Promises to Keep - Ann Tatlock [43]
The pretty librarian looked at me, her polished lips turning up in a smile. “Well, nice to meet you. Welcome to Mills River.”
“Thank you,” I said shyly.
“Did Mara say your name is Ross?”
“No. It’s Roz. Short for Rosalind.”
“Oh yes, I see. Well, Roz, what invention are you going to write about?”
I shrugged. “I haven’t decided yet.”
“I’m going to show her where the nonfiction section is,” Mara explained, “and let her look around.”
Mrs. Tisdale nodded. “You may want to look for books on Thomas Edison. That’d be a place to start.”
“All right,” I said. “Thanks.”
“Come on, Roz. Thanks again for the books, Mrs. Tisdale.”
As I walked with Mara up the stairs to Young Adult Nonfiction, she whispered, “All the librarians know I’m going to be a great writer someday. I think they want to say they had a part in it, because they’re always giving me books and stuff. I’m really lucky that way.”
I nodded. She was lucky. I wished I had people giving me free stuff. And I wished I had a life goal. I wished I thought I was going to be great at anything. But I didn’t seem to have any particular talent, not like Mara and her writing.
“Here we are,” she said as we came to a stop amid towering rows of books. “This is the right section, but let’s look at the card catalog to see what they’ve got on the printing press for me and Thomas Edison for you.”
An hour later she was seated at one of the tables, taking notes from several stacks of books that she’d piled around her. I was still wandering the aisles, trying in a slipshod fashion to decide what to write about. I figured everyone would pick an invention by Thomas Edison, and I wanted to do something different.
Absorbed in reading the spines of the books, I was only vaguely aware of the handful of people in the library. One teenaged girl strolled into Nonfiction, absently bumped into me, excused herself, moved on to another shelf. I scarcely glanced at her. Finally a book on Madame Curie caught my attention; I knew she had something to do with the invention of the X-ray machine. Rolling up on my toes, I had my fingers on the dust jacket when I was grabbed from behind. My mind needed a second to register that someone had me in his hold. In that second of dawning awareness my heart began to race, and I couldn’t breathe. The stranger’s hold was gentle, like a hug, with one hand around my waist and the other over my mouth. I instinctively tried to pull the hand away from my face so I could let go of the scream rising in my throat. But whoever held me was far stronger than I was. I sensed his face near mine. Wally? If this was a joke, it wasn’t funny. I squirmed, trying to free myself, but his grasp only tightened.
“Roz, stand still. Don’t scream. It’s me. It’s Daddy.”
His breath tickled my ear, and I froze. The sound of his voice brought on a whole new rush of fear, while his words slithered like a bad dream right into my brain. I’d wanted Daddy, wanted to see him, wanted him to come back to us, but now that he was here, I wasn’t so sure.
“Roz,” he said again. “I’m going to let you go. But I want you to promise you won’t scream. All right? Promise?”
I nodded, my wide eyes rolling and shifting rapidly as I tried to make sense of what was happening.
“Good. Good,” he whispered. The pressure on my face was lifted. I realized I was holding my breath; my whole body trembled as I exhaled. Daddy’s hands turned me around slowly.
And then I was looking into his face. He was kneeling now, both hands on my shoulders, his eyes roaming my face like he was drinking me in. “Oh, Little Rose. Little Rose,” he said. “I’ve missed you.”
I didn’t know whether to run as fast as I could or throw my arms around him and hold on for dear life. I couldn’t pull my gaze from that oh-so-familiar but forbidden face. I knew every inch of it, the lines beside his mouth, the small scar that nicked his right brow, the narrow bridge of his nose, those piercing brown eyes, soft as a doe’s. They’d always perplexed me – those eyes – by speaking of tenderness. At that moment they were filled with