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“I found this piece of filth just before I set out for our appointment. At first I thought it must be some kind of joke, but then of course I recognized your handwriting, which is very distinctive. If you want to make advances, young man, I must warn you that I don’t take kindly to this kind ofunwanted attention!”

“But, but, but!”

“In fact I had a good mind to take this letter to the police, and file a complaint against you for sexual harassment!”

“But, but, but!!!”

Ida’s face softened. “But then I saw the date on the letter, which is dated twenty-seven years ago. And obviously since my name isn’t Marge, but your wife’s is, it soon became clear to me there must have been some terrible mistake. Either that, or you have gone completely mad!”

“But how did—I mean, where did… How could this…” He took the letter from his patient’s hands and studied it. And then it hit him. The attic! His cheeks flamed even as his Adam’s apple performed a series of light somersaults in his throat. He must have accidentally put out a box of hisletters, and somehow some prankster must have thought it funny to put them in mailboxes all across the neighborhood. “Oh, God,” he muttered, and groaned freely. And so he quickly proceeded to put Ida in possession of the sordid facts pertaining to the case.

Ida, who, in spite of her many ailments, was a tough cookie, showed that she also had a heart. She patted him lightly on the knee.“No need to be alarmed, Tex. It happens to the best of us. But mind that you don’t do it again, you hear? Not everyone is as liberal-minded as I am. Some people out there might take offense.”

He informed Ida that the suspicious spot was not suspicious at all, but all the while his mind was spinning out of control. How many letters were there? And how many neighbors had received them? Dozens? Hundreds? He remembered he’d been very active back in the day when he was courting Marge, the loveliest girl he’d ever met, and today still the most wonderful woman he’d ever known.

She’d be furious if she found out. Mad as a wet hen, in fact. And rightly so!

CHAPTER 7

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Margaret Samson, left alone to run the library in Marge’s absence, enjoyed the privilege of being able to stamp people’s library cards and give them reading advice in the process. An avid reader herself, she knew her way around the library, which was like her home away from home, its librarian a personal friend.

So when a man walked up to her, asking if she could give him some tips on what to put on his To Be Read pile, she kindly asked what type of book he favored.

“Oh, anything that adds a little spice to my life will do,” he said with a grin.

He was a handsome man, with a full crop of dark hair, graying at the temples, which gave him the distinguished look of a surgeon onGrey’s Anatomy, while at the same time sporting the build of a lifeguard. He was casually dressed in jeans and a sweater, and had one of those strong jawlines she liked so much in a man.

“I think I’ve got just the ticket for you, young man,” she said, as she reached for her phone and pulled up the letter Tex had written to his wife. “Now tell me if this isn’t spicy,” she said as she handed him the phone.

He scanned the letter, and much to her satisfaction almost immediately quirked an eyebrow.“Hot stuff,” he said appreciatively. “Who wrote this, you?”

“Nah,” she said. “You know Marge Poole? The librarian?”

“I’ve seen her around,” said the man. “Blond? Willowy?”

“Yeah, I’d describe her as willowy,” said Margaret as she eyed the man closely. “Why? She your type, Mr…”

“Rapp,” said the guy. “Gary Rapp. She could be my type,” he said. “But I thought she was married to some doctor?”

“Not for long, she won’t be,” said Margaret with a low chuckle.

“Trouble in paradise, huh?”

“Isn’t there always?” She might love a good Happy Ever After in the romance novels she read on a daily basis, but she was no fool. No woman likes it when her husband of twenty-five years puts the love letters he once sent out for trash collection. That’s just wrong. And besides, Tex had always struck her as an idiot.

Just then, the lady under discussion walked in, a harried look on her face.

“Hey, Marge,” said Margaret. “I want you to meet Gary. Gary, meet Marge.”

“Hey, there, Marge,” said Gary, putting that unctuous spin in his voice only the best ones can. “Margaret was just telling me what a great librarian you are.”

“She was? Why, thanks, Margaret.”

“Did you get your letters back?” asked Margaret, darting a quick look to Gary to see how he would respond. The man’s eyes lit up at the memory of that letter. Clearly his interest was piqued. Oh, how she loved to play matchmaker!

“Not yet,” said Marge. “But I’m going to.”

“Marge’s husband put his love letters in the trash,” Margaret explained, and watched Marge wince. “Now I’m asking you, what kind of a husband does that?”

“I’m sure it was just an innocent mistake,” said Marge, as her eyes flicked to Gary and away again.