Page 1 of Overdue

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AUSTEN

How did my life get reduced to this? I was going to leave this small town behind. The giants of the literary world were going to bow before me in awe of my life-changing prose.

I was going to be one of the select few to win both a Pulitzer and Nobel Prizes in Literature. Instead, here I sit slumped behind the large desk in the middle of the local public library.

But I didn’t escape that small town. I’m now the head librarian at the tiny library in the middle of downtown. This is where I wound up. Dansboro Crossing, population three thousand four hundred fifty-eight happy smiles. That’s what the sign on the way into town claims, anyway.

“Miss Caraway?” says a small voice somewhere behind an impressive armload of books. With a thump, they’re set on the front of the circulation desk. A toothless grin looks out from behind the books.

“My mom said I’m finally old enough for my own library card. Please, Miss Caraway, can I get my own card?” I plaster on a smile.

“Of course, sweetie.” I don’t have to ask the little girl's name. After growing up in a town this size, I know just about everybody on sight. She gives me all the information needed. I print out the card and show her how to check her books out.

“Don’t forget story hour is on Tuesday,” I remind her. I cram as many books as I can into her book bag.

“I won’t, Miss Caraway,” she assures me.

I watch as she lugs the heavy bag out the front door. When did I get old enough to be called Miss Caraway instead of Austen?

It’s not that I hate the town. I loved growing up here as the middle daughter of three sisters. My parents are wonderful, if not a little too scholarly. Not in a bad way though, more like two people who held five degrees between them and taught at a small exclusive private university two towns over scholarly.

They moved here before I was born to “escape the totalitarianism of the city.” Okay, whatever. However odd, they’re still loving, supportive people.

Mom teaches feminist literature and philosophy. Dad is a theoretical physics professor. How they chose the names for my sisters and me, I don’t know. It must have involved psychedelics.

At least I got Jane Austen Caraway. My poor oldest sister was labeled with the male-sounding name George Eliot Caraway. At least Eliot had been a woman, but that didn’t help matters.

Just as strange, my youngest sister is Charlotte Brontë Caraway. What a mouth full. By the time they chose Brontë’s name (complete with the two dots over the e), they must have just been throwing darts at a bookshelf.

I spin around in the old desk chair to check the clock hanging next to the office door. It’s not even six in the evening? I let out an impressive groan. No one seems to notice. Is there even anyone in here? I’ll make a loop and then see what I can do in my office.

Tonight is Thursday, and the library always stays open late on Thursdays. It has for as long as I can remember. Anyone unable to make it during the rest of the week to pick up books has at least one evening they can stop by. I stop next to my office door to straighten the books on the holds shelf. Yeah, they’re still in perfect order.

My office isn’t great, but it’s all mine. Mrs. Brown, who retired after fifty years of working as the head librarian, left behind several plants. Her husband convinced her to head for the sandy beaches of Florida to live out the rest of their retirement.

So far, I’ve managed to kill two of the three plants almost immediately. I’ve worked here less than two weeks, but failure seemed to have followed in my wake. Those plants never stood a chance.

In addition to the desk, wobbly desk chair, and dead plants, there are a set of short filing cabinets against the back wall that hold patron records. I found a coat rack and a couch that look like they used to occupy a doctor’s office in the fifties to round out the tired but comfortable look.

My desk is piled with books. One stack is new books needing to be put into the system. Another one is a stack needing to be retired. And still, another is of interlibrary loan request. I’ve moved the growing pile of loan requests, recent library card forms and other assorted paperwork to the top of the file cabinet.

If I don’t gain control of the stack of paperwork soon, it’ll likely bury me alive. It’s still quiet in the main part of the library, so no time like the present to take on the mess. I’ll start with the loan requests. Of course, I manage to upend the papers at the back of the cabinet.

“Monkey’s ass.” Several slide behind the heavy file cabinets. “Stupid wanker.” I know. You’re jealous of my command of cursing. But back to the papers. Damn it. Wasn’t every day a Monday now? Maybe if I move the other stacks to my desk, I can reach behind the cabinet for the stray papers. Anything is worth a try.

I have one of those weird library stools in my office. I roll it over and kick off my shoes. I can almost reach the papers. If I can just wiggle a little farther over the cabinet, I’m certain I can. We won’t think about my ass encased in a tight pencil skirt stuck in the air.

I almost have them. Just a little more. There. I’ve snagged them with my fingertips. Now I just have to get off the cabinet. If I do an awkward version of the worm backward, I should be able to push myself off. Who thought it was a brilliant idea to leave the cabinet pulled out a little from the wall in the first place?

“Wahoo.” I wave the papers in triumph when my feet hit the stool again. I spin around and leap off the stool.

“Whoredog!” I squeal.

Leaning against the doorjamb of my office is my worst nightmare. With his long golden locks, fathomless blue eyes, and perfect white teeth shown to their full glory by a shit-eating grin. He is the last person I want to run into since moving back.

Reed Campbell. The same boy who lived down the street when we were kids. Although, Reed doesn’t look much like a kid anymore.

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