MUCH ADO IN 2022

"You must be...," he started.

"Traci Smith. I work for Mrs. Grant. Well, just started working. Thank you for picking up my car. Can you get it working again? Not too expensively?" She left the last hopeless little sentence hanging in the air expectantly. She had had too many mechanics take advantage of her lack of automotive knowledge...

"Well, Traci. There is good news and bad news. Since I had to go over it quite thoroughly, I just gave it a quick, standard tune-up. No charge for that. New customer; welcome to town. I also noticed you don't have a spare tire. That made me cringe. But you did have a nicely put together emergency kit in the trunk, so I cringed only a little bit. Anyway, the timing chain should be buried with honors, since it didn't leave you stranded somewhere unpleasant. I looked really hard, but couldn't actually find anything else wrong, so you are reasonably lucky. I have a brand new mechanic fresh from the high school auto shop who is champing at the bit to have me walk him through the work, so I'll go easy on the hours. The part is a couple of hundred bucks. And so is the spare tire I am going to order for you. But when we're done you can call my wife, Mona, and set up any payment schedule you need. Eileen helped Mona out any number of times, so repaying the favor is a relief. All of that is kind of the good news. The bad news is that it may be awhile before you get the car back."

Traci's rising hopes ran into that particular boulder and flipped over completely. "How long do you think, Mr. Watson?" The doorbell chimed behind her, but she paid it no attention.

"Charlie. And to be utterly truthful, I don't know, since this dang COVID has snarled up all the supply chains beyond recognition. Could be a few days. Could be a few weeks."

"Weeks? Oh, no. Are you sure?" Traci knew she could walk back and forth to work if she really needed to, and the exercise would be healthy, but running errands in the sprawling town without a car would be a torture.

"I am sorry Traci, I really am, but that part is out of stock inside the country and made outside the country. I've put in an order, but I suspect it will be some time before it comes in. Then it's just a day of work. I'm also not sure when the spare will come in. I have more tires on order than I care to think of. The repair isn't costly, just a pain in your ass, I admit."

"Do you have a loaner car?" Traci flinched, thinking of the expense.

"No, I'm sorry. I only have three right now, and they are all out. I might be able to get one back in three, maybe four, days."

"What am I going to do?" Traci groaned.

"Hey, Charlie, you've got a loaner. No problem."

She turned around and did a double-take. It was the older gentleman from the YMCA. Just as handsome, but now in dress jeans and a forest green polo shirt.

He nodded to her politely and his eyes twinkled. At some age men's eyes must change, she thought, like cataracts or something, and twinkle instead of shine. "I believe we have almost met before. I'm Tom Henderson. I am here picking up my car, but if you need one, you can use mine."

"Use yours? What will you do for a car?" she asked, startled.

The man chuckled and leaned just the slightest bit closer, as if including her in a conspiracy. "It isn't really MY car. I am taking care of it for someone currently out of the country. I promised to drive it around and bring it in for regular tune-ups. You can do that just as well as I can."

"It's not the kind of car that does well up on blocks for a year or two," Charlie put in, looking strangely at the man called Tom.

"Then it's settled. I'll get my stuff and the young lady can drop me off at home." He smiled at her; a fatherly kind of indulgent smile with traces of amusement around the edges.

Traci looked at Charlie's bemused expression as Tom strode away. "Can I trust him?"

Charlie looked at her in amazement, and then stifled a laugh. "That's Tom Henderson. President and owner of Henderson Industries. Biggest employer in the county. And the scoutmaster here for 15 years. And the president of Rotary. And a big church-goer and community booster. I doubt if there is a person in town he isn't on a first name basis with, including Clive Smiley who drives the recycling truck. The only reason he isn't mayor is that he hates politics. Anyone here would trust him with their wallet, their keys and their kids. You got nothing to worry about with him. I'm just surprised he volunteered that car; he promised he'd take care of it and for nearly two years he's treated it like it was part of the family. Anyway, I've got your phone number and I'll let you know how it's going with your car. Don't worry, your car is near as safe with me as you are with Tom." And he finished the speech with a reassuring wink.

She smiled uncertainly and walked over to the tall man by the door. Impulsively she stuck out her hand. "My parents warned me not to get involved with strangers, and I just found out you are Tom Henderson. I'm Traci Smith. So that makes us not strangers any more, right?"

He now defined 'beaming' smile and appeared to approve of her bold declaration. He shook her hand, firmly but gently. "A pleasure to meet you, Traci.' He nodded toward the door. "Let's get going."

A bright red classic MUSTANG convertible that seemed to dare any police officer to give it a moving violation for just sitting there, was parked in the lot by the road. Traci glanced around before staring at the vehicle. "Oh, my God. Is that your car? I mean, the car?"

"It is indeed. I've got to get home, so let's go."

There was a large sticker on the back bumper: "Medecins Sans Frontieres". "Doctors without Borders, her high school French translated automatically. He must donate to them, she thought.

She stood next to him, beside the driver's side door, and, frankly, gawked at the car.

"Since I have never seen you before the Y, I would bet that you are the new-in-town young lady renting a room from the widow Hawkins and working for Eileen." He grinned at her sudden consternation. "Can't beat small town America."

The small conversational vacuum seemed to pull her reply right out. "Clarksville seems a wonderful place."

He nodded. "If your tire blows out, the next person by will help you change it. If you drop a bag of groceries in the GIANT parking lot, every mom in earshot will send their kids over to help pick them up. If you are having a bad day, Murray will likely give you a free ice cream cone. If you need a car, the first person with an extra car will hand you the keys." He reached out and dropped the keys in her unresisting hand.

"I'm from the big city. There must be a catch," Traci responded, cautiously.

"Oh, there is. This is a small town. We expect you to do the same things right back at us." He winked fit to give Saint Nick competition and walked around to the passenger side door and slid in.

Taking a deep breath and wondering what she had gotten herself into, she slid effortlessly into the driver's seat. "Oh, wow," she breathed. It felt like she had just climbed into a jet fighter. With the slightest trepidation she started the engine, which rumbled to life and settled down to purr, idling expectantly like a space shuttle on the launch pad on final countdown. Only the faintest of vibrations and the engine RPM indicated that it was actually running. She back it out smoothly, and then eased it forward to the parking lot exit. "Which way?"

"Second star to the right and straight on til morning," Tom said.

She burst out laughing. "Are you Peter Pan masquerading as Tom Henderson, or Tom Henderson masquerading as Peter Pan?"

"Some days one. Some days the other."

"I still need to know which way to turn."

"In that case, it's a right, then a mile down to a left on Shady Lane." He caught her expression. "Honest. Cross my heart. Its Shady Lane."

"Hang on then."

The sleek vehicle insinuated itself out onto the road in the sparse traffic and moved forward like a Star Wars landspeeder fleeing Stormtroopers. Realizing that she had left the speed limit as well as the garage far behind, she backed off the accelerator. The car seemed to sulk for a moment, and then shrugged and settle for 5 mph over the posted limit. She glanced at her passenger, but he was just smiling as the town flickered past. "Don't worry. The police chief is on my bowling team," he said. "Not that that should let you get too carried away," he added with good humor.

The mile passed all too quickly, and she would have shot past Shady Lane if Tom hadn't pointed it out well ahead of them.

"Number 120. You can drop me off out front."

Traci was a bit surprised. She had almost expected a mansion, maybe with automatic gates and a formal garden out front. But while it looked large and roomy, and very well kept, it was only a little bigger than the surrounding houses. It did have a most inviting wraparound porch and a big, bold blue door. The garage had three doors and a wide driveway. With a gentle swoop, she pulled up to the curb and stopped so smoothly you couldn't have told when the car actually ceased to move.

Tom hopped out, pulled his armload of belongings out of the backseat, and bent down to look in through the window. Before he could say anything, and worried that she might be invited in the house, she burst out, "I'll take very good care of it, Mr. Henderson. Really."

"I know you will, Traci." He opened the glove compartment, pulled out a card in a small leather holder, and showed it to her. "Gas card. She takes ultra-premium at Searle's station. The account is all set up." He put it back and said, "See you around."

With that, he went up to the door, turned for a quick wave, and vanished inside.

With a deep, disbelieving breath, she eased the car around and drove back to the Hawkins house, parking in her designated place, and hurried in to help with supper and learn a few more tricks. Mrs. Hawkins smiled as Traci related the story, but made no comment other than: 'That's Tom.'

And she kept peeking out of the dining room window to make certain the car was still there and she hadn't imagined it all.

Mrs. Grant didn't bat an eye when Traci pulled up behind her outside the building the next morning. She just nodded pleasantly and noted, "Adele told me that Tom had loaned you that car. Take good care of it. And Mona said to apologize that it will take a bit to get the parts your car needs. She put them on order right away."

The day passed quickly. The work was steady, and a couple of worthwhile challenges kept her engaged as she half-listened to Judy. Judy had been astonished when told the story of the 'loaner' car, and had shaken her head, though with a broad grin.

After work, Judy invited her out to the bowling alley where she was going to watch her boyfriend's team play its next match in the city tournament. Jimmy greeted her happily and introduced her his teammates. They all seemed to have girlfriends watching them too, so Traci didn't have to worry about someone trying to get to know her better. As she and Judy nibbled on a slice of pizza each and sipped their lemonade, she asked, "Do Mrs. Grant and Mr. Henderson know each other? "

Judy nodded, but kept her eyes on the alley because Jimmy was up next. "My mom told me they were actually high school sweethearts. Prom King and Queen. He was captain of the football team, and she was head of the cheerleading squad. According to my mom, they were the perfect couple." She sighed. "But he went off to one coast for college, and she went off to the other coast for college. I don't know if they tried to make a long-distance relationship work, or made promises to each other, or just said goodbye." She took a sip of her drink. "Anyway, Tom came back with Rebecca, and he started the company and pulled the town out of the economic spiral it was making around the financial drain. And, well, their kids are off now. When Rebecca died, he went into a bit of a funk for a while, but pulled himself out and keeps very busy around town." She paused to applaud at Jimmy's solid hit strike which had sent the pins flying, and whistled appreciatively. He turned and bowed in exaggerated fashion and turned back to the game. "Eileen stayed in Charleston, married Chet Grant, and had two kids. They moved back here to town and she opened her business. Chet was a general contractor and caught the town's construction boom. Taxes on Mr. Henderson's business, and lots of civic donations, and Mr. Grant's sweat and hard work pretty much re-made the town into what it is today." She gave Jimmy a beaming, encouraging smile as he turned around, indicating that he was dedicating the next roll to her. The ball rumbled down the lane, seemingly spinning crazily, and then hooked and scattered all the pins with an attention-seizing crash. Jimmy turned and they blew each other kisses.

"So they are both widowed?" Traci asked.

"Oh, yeah. Sorry. My mom said that the four of them were friends. Eileen and Rebecca would volunteer together. Mr. Henderson and Mr. Grant would take off fishing or hiking, mostly with the Scouts. Mr. Henderson was the Scoutmaster and Mr. Grant was Assistant Scoutmaster. For like, years. They got national recognition for the number of Eagle Scouts that came out of that troop. Mr. Grant died of a brain aneurysm about, oh, three years ago now. Mr. Henderson turned over Scoutmaster duties after that, though he still helps out a lot."

They then both hopped up and cheered as Jimmy pulled out tricky spare and his team won by two pins.

The rest of Traci's week went smoothly, and by Friday it seemed that everyone new she ran into or was introduced to, already knew her. On Saturday she met Father Raymond McMurdy at the church rectory, and signed up as a parish member. On Sunday morning, dressed in her best, since her mother had always told her to make a good impression in church, she attended nine a.m. mass.

She noticed Jason Abernathy near the front of the congregation, towering over everybody, and was preoccupied in church, half listened to the readings and sermon, and was a bit distracted when going up for communion. She was startled when the person in front of her stepped aside and there was Tom Henderson as a Eucharistic Minister.

"Traci, the body of Christ," he recited, after a moment of surprise, as he offered her the host

She managed to say, "Amen," before receiving and retreating back to her pew. She watched as Mr. Henderson moved about the altar, clearing things away before letting Father McMurdy start the closing.

After mass she was going to head back to the boarding house quickly, but Mr. Henderson would have none of it. He caught her before she made it to the door and escorted her to the church hall. There she found herself the sudden possessor of a cup of delightful coffee, and a cinnamon sugar donut so fresh the first nibble burned. He introduced her around, but was certain she would never remember all of the names. After a whirlwind of talk, she escaped and started to drive back to the Hawkins House. Jason Abernathy was ambling back the same way, so she pulled over and offered him a ride, which he solemnly accepted. Fortunately the weather was nice and the top down, otherwise he would never have fit. They made small talk over the ten blocks, and then laid into Mrs. Hawkins idea of Sunday brunch, which seemed just below a banquet for visiting royalty. After helping with cleanup, Traci hopped in the car and drove around, getting used to the area.

The week started early, with Monday and Tuesday flying by as she settled into a comfortable routine.

The next Wednesday, Mrs. Grant closed up a bit early due to wanting to attend a city council meeting, and Traci took the opportunity to finally visit the town library. This library was near the center of town, was set back from the main street by an expansive and meticulously kept lawn with small flower beds here and there. She saw Jason Abernathy trimming one of the hedges and they exchanged waves. The library was not an afterthought, or tucked into the shell of a failed business or house. It was a sprawling brick and stone structure with a high central hall surmounted by a towering dome, and two wide wings that curled around the lawn protectively, like a hug.

A bibliophile by inclination - and being read to in bed every night from age 1 to 13 by either her father or her mother, and then from 13 until now by herself, she instinctively made her way up the worn slate steps. She had an e-reader and had an impressive collection of e-books, but to her nothing beat the smell of paper and the solid feeling of a good book in her hands as a launching pad for the imagination.

The library was even more impressive close up; old but meticulously kept, with an elegant little courtyard in front of the door with two stone benches. What looked like a brass orrerry sat squarely in the center of the courtyard, along with an old brass sun dial. The building was probably an original Carnegie construction. She saw the cornerstone as she approached the ornate double doors - 1892.

The door was massive, and bound with brass shiny enough to make you squint, but it opened easily with the rustle of leather weather stripping. It was cool inside, and the tall, narrow windows filled the building with light. If Norman Rockwell had wanted to paint the quintessential American Library, he would have set his easel up right where she was standing. A community bulletin board with dozens of colorful notices occupied one side of the entrance vestibule, and a bust of Dale Carnegie the other side. An older woman with perfect white hair done up in a fashion that anyone over forty should not have been able to pull off nearly as well, looked up from the main desk across the room, and smiled at her.

Traci smiled back. Always get on the good side of the Librarian, her mother had told her. So far that advice had served her well. The advice on dating - well, not so much. She walked quickly to the desk.

"Hi, I'm Traci...," she began.

"Smith. I know. Adele Hawkins is my canasta nemesis. She said you looked like a reader if ever she saw one, so I've been expecting you." She reached out and shook Traci's hand. "Sally Wentworth, Librarian."

"I need...."

"A library card and a tour, I expect. We have some time before the kids get out of school and the afternoon reading programs start, so let me show you around."

So she was given an exhaustive tour and briefed on how to sign books and magazines in and out, sign up for conference rooms, and sign up for story times. She learned about Tuesday classic movie nights, and the various groups that met in the conference rooms. One entire wing was for children's book and an impressive model train circled endlessly through the rooms and reading nooks like a real Mr. Roger's Neighborhood. The adult fiction section was set in the back corner of the main building, and the long row of reference shelves towered opposite a long row of Internet terminals. Then she was taken to a discreet door beside the main counter, next to the restrooms. The sign read, simply, 'STACKS'.

She was led down a long stair to a small landing and a panel of switches, surrounded by a cool dimness. Her guide flipped several switches, and the netherworld lit up. Someone had painted more than a dozen sharp, colored lines upon the floor, each neatly labeled 'Fiction,' or 'Geography, or 'Biography' or something, and led off along the concrete floor to twist and turn and disappear into the rank upon rank upon rank of shelving units with a myriad of elderly books nestled safely away. Had the 'Lost Ark' been a tome, this would have been the place to hide it. For a moment she stood and then took a deep, deep breath. The melded scent of paper, glue, cardboard and leather was like the mustiness of a finely aged wine to her nose. If the books had been gold nuggets, and she a dwarf, she would have dropped dead from terminal greed. To some people it might have seemed like a cemetery for aged books; to Traci it was like a vast retirement home where grandparents waited patiently for the grandkids to visit and play. She beamed and Sally beamed back at her reaction. Even though they were well below ground level, she felt she had just stumbled into heaven.