I spent the next hour or so poring over our family budget and the Shiffley Construction Company’s proposal for our library. Could we afford the library buildout, even at Randall’s generous terms? Could we live with ourselves if we passed up the chance?
And wouldn’t building out the library be an excellent way to celebrate Michael’s tenure? Which wasn’t official yet, of course. It wouldn’t be official for another month, but it was as close to a certainty as anything could be in the tangled world of academia. So shouldn’t I jump at this chance to celebrate his academic success with a library worthy of a tenured professor? A tenured professor and quite possibly, in a few years, a department chairman, since by this fall he would be one of only three tenured faculty members in the newly formed drama department. And the other two were in their sixties and had already come up with a plan for each of them to serve as department chair for a year or two and then retire, leaving Michael in place as their natural successor. Our prospects were rosy.
But right now the bank account wasn’t.
And just how long would Ms. Ellie and her books be occupying our library after Randall Shiffley built it out? At the county meeting, Festus had told us to prepare for the battle to last months if not several years. Several years of not being able to use part of our own house?
Of course, that would also mean several years of having wonderfully convenient access to a much bigger library than Michael and I could ever hope to assemble. We already were having bedtime story hour for the boys in the hope that they’d form the same love of reading we had. Everyone always said that the best way to turn children into readers was to surround them with books and adults who considered reading an important part of their lives. What better way to do that than have a library on the premises?
And better in the house than in the barn. I hoped to resume my blacksmithing soon, and I shuddered at the idea of lighting my forge and starting to hammer sparks out of hot iron in a building filled to the rafters with highly inflammable paper. And I could just imagine the conflicts. “Meg,” Ms. Ellie would call out. “Can you stop making such a racket? We’re trying to have the children’s story hour.” No, the house was the optimal place for what we’d already promised to do. If only we could afford the buildout.
I alternated between dreams of glory and financial fretting for far longer than I should. Eventually, I must have fallen asleep, facedown on the family budget.
Chapter 16
Something woke me up. I started and almost knocked my chair over. I was in the kitchen. Apparently I’d fallen asleep over my tea. I touched my teacup. It was room temperature. My budget files were still on the table. A few of the papers from the idea file for our library renovation had fallen on the floor.
I glanced at the clock: 2:00 A.M. Past time for the next feeding. Had I been awakened by one of the babies crying?
I got up and went over to the kitchen counter and made sure the volume on the baby monitor was up. Yes, it was, and I could hear only silence, and the occasional soft not-quite snore from Michael. He’d probably done the last feeding or two and fallen asleep in the recliner. I must have been exhausted to have slept through the wailing, even if Michael had turned the monitor off on the nursery end. So what had awakened me?
I ventured out into the hallway. It was empty and silent. So was the living room when I looked inside. But someone had been there. A vase had been knocked off a bookshelf near the door and lay in shards on the floor. Not a vase I particularly liked. I could easily live without it, except that the aunt who given it to us last Christmas would probably notice that it wasn’t there the next time she visited. Should I make a big fuss over how upset I was? No, always the chance she’d send a replacement. Best say nothing. Let her assume I’d moved it to one of the guest rooms. I gave the jagged fragments a wide berth and explored further.
The macaw’s cage had been knocked on its side. I went over and peered down at it. The macaw was standing up and looking alarmed but did not, thank goodness, say anything. I righted the cage and adjusted the cover. I heard a soft squawk and a flutter of feathers. I peered in again to see that the macaw was sitting on its perch, head tucked under its wing. I breathed a sigh of relief.
I could see no other damage in the living room. No other new damage—the rug really would have to go to the cleaners. I’d let Mother figure out what to do about the sofas and the gnawed-on end table.
Nothing missing, and no damage. But someone had been here. What were they trying to do? And had they succeeded? Or had they knocked over the vase and fled first?