I step outside into the rain, wishing above all else I could be anywhere but here.
2
Rosalina
Drizzlingrainsprinklesoffmy jacket as I walk down the street and away from the store. I just want to get home, throw a microwave dinner in, and cuddle up on the couch with my ghost hunter.
Shit. There’s a huge mess waiting for me. That’s the way it always is. Papa’s gone for months, comes home for a few days, makes an absolute wreck of the place with maps and old books and weird artifacts, and then he’s gone again.
Petra was a disappointment, he said. Nothing there but dead ends. This time, he’s going back into the woods. It always comes back to the woods.
Orca Cove is bordered by the Pacific Ocean on the west and Lake Villeneuve to the south. The sprawling Briarwood Forest covers the northeast. That’s where the hunting guides take the tourists in peak season. But Papa says there’s something else out there.
I pull my hood over my head and stare at my soggy shoes. He’s got a good tent and top-of-the-line gear, but he must be cold. I packed him a bunch of dehydrated food and made sure he’s got water purification tablets, but what if he forgets to use them? What if he trips and is out of service?
What if this is the time he doesn’t come back?
These thoughts are useless. I’ve said them to Papa a hundred times. But to him, it doesn’t matter.‘She’s out there, Rose. I know it. I won’t stop until I bring her home.’
Every small town has their village weirdo. And Orca Cove has Crazy George, my father. The former archeologist who told the whole village his wife got stolen by faeries.
I live close to the bookstore—everything is close in Orca Cove—but I take the long way ‘round. Towering pine trees line the streets, and the buildings are all designed to look like log cabins. The hub of our city, Poussin Hunting Lodge, is lit up with golden lights as people head to the pub inside for an after-work pick-me-up. I haven’t stepped foot in there in ages. Too many memories.
There’s only one thing that’ll make me feel better after a day like today.
My feet carry me unconsciously to the street on the very edge of town, away from the houses and the downtown shops. The sky has grown darker, and there are fewer streetlamps, but I know this town like the back of my hand. Puddles splash up around my ankles as I quicken my step.
And as soon as I see it, a sense of calm fills me. It’s a building with a tin roof and a cracked window and a broken door hinge and ugly olive-green paint peeling off of every wall. It’s been up for sale for years and never had any takers.
But one day, it’s going to be mine. I walk over to it and place my hand on the wall. I can imagine it now: unlocking the doors first thing in the morning when the mist still dances around the pines. Walking over to a beautiful long desk in the middle. I’d have a top-of-the-line computer that never crashed. On one side, there would be rows and rows and rows of books. A huge children’s section with a toy box. A section for displays. And an entire shelf just for romances.
It would be exactly what our community needs.
A library.
The vision flashes in perfect clarity before me. I’d probably be closer to my goal if I hadn’t offered Papa my college fund. But our tiny house was getting foreclosed, and he was in a pit of depression not being able to follow up on a lead in the highlands of Scotland because he couldn’t afford the plane ticket.
Of course, I had to give it to him.
Would I have studied English Literature like I thought? Gotten my master’s degree like Lucas? Would I have stayed in a big city like one of my friends?
My reflection peers back at me from the window of my dream building: tall, messy chestnut hair, mascara smudged around my brown eyes. If I tilt my head, my image gets shattered in the cracked glass, turning my tired expression into something monstrous.
I may not have that library, but I do have something else. Down the road, a full weeping willow waves her branches in the breeze. She’s lost most of her leaves now, but there’s still something so elegant about her, like her branches are the skirts of a beautiful ballgown.
Classic village crazy woman. Personifying a tree. Like father, like daughter, I guess. But I like this tree better than most of the residents of Orca Cove. And besides, Papa says this was Mom’s favorite tree.
That’s why it was the perfect spot to build my own little library. It’s one of the few things Papa’s ever done for me: he made a tiny house with a glass door and propped it up on a tall wooden stake.
I decorated the outside with dried flowers. Roses, specifically. Papa would always ask me what I wanted from his travels.You home safely. To stay and not leave me alone again,I would think. But I never said it out loud. Instead, I would always ask him for a rose, something cheap and easy he could get. And at least that was a promise he always kept, even if sometimes it was little trinkets or jewelry rather than the real flower.
I stocked the little library with all my favorite books. I’d yet to see anyone take or leave a book yet, but—
“Wait, what?” My heart hammers against my chest. The little library… It’s destroyed. Books scatter the damp ground, the pole slants, and the house is smashed onto the road. I sprint over, trying to save the books from the puddles. Then I see one wall has graffiti on it: THE FAERIES DID IT
“No, no, no.” I fall to my knees, books slipping from my hands into the mud. I worked so hard on this…
Bright headlights cut through the dark street. I shield my eyes. A noisy, rumbling truck lumbers closer. I can barely see anything with those headlights on full blast. What kind of jackass turns his brights on while going down a residential street?