Page 8 of The Library of Borrowed Hearts

Ever the literary scholar, I was quick to correct him. “Actually, there are early illustrated Bibles that fetch that much all the time. And several unfinished manuscripts from Jane Austen recently sold at auction for—”

“You know what I mean. Name areasonableprice.” He peeked overmy head at the inside of the house again and frowned. “Beggars shouldn’t be choosers. How does five thousand sound?”

“Five thousanddollars?” I practically squeaked. It was no million-dollar windfall, but there were so many things I could buy with that kind of money. A dishwasher. A new roof, no down payment required. All the debate team escapades Trixie’s heart could desire. “Are you serious?”

“Do I look like a man who’s not serious?” He thrust a hand into the breast pocket of his jacket and pulled out a check folded neatly down the center. It was only then that I noticed he’d dressed up for this little meeting of ours. Whenever I normally saw him, he wore the traditional attire for rural Washington men well past retirement age: heavy-duty work pants and flannels, the occasional puffy vest when dignity required. The suit jacket he had on now was out-of-date but well pressed, his slacks equally tidy. “Here. It’s blank but I signed it. Fill it in with whatever you think is fair.”

“But you can’t just give me a blank check—”

“Do you have the book in the house with you?”

“Well, yes. But—”

“Then I’ll take it with me.Now.”

He shoved his hands into his armpits and stood staring down at me, his lips pressed in a flat line. Like the rest of his features, his lips were a little too large even when they were tucked tightly together like that.

I was tempted to tear up the check and tell him that the book wasn’t for sale—that a man couldn’t terrorize his neighbors for twenty-odd years and then start making demands to buy the only thing of value they had. Besides, I wasn’t sure I wanted him to have the book. I was just starting to get to know my star-crossed message writers. He’d take one look at those sentimental, heartfelt ramblings and—

“Well?” he demanded. “I’m not getting any younger.”

That was when it clicked. If I hadn’t been so flabbergasted by the sight of Jasper Holmes standing on my front porch or the dizzyingprospect of a blank check with my name on it, I would have put the pieces together much sooner. As it was, I could only stare in wide-eyed astonishment as his words sank in.

He’s not getting any younger.

This was undeniably true, but hehadbeen young. Once upon a time, he’d even been my age—young and hopeful, his head full of dreams, his heart ready for the same. If my mental math was correct, that would have been sometime around the 1950s and 1960s.

The exact time that bootleg copies ofTropic of Cancerwould have been floating around a backwoods town like ours. With a gulp, I glanced down at the check in my hand. Sure enough, the scratchy signature grabbed me with its familiarity.

It’s him.He’s the contrary lover.

“Gimme a sec,” I said as I moved inside to grab the book. I picked it up with more care than I’d shown it before, as if I was afraid the whole thing might go up in a puff of smoke if I handled the binding too roughly. I felt a sudden itching to skim through the pages again, this time with a fine-toothed comb, but Jasper was watching me with an intensity that made me itch even worse.

I was pretty sure he knew what was written inside that book—and that he knew I knew it, too.

“It’s all yours,” I said as I handed it over.

Instead of grabbing it with a reverence similar to my own, he snatched it greedily. He then tucked the book under his arm as if he cared no more for its contents than he did the weeds he pulled ruthlessly from his garden every morning. Now that he’d gotten what he wanted, he turned to leave with the same curt disregard he always showed me.

But for some strange reason, I was reluctant to see him go.

“Wait,” I called. He paused but didn’t turn, so I decided to shoot my shot. Well,ashot, anyway. “How do you know I’m not going to write myself a check big enough to take every penny you have?”

“You won’t,” he said as he continued on his way. “If you wereactuallya thief, you’d be living in a hell of a lot nicer house than this.”

“I think you should take him for the full five grand.”

Pepper handed me the last box from the library basement and wiped her hand across her brow. It left a streak of dust behind, which blended poorly with her winged eyeliner. After trudging up and down the stairs with me for the past two hours, she looked as dirty and exhausted as I felt, but the job was finally done.

One basement, cleared of its ancient trove of old and unwanted books, the mystery of Jasper andTropic of Cancersitting unresolved at the center of it.

“I can’t do that,” I complained as I climbed the stairs and tossed the last of the books into the dumpster. “Even if the copy I sold him had been in mint condition—which it wasn’t—it would only be worth about half that.”

“Yeah, but you’re not counting sentimental value. If Jasper Holmes really was the guy who wrote all those love notes, then the book is priceless.” She grinned. Ever since I’d told her about the additional messages I’d found and Jasper’s late-night visit shortly thereafter, she’d been practically thrumming with the romance of it all. Pepper might have been a bit of a hard-ass, but she was a softie at heart. All those Harlequins probably accounted for it.

“To think of him writing secret notes in a dirty book like that,” she added. “Who knew the old devil had it in him?”

I shook my head and went to the sink to wash my hands. I was once again dressed for utilitarian purposes, but not for much longer. Now that the basement was cleared, it was back to my usual not-quite-a-librarian status. Half a degree wasn’t enough to land me the realposition. Eighteen bucks an hour and a decent healthcare package were about all I could ask for.