“Excellent.”
Sensing that Martha was anxious to be on her way, Bree finished off the delicious omelet and drained the last of her coffee, which wasn’t great but hot and caffeinated. When her offer to help clean up was waved off, she thanked Martha again and opted for her backup plan—visiting the town library. One could tell a lot about a town based on the state of its libraries, churches, and bars.
Bree loaded up her small backpack with everything she’d need and set off for the library, choosing to walk instead of drive. It was another gorgeous summer day, and the six-block trek would help her burn off some of the high-calorie goodness she’d ingested.
She’d traveled the same road the night before, but doing so on foot gave her a better opportunity to soak in and appreciate the centuries-old architecture and the uniqueness of each individual business.
Shop owners were outside their places of business, wiping down display windows or sweeping the sidewalk. The curious looks she received were tempered with smiles and quiet good mornings. That took a bit of getting used to; Bree was more accustomed to strangers who didn’t meet the gazes of others or whose attention was pinned to a device in their hand.
The library was located in an old stone building and boasted high ceilings and polished dark wood. Like the B & B, the library was exactly what she would have expected, as was the woman behind the large, circular desk. Old and slim and wearing a blouse buttoned up to the neck, she had luxurious snow-white hair pulled into a severe bun at the back of her head. The nameplate on the desk read Agnes Miller, Head Librarian.
Agnes looked up, peering over half-moon glasses when Bree’s soft footfalls stopped in front of the desk.
“Good morning,” Bree greeted.
“Good morning,” the woman answered in a whisper-soft voice. “What can we help you with today?”
We? Bree looked around the empty library, confirming they were alone. “I’m looking for something on Sumneyville’s history.”
Agnes’s eyes narrowed slightly. “You’re the reporter.”
Reporter. Journalist. It was close enough. “I am.”
The woman considered Bree over her glasses for several long moments. Her expression gave nothing away. Bree wondered if she’d been a schoolteacher at one point because she had that strict authority vibe going on.
Finally, the woman said, “Follow me.”
Bree did.
The librarian directed her to sit at a long conference table. “Wait here, please.”
Bree unpacked her bag, laying out her notebook and several colored pens. She preferred writing out her notes in shorthand to typing directly into her laptop. Doing so gave her time to think and consider and develop what she called the beats of a story, organizing them into various silos. Then, at the end of the day, she’d transcribe everything into her laptop.
Agnes brought her several books. Over the course of the next several hours, Bree looked through them, jotting down notes on the original founders and the progression of local industry—from farming and logging to anthracite coal mining. Of particular interest were references to the places in the area that had been important stops along the Underground Railroad—a network of secret routes and safe houses in which African Americans could flee to the safety of free states and Canada—and some mine disasters, which were both horrific and fascinating.
The morning flew by, and before Bree knew it, her phone vibrated on the table with a silent alarm, earning a disapproving look from Agnes Miller. Midway through an eyewitness account of the Paxton Mine collapse, she gathered her things and took two of the books to the front desk.
“I don’t suppose these are available online.”
“Certainly not.”
“Can I take them with me?” she asked.
“You’ll need a library card.”
“I’m only going to be in town for a few days.”
“Rules are rules,” Agnes sternly informed her. “We can make you a temporary card, and you may check out the books, or the books will remain here, and you may return to view them during normal operating hours.”
“In that case, I guess you’d better give me a temporary card.”
By the time Bree left the library with her new card and books in hand, she was running late. She had barely enough time to get back to the B & B before she had to leave for the interview. She rounded the corner fast and plowed right into a local police officer.
“Whoa there,” he said, bending down to help her pick up the books.
About her age, he was good-looking in a boy-next-door sort of way.
The man whistled as he looked at one of the books. “Uh-oh. Does Miss Agnes know about this?” he asked, the corner of his mouth tilting up in a smile.
“I assure you, Officer”—she looked at his name badge pinned to his chest pocket—“Petraski, it’s all on the up-and-up. I’ve got a library card and everything,” Bree said, accepting the book.
He laughed. “Glad to hear it. You must be that reporter everyone is talking about.”
“Bree De Rossi. Word gets around fast, huh?”
“Sure does. You’re here to do an article about Sanctuary?”
“I am,” she confirmed. “In fact, I’m headed out there now.”
A shadow passed over his features, gone as quickly as it had come. The officer touched his hat and inclined his head. “You have a good day, ma’am, and be careful.”
Was that a veiled warning? “I will. Thank you.”
The temperature had risen considerably since she’d left, or it felt as if it had. The humidity took a bit of getting used to after being in SoCal for a couple of years. She had just enough time to drop the books off at the B & B and freshen up. Bree was glad she’d opted to go light on the foundation that morning, requiring only a brief touch-up with some translucent powder and a swipe of gloss.
Bree punched the address into her navigation app and committed the route to memory, just in case she lost cell reception again.
The drive was gorgeous. The convertible handled the winding roads with ease, the
