The email arrived while Celia was choosing a book with a duck on the cover for a child who had specifically requested no ducks.
“He doesn’t like them today,” his mother said apologetically.
“A strong position.” Celia replaced the book and found one about a train. “What about wheels?”
The boy considered her offering, then hugged it so suddenly that his mother laughed. At the bus door, rainwater dripped from the folded stroller. Nell slept in her carrier behind the little circulation counter, and Margaret was telling someone at the front of the bus that Thursdays would be easy because she already had two volunteers.
Celia’s phone lit again. School repair update, said the subject line. She opened it expecting a revised date a few weeks farther into the winter, something that would disappoint people but still fit inside the shape of next year.
The principal had used short paragraphs. That was how Celia knew before reaching the second one. Additional damage had been found. The pupils distributed among the temporary sites would remain there through the spring term. There was no safe reopening date for the library.
She read it again, duck book still in one hand.
“Bad news?” the boy’s mother asked.
Celia put her phone facedown. “The school needs more work than they thought.”
“Oh.” The woman looked at the rows of books, then out at the rain. “You’ll still be coming here?”
The bus was parked outside a borrowed classroom block where a paved playground had become a delivery route. Children arrived with paper lists clutched in damp fists. The teachers had made reading corners out of cartons and old rugs; nobody had complained to Celia, which had made her try harder to find exactly what they needed.
“We’re working on the winter schedule,” she said.
“Because the Thursday stop’s hard for us. His appointment is always—never mind. It’s not your problem.”
“We could come on Tuesdays as well.”
The words left her mouth with a lovely, immediate effect. Relief crossed the woman’s face. Celia felt it land like praise.
“Really?”
“I’ll see what I can arrange.”
“Thank you. That would be wonderful.”
Only when the woman had gone did Celia put down the book. Tuesday was the driver’s other route day. A volunteer could check books in, but a volunteer could not simply drive the bus. Imogen had explained this often enough that Celia knew it without checking anything.
At the front, Margaret turned a page in her notebook.
“I’ve got Nora on Tuesday too,” she said. “Lovely. It all works out.”
“Nora can’t drive.”
“No, but she can do the children.”
“It isn’t just the children.”
Margaret’s expression changed. “I know there’s rather a lot to it, Celia.”
Nell stirred behind them, an indignant small sound. Celia lifted her out of the carrier and tried to retrieve the conversation without putting the baby down again.
“I meant we don’t have a driver for another day.”
“I’m only trying to help.”
“I know.”
The bus bell jingled as another child climbed aboard, and neither woman said what she meant next.
That afternoon, on the ninth of October, Imogen met them in the trust’s cramped office above the public meeting room. Celia had brought Nell because it was a short planning visit during her leave, arranged in advance, not the start of her pretending maternity leave had never existed. She reminded herself of that while lifting the baby’s bag over a stack of donated dictionaries.
Adrian arrived five minutes later, wet at the shoulders. His hair had surrendered completely to the weather. Celia, who had spent the week remembering his mouth on the ferry deck, found his entrance distracting enough to miss Imogen’s first question.
“Sorry?”
“Did you tell them Tuesdays would happen?”
“I said I’d see what I could arrange.”
Imogen looked at her.
“After I said we could come Tuesdays,” Celia admitted.
Margaret began taking her coat off as if the room had become too warm.
“Parents need something firm,” Celia said. “They’ve had their children moved three times. Every time they get used to a place, we tell them to be flexible.”
“And you thought you’d supply certainty out of your own pocket?” Imogen asked.
“That’s not fair.”
“No. The situation isn’t fair. It still doesn’t give me a driver.”
Adrian sat down beside Celia, close enough that their knees almost touched. He looked between them.
“What would one more stop cost?”
Imogen rubbed the bridge of her nose. “More than the stop. Another day, another driver arrangement, someone here sorting returns, cover if someone is ill. We priced the pilot for a reason.”
“I could ask the company to support the winter service.”
“You could,” she said. “I would need to know the offer before I put it to the board.”
He nodded, already pulling a notebook from his coat. Celia recognized the small change in him: he sat forward, eyes intent, the tiredness vanishing under the pleasure of something he could solve. It was attractive. She did not want to spend the whole afternoon pretending it wasn’t.
“We’re holding the expansion showcase in December,” he said. “One of the demonstrations has fallen through. The bus could be useful there. Not a speech about equipment. People actually getting aboard, seeing the lights on, seeing something real.”
“Our books are real,” Margaret said.
“I wasn’t doubting the books, Mom.”
Celia smiled despite herself. Adrian caught it and briefly lifted his eyebrows.
“What would you need?” Imogen asked.
“Two hours at the visitor forecourt. Sunday, December sixth. Static display, professionally driven there and back. No school stop displaced. The company pays the driver and preparation costs. A sponsorship contribution goes to the winter program.”
“And whose face goes on the invitation?” Celia asked.
“Mine, unfortunately.”
“I meant would children be expected to come and look grateful?”
“No.” He paused. “That’s a fair question. No. It can be adults who already want to hear about storage batteries. A regrettable but substantial group.”
Imogen laughed once. “Send me one page. Plain terms. Nothing agreed until we approve it.”
“Understood.”
“Celia, are you willing to help present? You’d be back by then, but it would be extra time.”
“For two hours? Yes.”
She liked the sound of it. The bus clean and bright in a new place, her work visible to people who might otherwise dismiss it as a sweet local cause. Adrian beside her, wanting the same thing. She could imagine standing at its open door in her red shoes, showing him something she had helped make.
Margaret was writing already.
“I could get Nora and Denise—”
“We need a paid plan before a volunteer plan,” Imogen said.
Margaret’s pencil stopped. Her face looked suddenly older, and Celia wanted to smooth the moment over. Instead she adjusted Nell’s blanket. The baby made an enormous sigh in her sleep, as if these adults had exhausted her.
By the following week the board could consider Adrian’s proposal. Until then there would be no announcement of a second weekly stop. Celia would have to speak to the mother herself. Imogen did not enjoy saying it. Celia did not enjoy hearing it.
Afterward, while Adrian was making a call in the hall and Margaret had gone downstairs to look for her umbrella, Celia put on Nell’s coat with too much care.
“You think I made a fool of myself,” she said.
“No,” Imogen said. “I think you love being the person who says yes. It’s expensive.”
That stung partly because Celia had expected comfort. She snapped one of the coat fasteners and found she had matched it wrong.
“You could have said that without him here.”
Imogen was quiet for a moment. “You’re right. I could.”
Celia undid the fastening. Neither woman offered to take back the rest.
Adrian drove them home through a late burst of sunlight. Nell slept in the correctly fitted seat Celia had moved into his car, and the wet road kept flashing silver through the trees. He had turned the heat up for Celia, then down again when she pushed her sleeves to her elbows. The ordinariness of adjusting it made her throat feel crowded after the meeting.
“I should have asked you before suggesting it,” he said.
“The showcase?”
“You working at it.”
“You didn’t. Imogen asked.”
“You know what I mean.”
“I want to do it.” She watched a gull settle on a low wall. “I’d like you to see me doing something well when I haven’t got a burp cloth on my shoulder.”
“I’ve seen you do lots of things well.”
“Adrian.”
He glanced at her. “All right. I would like it too.”
She rested her head against the seat. His hands were comfortable on the wheel, long fingers and blunt nails. A small burn marked the base of his thumb; she asked about it, and he admitted he had tried to move a roasting pan without a cloth because the cloth was on the wrong side of the kitchen.
“How did you become so rich?” she asked.
“Other people moved the pans.”
She laughed. He looked pleased, and she could feel the mood changing between them, the office loosening its grip.
“Would you turn off here?” she asked when they reached the road toward the water.
“Isn’t that the long way?”
“Yes.”
He signaled. They followed the shore past houses with their gardens sloping toward gray stones. At the little overlook Celia asked him to stop. Nell was still sleeping. They left the engine off and stayed in the car, watching the water through the windshield.
“I meant it,” she said. “I liked the offer. The display. You made me want it.”
“I hope that isn’t an accusation.”
“I’m trying to say something nice badly.”
He turned in his seat. “Then I’ll stop helping.”
She looked at his mouth, which made him stop smiling. That was a useful discovery. She could change his face by wanting him.
“I liked last Friday,” she said. “The beautiful room. Having somebody pour sauce around my fish as though the fish had an appointment. I liked seeing you there.”
“I liked seeing you everywhere.”
“Don’t be too good at this.”
“I’m enjoying a short run.”
She took his hand. His fingers closed around hers, warm and rough at one edge where he had caught a nail. For a while she looked at their joined hands instead of speaking. She was used to wanting sensible things. A reliable car. A month’s rent ahead. A school library with a roof that worked. Wanting a weekend, a dress she did not need, a man with time enough to learn her body again—those things seemed to demand a defense before she had even asked.
“I want to go somewhere expensive with you,” she said.
He blinked. “All right.”
“Not now. Not this minute. I didn’t mean you should start the car.”
“I wasn’t going to.”
“You looked ready.”
He laughed, then squeezed her hand. “I was thinking of places. It’s a habit.”
“I know. I want the sea outside a window. And a bath I don’t have to clear baby things out of first.”
“That can be done.”
“Nell would have to come.”
“I assumed.”
“And I don’t know whether I’ll manage dinner or just lie down and fall asleep. And it’s not a thank-you for the bus money. I need you to know that.”
“Celia.” He waited until she looked at him. “I’d like to take you away. I won’t submit it as an expense.”
She burst out laughing, louder than the joke deserved. Nell stirred behind them, and both turned at once. The baby settled again. When Celia looked back, Adrian was closer.
“A weekend,” he said. “We’ll choose somewhere. You can tell me which cushions you hate.”
She kissed him before the sentence was quite finished. His free hand came up to her neck, careful for only a second before her fingers tightened in his sweater. It was awkward across the space between their seats. Her knee hit the console. She did not move away.
“I also want,” she began when she could speak, and then faltered.
“What?”
His face was so open that she felt shy.
“I want more time than a car,” she said.
His hand stayed at her neck. “So do I.”
She nodded, as though they had agreed on a restaurant, then leaned forward and put her mouth against his again. Outside, the rain began softly on the roof. They let it.