Rewrite the Stars Christina Consolino (classic novels to read TXT) 📖

for me to do about everything now. Someday you’ll understand what I mean.” Crinkles fanned out from the corners of her eyes, and she smiled, her mouth turning upward into a huge U. “Come on in, sweetie.”

With little time for chitchat, I spat out a short, “Thank you, ma’am.” The door handle required a fierce grip, and I bore the brunt of the weight since this woman couldn’t have weighed much more than one hundred pounds. My time here was precious, but rudeness never got anyone anywhere, so while my gaze darted toward the large clock hanging on the wall above the circulation desk, I said nothing.

“Oh honey, don’t call me ma’am,” the woman said. “Call me Pickles. Pickles Martin.”

By the look on her face, she caught my surprise, despite my attempt to hide how much her first name shocked me. What an endearing, yet odd, name. Her parents didn’t really—

“Yes. Pickles is my rightful name. It says so on my birth certificate. My folks always said my mom ate so many pickles when she was carrying me it would have been a crime not to call the baby Pickles. Of course, if I’d been a boy, they would have gone with Dill. They felt that would have been more suitable for a male.”

Despite my annoyance I hadn’t yet begun my work, I laughed out loud, and Pickles’ face erupted into another smile. “I’m not laughing at you, Pickles. I love the name. But somehow, the thought of baby Dill cracks me up.” The slight echo of my laughter reminded me I stood in a library, a place meant for quiet, and I shook my head and looked around, searching for other patrons.

“Not to worry. You aren’t the first to laugh at that name, and there’s a difference between laughing like yours and laughing that does harm.” Pickles moved her hands to her skirt, where she shifted the material to the left and patted her hips. “Now, is there anything I can help you with this morning?” Then, she adjusted her glasses and looked up expectantly at me.

“Why thank you, but no. The tables near the magazine rack will be perfect for what I need to do, and I should get started soon.” Without hesitation, I turned to leave the desk but then thought better of my lack of manners. “If I need something, though, I’ll be sure to come find you.”

Pickles nodded her head and opened the drawer of her desk, about to start her day. I thought about her dog, possibly all alone at home. But at the back of my mind, the clock ticked on my allotted work time. My computer powered up, and I attacked my project.

About ninety minutes later, the presence of someone nearby, right behind my elbow, distracted me. Slowly, I pulled my earbuds out of my ears and looked to the right, where Pickles hovered close. A little too close, considering I’d just met her.

“I’m about to take a quick break for tea. Would you care to join me?”

My digital wristwatch read 11:35 a.m. If I stopped working, I would be leaving details unfinished since I needed to be back at the cottage by noon. On the other hand, Pickles stood next to me with bright, eager eyes.

“Sure. Let me close this up, and I’ll join you. Thank you for asking.”

“Great.” Pickles extended her hand and pointed to a hallway tucked behind the circulation desk and flanked by two enormous bookshelves. “The break room is right through the doorway at the end of the hall. I’ll have a cup of tea and scones waiting for you. Cream or sugar?”

Who could resist tea and scones? “Just cream, please. And thank you again.” My annoyance at having been disturbed dissipated as I closed the lid to my laptop and slid it into its case, making sure to secure the zipper and lock. One mishap a few years prior with a runaway laptop had taught me a lesson I had no intention of learning again.

As I pushed my earbuds into the side pocket of the bag, Pickles sauntered toward the break room with the same nonchalant gait she used yesterday. Halfway down the hallway, she leaned over and spoke to the air, her head bobbing back and forth as she gesticulated wildly, as if the person she was speaking to had argued a valid point. Had her beagle snuck into the library? A quick glance to the ground proved no one was there, and I chuckled to myself. That might be you in thirty years.

By the time I entered the break room, Pickles had poured two cups of what smelled like peppermint tea and plated up a tray of scones. The bench against the wall served as a perfect place for my bag and purse, and I approached the small break table, stomach rumbling from hunger. In the center of the table sat a thin vase with fake, pink roses inside. Not a spot of dust stood out on the petals, which were as soft as Lexie’s skin to the touch.

“How do you keep those roses so clean? Artificial flowers and plants are lovely, but my ability to keep away the dust is as good as my ability to use a map. What’s your secret?”

The older woman sat across from me, took the lace napkin off the table, and placed it into her lap before speaking. “It’s not hard. You need to find the time to do it each week...Oh heavens, I didn’t even get your name!” She pursed her lips, blew across the teacup, and sipped the beverage. Within an instant, the tiny china vessel was empty. She must have had a stomach of steel; my cup was still too hot to touch.

“It’s Sadie. Sadie Rollins. We’re from Ohio, and we’re only visiting for a few weeks.” The smell of the tea wafted up to my nostrils, filling my head with memories of my grandmother’s house. Thoughts of Grandma and her afternoon etiquette lessons served