The Little Library Read online

  The Little Library

  Kim Fielding

  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are either the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons living or dead, business establishments, events, or locales is entirely coincidental. All person(s) depicted on the cover are model(s) used for illustrative purposes only.

  The Little Library

  Copyright © 2018 by Kim Fielding

  Cover art: L.C. Chase, lcchase.com/design.htm

  Editors: Sarah Lyons and Chris Muldoon

  Layout: L.C. Chase, lcchase.com/design.htm

  All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, or by any information storage and retrieval system without the written permission of the copyright owner, and where permitted by law. Reviewers may quote brief passages in a review.

  First edition

  March, 2018

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  Elliott Thompson was once a historian with a promising academic future, but his involvement in a scandal meant a lost job, public shame, and a ruined love life. He took shelter in his rural California hometown, where he teaches online classes, hoards books, and despairs of his future.

  Simon Odisho has lost a job as well—to a bullet that sidelined his career in law enforcement. While his shattered knee recovers, he rethinks his job prospects and searches for the courage to come out to his close-knit but conservative extended family.

  In an attempt to manage his overflowing book collection, Elliott builds a miniature neighborhood library in his front yard. The project puts him in touch with his neighbors—for better and worse—and introduces him to handsome, charming Simon. While romance blooms quickly between them, Elliott’s not willing to live in the closet, and his best career prospects might take him far away. His books have plenty to tell him about history, but they give him no clues about a future with Simon.

  To my wonderful readers, who perhaps share my belief that we can find much happiness in books.

  Chapter One

  “Dr. Thompson,” said the stern woman on Elliott’s laptop screen, “you left what seemed to be a promising career at a research university and have spent the past two years teaching at a community college and online instead. And you moved from Washington State to somewhere in the middle of California?”

  His heart thudding, Elliott kept his expression neutral as he nodded.

  “What prompted this sudden and drastic change?” she asked.

  Despite his churning stomach and the heat that rose to his cheeks, he managed to speak evenly. “There were personal reasons.”

  Up until this point, the job interview had seemed to be going well. They had covered his teaching philosophy and classroom leadership style. He’d talked about his particular research interests within the history field. But now, if he could judge from the expression on the search-committee member’s face, Marge had googled him on the device she was trying to hide on her lap.

  “Personal reasons?” she parroted, raising an eyebrow and ignoring a withering look from the committee chair.

  While she smirked, Elliott loosened his tie, pulled it over his head, and tossed it off to the side. Then he unfastened the top button of his scratchy new dress shirt. Neither action made breathing any easier, but at least he didn’t feel like such a huge idiot.

  Elliott caught the committee chair’s uneasy gaze. “There was a . . . scandal. Some legal issues. I was cleared eventually, but the university and I decided it was best if we parted ways. And now that the issue is far behind me, I’d really like to resume my academic career. Online teaching is okay, but I miss personal interactions with students and opportunities for research. I’m only thirty-six, and I have a lot of career years ahead of me.”

  “I see,” said the chair. He picked up a pen, clicked it open, then clicked it closed again. He cleared his throat. “Well, we’ll be concluding the rest of our Skype interviews this week, and then we’ll be, um, contacting the finalists for on-campus interviews. Thanks for chatting with us today.”

  “Thank you. It’s been a pleasure,” Elliott lied. He didn’t bother to say anything about hoping to hear back from them, because he knew he wouldn’t.

  When the Skype session ended, Elliott slammed his laptop shut with more force than wisdom and slumped in his chair. Fuck. Why had he ever thought this would work? At one point, he’d actually considered changing his name so his past would be less accessible to the Marges of the world. But his transcripts and diplomas would still say Elliott Thompson, and explaining the discrepancy would only raise more red flags.

  His stomach made a sudden alarming flip. He lurched from his chair and stumbled to the bathroom, where he barely made it to the toilet before puking. Then he sat on the cold tile floor, feeling miserable. His parents and brother had been nagging him for months about seeing a therapist and maybe trying antianxiety meds. As if it were that easy. Elliott currently lacked insurance to pay for a therapist, and his settlement from the university stretched only so far. Besides, he didn’t want to talk to anyone about what had happened, especially not a stranger.

  It wasn’t until he’d hauled himself upright and rinsed his mouth at the sink that Elliott remembered he had plans tonight—a date, in fact. His brother, Ladd, had insisted on calling it anything but. “It’s not romance,” Ladd had said. “It’s simply dinner with me and Anna and her coworker Kyle.”

  “Who happens to be gay and single, just as I’m gay and single.”

  “Yeah, sure, there’s that. But this is a no-pressure thing. Anna says Kyle has no expectations of sweeping you off your feet or being swept off his. We’re just going to try out that new Italian place downtown.”

  Somehow Elliott had let himself be persuaded, maybe so Ladd would shut up for a while. It was true that Elliott’s dating life had been almost nonexistent recently, but that was nothing new. He’d never been a social butterfly. And his actual sex life? Well, some decent porn, a few toys, and his right hand sufficed. Mostly. They certainly provided simpler options than the alternatives.

  He made up his mind to text Ladd and cancel.

  But by the time he made it to his phone in the living room, Elliott was feeling foolish. It was just dinner. He could handle it. He’d duck out as soon as the bill was paid, and then he’d be able to put off his meddling relatives for a few months at least.

  What he ought to do was clear his mind with some exercise. And not with the weights he kept in the spare bedroom. Today’s autumn weather was lovely, with just a hint of crispness in the air. He would go for a run, damn it.

  It felt wonderful to shed the dress shirt and put on a T-shirt instead. Under the assumption that the hiring committee would see him only from the chest up, he was wearing jeans rather than slacks. After a moment’s consideration about what clothes the weather called for, he changed to shorts. He and John used to run together—one of the few activities they’d done in public, in fact. Now as Elliott laced his shoes, he wondered whether John was allowed to jog in prison.

  “Motherfucker,” Elliott mumbled in a vain attempt to ward off the usual burst of emotional pain. Then he strapped
his phone into an armband and headed outside.

  He’d bought this little house mostly because he could afford it. Rental costs in the area tended to be high compared to mortgages, and Ladd had convinced him that home ownership was a good investment. Even if a job opportunity forced Elliott to move, property values were increasing so rapidly that he’d likely turn a profit on the sale. The house had been in bad shape, and he’d put a lot of sweat equity into making it habitable. It still had a lot of annoying quirks, and the to-do list daunted him, but the house had some other benefits in addition to a reasonable mortgage. A privacy fence and some trees edged the good-sized backyard, where he intended to plant herbs, vegetables, and citrus in the sunny spots. Even better, the house was situated along a greenbelt and walking path, with nothing on the other side of the path but an irrigation canal backed by fields and orchards. Having the walkway so nearby was handy, as was his relative lack of neighbors.

  He passed a few of those neighbors as he strode quickly along the path. He saw a young woman pushing a baby stroller, an older couple ambling side by side, and three students running in their high school T-shirts. A middle-aged woman had two yappy dogs on leashes. A guy on a bicycle zoomed by; nice ass, Elliott noted. He exchanged nods with most people and hellos with a few, but nobody interrupted the Radiolab podcast he was listening to.

  Maybe he should sell his place here in Modesto and buy a house in the Sierras. A one-room cabin with a little porch where he’d sit and be visited—like Snow fucking White—by deer and birds and squirrels and friendly bears. He would wear nothing but denim and flannel, he’d grow a beard halfway down his chest, and he would communicate with the outer world only twice a year, when he’d hike down the mountain for supplies.

  Elliott was so caught up in this daydream—now analyzing whether he’d have to learn to ski—that he nearly collided with a man traveling in the other direction. He was a big man, taller than Elliott and solid. Muscular, yes, but also with a bit of a belly. His biceps stretched the sleeves of his T-shirt, and his thick thighs strained his sweatpants. A sturdy brace supported one knee. He had dark hair, dark eyes, and a dark mustache and beard, neatly trimmed. If he hadn’t been frowning so fiercely, he would have been devastatingly handsome.

  “Sorry,” Elliott mumbled, dancing out of the way. He almost tripped over the man’s cane.

  The man smiled slightly. Sure enough, he was gorgeous. “Nah, my fault. Not really used to this fucking thing yet.” He shook the cane as if he wanted to murder it.

  “I should watch where I’m going.”

  “We can both practice our movement skills, I guess.”

  Elliott laughed politely, nodded once, and continued on his way. When he turned the corner near his house, his heart sank. The guy who lived across the street stood in Elliott’s driveway, scowling at the walkway to the front door. Elliott had interacted with Mike Burgess only a handful of times since moving into the neighborhood two years ago. Once, Burgess had rung the doorbell to complain that Elliott’s front lawn needed cutting. Another time, he’d bitched about the mail carrier, who didn’t deliver early enough for Burgess’s taste. When Elliott was having some electrical work done in his garage, Burgess had come over to remind him he wasn’t supposed to park his car on the street, even though the street dead-ended right past Elliott’s house. Burgess was like one of those cranky old people who chased kids out of their front yard, except he probably wasn’t any older than Elliott.

  “Hi,” Elliott said mildly when he was close enough, although he’d have preferred to just ignore him.

  Burgess didn’t bother with a greeting. “The CC&Rs prohibit signs in front yards,” he said. “Except political advertisements, which can be displayed only for the seven days preceding an election.”

  Elliott wondered if the guy had the subdivision’s covenants, codes, and restrictions tattooed on his ass. “I don’t have any signs.”

  Burgess pointed in the general direction of the front door.

  “That’s not a sign,” said Elliott. “It’s a garden ornament.” The tin rectangle depicting a curvaceous woman and purporting to advertise Dirty Hoe Garden Supply was a recent gift from his brother.

  “It has words on it,” Burgess insisted.

  “Well, yeah. But it’s decorative. It’s a joke, right? Dirty hoe?”

  Burgess shook his head. “It’s a sign, and the CC&Rs prohibit it.”

  Elliott’s head hurt. “Fine. I’ll take it down. But this is stupid.” Burgess stood there, hands on hips, until Elliott yanked the thin metal post from the soil and stalked inside. He slammed the door and locked it, then tossed the ornament aside, ignoring the dirt it left on the carpet. He’d put it somewhere in the backyard later.

  Now as he stood in the entryway, he couldn’t breathe. He was alone in the house, yet he could still hear Marge’s triumphant interrogation and Burgess’s demands. He could hear his former department chair’s accusations, the snide comments of his former colleagues, the flat tones of police officers and lawyers. He could even hear John Davis, first pleading with him and then shouting. The voices were deafening. He wanted to cover his ears with his hands. No, he wanted to climb into bed, pull the covers over his head, and shut out the world.

  His heart was beating too fast, and his lungs felt tight. His skin felt tight.

  With his eyes squeezed shut, he counted slowly to ten, then back to zero. Out loud, like a crazy person. But it calmed him enough to function instead of curling into a fetal ball.

  Elliott pulled his phone out of the armband and texted Ladd. Canceling for tonight. Sorry. Just not up to it. Then he turned off the volume and tossed the phone onto the couch.

  He walked to his desk, sat down, and woke up his laptop. After a long time spent staring blankly at the screen, he found himself typing the one URL that universally soothed him. The webpage came up to tempt him with items from his wish list and Recommendations for You.

  For the better part of an hour, he gazed at covers, perused blurbs, and skimmed reviews. He often took up the offer to Look Inside. Sometimes he rejected a book, sometimes he added it to his wish list, and sometimes he strayed off the page, following the “customers who bought this also bought” trail. But sometimes he clicked on Add to Cart. He watched the little orange number near the top right of his screen gradually tick upward. Each time he browsed a new book, and especially with every addition to his cart, the constriction around his lungs eased a bit more.

  When his breathing had returned to normal, he clicked the yellow Place Your Order button. And then he buried his face in his hands and tried to hold himself together.

  Chapter Two

  Ladd dropped by a few days later and moved a pile of books off the couch so he could sit. “You’ve got a problem here, El.”

  Elliott was sitting in his armchair. “I’ll build some more shelves,” he said defensively.

  “Wasn’t what I meant. Although yeah, that’s an issue too.” He looked around doubtfully. “Where the hell are you going to put more shelves?”

  He had a point. All the living room wall space was filled, and bookshelves crowded the master bedroom and the guest room. There was even one in the tiny dining room, although that was full of gardening guides and cookbooks, which seemed fair enough.

  “I was thinking maybe the garage,” Elliott said. That could work if he got a little shed for his garden tools, freeing up the second stall in the garage. His Honda didn’t take up that much room.

  “Jesus, El.”

  “They’re books. Books are good.”

  “Didja ever hear of the Collyer brothers?” Ladd leaned back in his seat.

  “No.”

  “They were these eccentric recluses in New York in . . . I don’t know. The forties, I think. One of them was sick and the other one took care of him. They filled their house with books and other crap. Then one day someone reports a bad smell coming from the house. Cops show up and discover the sick one—only now he’s dead. No sign of the older one, and people fig
ure maybe he took off. But two weeks later they found him too, also dead, and not far from where his brother had been. Turns out he got buried when a bunch of their books and crap fell on him, and then his brother starved.”

  “That’s a lovely story.”

  Ladd grinned. “Isn’t it? If I ever have kids, I plan to tell it to them at bedtime.”

  “I’m not a hoarder. Nothing is going to bury me.”

  “Okay, maybe not. But do you really need all these books?”

  “Yes.” Elliott had considered converting to e-books, but he found the reality of paper soothing. He even liked the musty smell of the volumes he bought at used-book stores and thrift shops. And okay, yes, maybe he did have a lot of books. But there were certainly far worse addictions for a person to have.

  Perhaps taking in Elliott’s defensive posture, Ladd sighed. “I didn’t come here to nag you about your literary obsession.”

  “What did you come to nag about, then?”

  “You backed out of dinner the other night.”

  “Yeah. I’m sorry. It was shitty of me, okay?”

  Ladd shrugged. “I’m not pissed off at you, man. I’m worried.”

  Fuck. They’d been leading up to this conversation for months. Part of Elliott wanted to yell and toss Ladd out the door. Elliott was a grown-ass man who didn’t need other people digging into his business. Except . . . maybe he kind of did need that, considering what a mess he’d made of his life. And he knew Ladd loved him and wanted the best for him. Maybe Ladd—eleven months his senior—felt as if he owed Elliott some guidance, seeing as Elliott had given him tons of semi-wanted advice when they were younger. Elliott had been the more analytical brother.