmed and reacted with a warm smile of her own as she shook his outstretched hand. It was big and soft and easily covered hers. Yes, I am. Nice to meet you. He was nice-looking too, she noticed. Maybe even handsome, though she really didn’t give that thought much attention. How can I help you?

At the touch of her hand, his smile got even warmer and wider. I hope you don’t mind if I’m surprised at how young and pretty you are to be a head librarian.

Was he making fun of her? If so, his dark eyes hid it well. Still, she was not flattered. It was the kind of remark she had heard many times before from people who thought she should be at home in the kitchen. Better yet, married and at home in the kitchen with at least a couple of kids. She pulled her hand away from his. What did you want to see me about? she asked abruptly, showing her irritation.

Instantly, Jake was aware that he had said the wrong thing. But he wasn’t sure why. Her reaction, though, caused him to hesitate. He was there to fulfill a promise he’d made to a friend, a soldier who was with him in Korea. A friend who’d told him a story, and it was very important that he have her cooperation. Otherwise, he might’ve wasted a long trip. He searched her face. Uh…I seem to have said something you didn’t like. I’m sorry. I thought it was a compliment. I mean…when I was in school, the head librarian was, well…not someone who looked like you.

Rachael stifled a grin. He sounded contrite enough, she thought, and nervous, and she supposed it was a natural remark since she remembered the head librarian from her college days. With a calmer, nicer tone to her voice, she again asked, So, what was it you wanted to see me about?

Glad that that little episode was over, Jake relaxed a little and released a silent sigh. He just wanted to get back to business, get it out of the way, and then go home to New York. Over at the courthouse, they told me you are also the town historian and that you have all the copies of the local newspaper from its beginning, or typed copies of ones that are missing. And I’d very much like to see them.

Of course, she had them. She had spent more than two years gathering and organizing everything the Pixley Daily News had saved since they first started printing the paper in 1916, plus notes from anyone else who had ever saved an article or written an article and was willing to part with it, or anything else that would contribute to the history of the county. She had them all perfectly organized in file cabinets. It wasn’t 100 percent complete, but she knew most of it was there.

For a brief moment, however, she entertained the idea of telling him that she probably didn’t have what he was looking for, even though she didn’t know what he was looking for or why. Maybe it was just because he was a stranger and obviously not local. His accent was, definitely, Yankee. But it was only for a moment, for Rachael believed that the library belonged to the public, and anyone in the public should have access to whatever was there as long as they followed the rules. Yes, I do, she said. Let me put my purse away, and I’ll show you where they are.

He was surprised. He had expected a few questions. Not that he thought there was any real reason he should, except that his friend had led him to believe it wouldn’t be easy. Besides, he was from New York, and he had thought that that fact might provide some resistance, so he had prepared a phony story, just in case. But forget that, he told himself. Just say, Thank you, and shut up before she changes her mind.

You’re welcome, she stated politely.

He followed her into her office, where she opened a drawer in her desk, took out a ring with several keys on it, then dropped her purse inside and closed the drawer. It was a nice office, he thought, kind of small but all right. The file cabinets were polished wood. Everything was orderly and neat, including the top of her expansive desk. He thought of his fastidious secretary and knew she would approve, though he felt she would probably be jealous of Rachael, especially of her beautiful red hair. I really appreciate this, he said. And he meant it.

Rachael nodded. You know, she said, my assistant, Mrs. Dobbs, could’ve shown you where they are.

He shrugged. She wasn’t sure. She wanted me to wait for you.

Oh, she said, coming out from behind her desk. Well…she doesn’t have the key, and I suppose she thought it was locked.

She started for the door. Jake was right behind her. He tried to do the polite thing and open it for her, but he was too late. Is it usually locked? he asked.

Not when the library is open, but I believe I forgot to unlock it this morning.

He followed her down the hall. Rachael could just imagine his eyes focused on the movement of her backside. She almost had an affliction. When her gait shifted from her left side to her right, there was a hitch, which was caused by her hip joint being slightly out of position. It gave her a distinctive sway. As a schoolgirl, she was teased about it a lot. Most thought she did it on purpose. Of course, she didn’t, so she learned to control it by taking shorter steps and concentrating. But it all flew away when she was anxious or in a hurry. And she was experiencing both at the moment, though if someone had asked her, she would’ve denied it.

She took the keys from the pocket of her skirt and opened the door. Turning on the lights and pointing to a series of wooden file cabinets positioned against one wall, she said, The papers are inside those drawers over there. They begin in 1916 and are current to last week. There are some missing ones from 1930, when there was a fire at the newspaper office and a fire at the courthouse. And a few others along the way that got lost somehow. She walked over and opened all the drawers with the keys. If you need any help, just ask Clorisa.

So nice and sweet and accommodating. Was it completely sincere or just polite chatter? Jake didn’t know, but he couldn’t stop himself from saying something. Everyone here is so charming and polite, and I love the accent. Even when they’re telling me no, I don’t mind so much.

Rachael thought she heard a bit of sarcasm in his voice, but she couldn’t see it in his smile, so she ignored it. She did notice some beads of perspiration on his forehead, though, prompting her to turn on the portable rotating fan that sat on a shelf, and made a sweep of the area where he would be seated. This is the coolest room in the library, she told him, but it can still get pretty hot. So, the fan will help. And there’s another one over there by the table, if you need it. Please don’t forget to turn them off when you leave.

Jake looked around the room. There was only one window. It faced the backyard behind the library. A shade covered the top half, and a cooler filled the bottom. What about the cooler? We used to have one of those, when I was a kid, he said, motioning to it. They work pretty well.

Well, I’m afraid that one doesn’t. It’s broken, and I haven’t been able to get it fixed. She didn’t mention the fact that it was all about the lack of funds. The two fans, brought from her own house, had to fill the bill and actually did a pretty good job.

They can be tricky, he said knowingly. Maybe I can get it to work.

Tricky! There isn’t anything tricky about that cooler. It’s just broken. But you’re welcome to try, she told him as she walked toward the door, smiling to herself because she was sure, unless he had a magic wand, he couldn’t accomplish that. It was just one of those manly boasts, she thought, intended to impress a poor, dumb woman.

After I finish here, I’ll take a look. Thank you, again.

You’re welcome again. No hurry, she said as she left. We’re open until six. That gives you several hours.

She barely made it inside her office before Clorisa burst through the door, her face flushed, her eyes popped open with excitement, waving her little round glasses in the air. How could you let him go in there? she blurted out.

Rachael was seated in the chair at her desk. Clorisa, what on earth are you so upset about? He’s just looking at old newspaper articles.

She leaned across Rachael’s desk. He’s here to defame us, she spewed, to find fault with everything we did.

Rachael folded her arms and leaned back in her chair. What are you talking about? They’re just files about the history of our county. Besides, this is a public library, and I have no reason, nor the authority, to keep him from looking at them.

You have all the authority you need, she said adamantly, raising her voice. You’re the head librarian. You could’ve told him we didn’t have them.

I couldn’t do that. It would be a lie. And anyway, he already knew I had them. They told him over at the courthouse that I was the town historian.

Clorisa was not satisfied. Her head shook angrily. Well, they probably didn’t know what he was looking for. If they had, they surely wouldn’t have told him that.

Rachael was puzzled and curious. But she still thought that Clorisa’s outburst probably had more to do with her usual contrariness than anything important. What do you mean? What is he looking for?

You don’t know? she asked, her voice growing even louder. You didn’t ask him?

No, Rachael said, shaking her head. It’s actually none of my business.

Weren’t you even curious why a Yankee would be down here looking at the history of a small town like Pixley?

Rachael felt like a child who was being scolded without reason. Color rose in her cheeks. Curious? Curious or not, I didn’t ask him, and he didn’t offer an explanation.

Well, let me tell you then. He came down here to investigate the Olin Chilton trial from fourteen years ago.

For a full minute, Rachael was stunned into silence. Her brain, however, was very noisy with a hundred thoughts flashing at her. Now she was curious. When she finally spoke, her voice sounded completely normal even to her own ears, though it didn’t feel normal. Clorisa, you’re assuming an awful lot. He only told you his name.

Believe me, it’s true, Clorisa said adamantly. Nettie overheard Bessie Chilton telling her gardener last week that an attorney was coming from New York to prove that her son Olin didn’t murder Claudine Williams. Nettie didn’t really believe it until he showed up last night to rent a room. He has to be the one Bessie was talking about.

Rachael still couldn’t believe it. It made no sense. What would make someone, especially an attorney, if he was an attorney, come all the way from New York for a fourteen-year-old murder—especially that murder? But Nettie and her husband did own the motel out on the highway going to Campbell, and Bessie did clean the rooms sometimes, and Nettie did have a gardener, a colored man Bessie would probably have no trouble telling anything. Still, even if it were true, why would it concern anyone? I’ll admit, Clorisa, that it does seem very odd, after all these years, but what difference does it make? I’ve read all the articles, and there isn’t anything in there except proof of his guilt. We have nothing to hide.

Clorisa folded her arms across her chest and tossed her head. Since when did that stop a Yankee from lying about the South and Southerners, she said angrily. They just need an excuse, and not a very good one at that, especially these days.

Calm down, Clorisa. Why on earth would he want to do that? And who in New York would be interested in a fourteen-year-old murder in our small town of Pixley? Besides, it’s certain if I had lied to him about those files, he would’ve found out someplace else, and for sure, it would’ve looked like we did have something to hide, which we don’t. Can’t you see how much worse that would make us look? I imagine he will be disappointed in his search and go home.

She paused and leaned back in her chair. But it isn’t just that. There are thousands of libraries all over this country. They don’t belong to you and me alone, they belong to everyone. It’s exactly what I love most about the library. It is for everyone, and I just wish more people would understand how valuable they are.

Clorisa sighed as the right of reason came back to her face. I suppose so, she admitted reluctantly. But I don’t like it. Something bad is going to come of it.

As critical and bad-tempered as Clorisa often was, she also possessed good instincts; and for the first time since their conversation started, Rachael had a moment of doubt, which she dismissed as unwarranted worry over the situation. But she couldn’t push it away completely.

Chapter 4

It was six o’clock, time to close the library and go home, but Rachael was delaying it because Mr. Ross was still in the back room looking at files. Clorisa didn’t want to go home either as she was afraid he would sneak out with something. Although Rachael thought Clorisa’s worries were silly, even she couldn’t imagine what was taking him so long. And she couldn’t help thinking about why he was there. Did Bessie Chilton know him? Frankly, she was much more curious about that than worried about what he would find in the archives of Pixley and Dayton County.

She had checked on him at four o’clock to see how he was doing. She had found him at the table writing on a pad with some files in front of him. His tie was loosened, and a button was unbuttoned on his shirt. His hair was wet with perspiration, and the wave in front was drooping over his forehead.

How is it going? she had asked him.

He had looked up and smiled at her. Fine, he had said.

How much longer will you be?

I’m not sure. The library stays open until six, correct?

Yes, she had answered, wondering if he planned to stay until then.

Around four thirty, some high school kids had come in to check out books and get answers to homework questions. It was the last month of school, finals would be coming soon; and as usual, they had waited until the last possible minute to prepare for them. The library had become crowded. Rachael had gotten busy and had momentarily forgotten about Mr. Ross in the backroom.

At five thirty, she had remembered Mr. Ross and had asked Clorisa to check on him, explaining that she was too busy to do it. Clorisa was reluctant, asking, Why me? But she had gone anyway. He’s still looking at the files and writing, she had reported. He did ask me if you were still here. I told him you were.

Maybe he wants to talk to me, she had mumbled.

Clorisa had shrugged. I do think that’s what he’s waiting for. He did seem surprised that I came instead of you.

No sooner had those words come out of Clorisa’s mouth than the doorbell jingled and Lorena walked in, and Rachael knew that no matter what, if she found out about Mr. Ross and his reason for being there, it would be too late to stop the gossip.

Lorena was a nice woman and as feisty and bold as anyone Rachael had ever known, but she was also Clorisa’s manicurist at the beauty shop, and she loved to spread the news. Plus, she could and would take the most meaningless event—and certainly Mr. Ross’s visit was a meaningless event, no matter the reason he was there—and joyfully turn it into a full-fledged crisis. Clorisa, Rachael had anxiously told her, you have to get her out of here before she finds out about Mr. Ross, or it will be all over town by tomorrow afternoon.

Well, I’m sure she doesn’t plan to stay, Clorisa had said, annoyed. She knows the library closes at six. I don’t know why she’s even here so late.

Let’s hope so, Rachael had answered as she went into her office and closed the door. But somehow, she had known it was already too late.

But now it was time to close. And she was still in her office with Clorisa, who wasn’t leaving until Mr. Ross did. At least Lorena was gone. Clorisa had managed that, and Rachael hadn’t even asked her how. She was just glad. All right, Rachael said, I may as well go and find out what’s keeping him.

Just tell him he has to go, Clorisa retorted angrily. After all, who does he think he is? It’s just rude that he’s still here.

Rachael agreed and was thinking of that as she entered the backroom. Mr. Ross, she said abruptly. Clorisa says you want to ask me something. What is it?

Jake Ross closed the file drawer he was rummaging through and looked up at her. I didn’t tell her that? he said surprised and slightly embarrassed. How did she know?

Rachael shrugged, but her voice still showed impatience. Clorisa is intuitive. What did you want to know?

He walked over to the table, with Rachael watching him, put the large notepad inside his briefcase, then he turned around, leaned his backside against the table, folded his arms across his chest, and said pointedly, Actually, there are lots of questions I’d like to ask you.

Lots? she said with irritation. Mr. Ross, it’s a few minutes after six. This library is supposed to be closed.

Oh…I didn’t realize, he said casually, picking up his briefcase from the table. But I can ask you the questions some other time.

He seemed genuinely surprised, but Rachael didn’t believe it. There was no clock in the room, but Mr. Ross was wearing one on his wrist. And it was hard to miss, all shiny and gold with stones on top. In addition, she wasn’t happy with his some other time comment and, for a moment, almost decided to let him ask his questions to get it over with so he wouldn’t come back.

However, she was tired and wanted him out of there. That would be better, she said and walked to the door where she stood, waiting for him to leave. Instead, he headed back toward the file cabinets to turn off the fan that sat on the shelf. Don’t worry about that, she said impatiently, I’ll turn it off, and the lights too.

All right, he said casually. Unfazed by her attitude, he went over to the door and faced her, his brown eyes looking softly into hers. Maybe we could have a drink together and talk.

From surprise, more than anything else, a half grin