Devonne Brown

I pulled the book off the shelves that looked most promising for a real recipe for rough puff pastry. The Great British Baking Show offered more inspiration than information, and Wolfgang Puck’s book looked more promising than most on the St. Albans library shelves. The book held that exquisite new book smell to it, and cracked when I opened it to a page where a folded card marked just the spot I needed. It was like someone slid the card in there just for me. I looked around to make sure no one saw me open the note. It felt secret.

In an uneven, what looked to be a man’s scrawl, the note read, “When can I see you? It’s important that we talk this thing out. I don’t want whatever this is to be over.” It was signed with an X. 

Wow. 

I looked around, I could feel my neck and face turning red, why I don’t know. This had nothing to do with me. Had I stumbled upon something sad and serious, a prank, a fling? I felt like I’d invaded someone’s privacy at the very least. I didn’t think pastry could get so personal. A note like this belonged in the romance section of the library, or at least fiction. This was the stuff dreams were made of.

I knew I had no admirers. I didn’t even know any men at this juncture in my life. The time of lovers had left me years ago. 

I looked around and wondered who this note was meant for. The teenager with the purple hair didn’t seem a likely candidate. She was reading one of those graphic novels that had to be read back to front. The eight year old and his mom at the computers didn’t seem particularly culinary either. He was obviously playing a game, and she was reading a screen with great interest. The homeless man reading a newspaper could have written it to his love, but I somehow doubted it. He didn’t seem the type to go perusing the cooking stacks.

I took the note and Wolfgang’s book to the desk to check it out. I stuck the note in my pocket, it would be my favorite bookmark now. Something to daydream about when I made my pastry or found myself in a daydreaming frame of mind. I’d pretend the note was for me.