“It’s a simple question.” Angie spread her hands. “Can’t I ask my friend and colleague a few things to get to know her better? Especially if we might attend a sporting event together at some point?”
“In that case, none of the above. I’m more of a hockey girl.” On television, at least. She still hadn’t made it to a game, since navigating crowded city streets didn’t appeal to her anymore.
“So you like ’em muscular, but not burly. Tall, but not too tall.” Angie jotted something down on a notepad. “Do you consider hand size very important in an athlete? Or do you care more about how he uses his hands?”
Mary was beginning to have suspicions concerning the true nature of the conversation. Grave suspicions. “What does that have to do with going to a game? Why would I care what the players looked like? And why are you talking about hand size, for heaven’s sake?”
“Nothing. Forget I asked.” Angie waved Mary back to the circulation desk. “Don’t you have e-mails to answer?”
Forgetting her supervisor’s questions was easier said than done. Especially since the library was empty, all books had been shelved, and the only new patron e-mail they’d received didn’t require a lot of thought. Yes, Mr. O’Connor could check out e-books without stepping foot in the library—but only after Mary or one of her coworkers had issued him a library card. And getting a card required ID, which meant at least one in-person trip to Battlefield or another Nice County Public Library branch.
She tapped out her response quickly, making sure she thanked him for his interest and emphasized the branch’s generous opening hours and easy-to-find location. One cursory check for typos, and then…send.
A quick loop around the library established that no patrons were hiding in a nook somewhere, and the curtained-off, adults-only erotica section—popularly known as Angie’s Smut Room—was gloriously empty. So she didn’t bother to lower her voice when she headed behind the circulation desk and stopped again in the doorway to the workroom.
“By hand size, are you really talking about”—she faltered for a second—“um, penises?”
Angie minimized her browser window with one swift click. “What? Of course not.”
Over the past two years, Mary had found that simply looking at Angie in calm silence often produced answers that loud badgering could not. She’d tried to explain the trick to her coworkers, but no one listened. Not even Sarah, her best friend. Loud badgering was Sarah’s MO, effectiveness be damned.
Angie’s chair squeaked as she swiveled restlessly under Mary’s gaze. After several awkward seconds, though, she brightened.
“I was thinking about hand size because I’m buying Grant a baseball glove. Which might prove tricky, since he has absolutely enormous hands.” Her eyes brightened with a lascivious gleam Mary had seen far too often. “Gargantuan. And God, do I love ’em. But not everyone cares about finger length. I know small hands can get the job done too. In sports, I mean. I was wondering what you thought.”
Mary stared at her supervisor for a few moments, but this time, Angie’s smile remained steady. “I don’t really have an opinion,” Mary finally said. “Although I suppose large hands could prove useful when dealing with balls.”
Angie choked a little, coughing as she jotted more notes. “Very useful, from what I hear.”
“Is that everything you wanted to know?” Mary didn’t want to seem impatient, but she should probably straighten up the children’s area before the next wave of patrons arrived. The post-lunch lull wouldn’t last forever.
“One last thing. I’m considering new greenery for our entrance. What do you think? Should I choose plants that are growers or showers?”
“I…” Her brows drew together. “I’m lost.”
“I mean, would you rather buy small plants and watch them grow? Or would you rather buy ones that have already reached their full size at time of purchase?” Angie blinked, her green eyes limpid pools of virtue. “Different people have different preferences, you know. They often find one type of plant more, um, satisfying than the other.”
This conversation needed to end before Mary’s head exploded. “Growers, I suppose. For the sense of accomplishment. I’d enjoy watching them get big.”
With a nod of satisfaction, Angie wrote a few more words. “I had a feeling you’d say that.”
Before her supervisor could come up with any further bizarre questions, Mary returned to the circulation desk, opened a search-engine window, and typed “growers and showers” into the search box. Just in case Angie’s inquiries weren’t quite as innocent as she claimed. But before Mary could hit enter, she saw that the library had received another e-mail.
Patrons took precedence over personal concerns. Even concerns that might possibly involve growing—or showing—manbits.
Mr. O’Connor had written back, his e-mail brief and pleading.
Dear Ms. Higgs: Can’t get to the library. If you issue me a card, I promise never to check out a physical item. No possibility of late/lost/damaged library property. Please.
Her mental image of Mr. O’Connor took shape. Homebound. Probably elderly. Polite. Savvy enough about technology to communicate via e-mail, so a good candidate for e-books.
Dear Mr. O’Connor: I completely understand. Since you can’t make it to the library, I’d be happy to talk to the Bookmobile manager, Constance Chen, and ask her to drop by your residence. She can issue you a card during her visit. If you’re comfortable giving me your address and other contact information, I’ll pass it along to her.
Right after she sent the message, another new e-mail arrived, this one from the head of HR about upcoming staff training. She was halfway done reading Winona’s lengthy missive when Mr. O’Connor responded.
Please, he wrote again. No visit.
Mary sat back in her chair and rubbed her face with both hands.
Well, shoot. When the library’s rules conflicted with a patron’s needs and she got caught in the middle, her stomach always hurt. At least a little.
That’s the price you pay for being both a rule-follower and a people-pleaser, she told herself. You should pick one or the other, Mary Louise.
Her first instinct was to have Angie deal with the situation. She knew her supervisor would give him a card without hesitation. Problem solved. Except that if this man ended up owing thousands of dollars to the library and she’d issued him a card against regulations, Angie’s oft-tenuous employment might come to an abrupt end.
So maybe Mary should simply tell him no. But how could she deny library access to a lonely old man mired in his home? Couldn’t she simply keep track of his account and check that he’d kept his promise and wasn’t borrowing physical books or movies?
She reached for a sticky note, wrote his name on it, and stuck it to the side of her usual monitor at the circulation desk. There. That should be enough of a reminder. Then she wrote another e-mail:
Dear Mr. O’Connor: I’ll need your address, birth date, and phone number. Obviously, I already have your e-mail address. Once I receive your additional contact information, I’ll assign you a library card number. If you find yourself able to schedule a Bookmobile visit, or if you can come in person to the library, however, please do. We’re supposed to check your ID. But I think we can bend the rules a bit, just this once.
Once the message had been sent and she’d greeted a few patrons, she clicked back to the search engine window she’d opened minutes before. As she’d expected, the top results for “growers and showers” did not involve greenery.
Suspicions confirmed, she returned to the workroom, keeping her voice to