The Secret in the Cookbook

Before I committed the crime, it occurred to me that stealing from a library was probably some sort of cardinal sin. I mean, sure, stealing in general is typically frowned upon. But there are some situations that are not so black-and-white. Take Robin Hood, for example. He stole from people with so much gold that they didn't know what to do with it, all in the interest of helping the less fortunate.

That's what I told myself while biking to the library, an empty backpack slung over my shoulder. This was for the greater good. I had to do this. In fact, one could argue that not doing this was far worse than doing it.

This mantra cycled inside my head while my feet turned the pedals, my pulse quickening with each movement that brought me closer to the empty public library. It was a lovely spring night in early May, the kind of evening normally spent at an outdoor restaurant having a beer with friends. Streetlights cast a gentle glow across the town common and the temperature had settled into that magical place between t-shirts and jean jackets. There was a slight breeze and it ruffled my hair, which was tucked inside a black baseball cap. In hindsight, a ski mask might have been a more appropriate fashion choice. But a ski mask would draw attention. And the last thing I wanted was attention. What I needed tonight was to look like a woman on the way home from a long week working late at her university - a woman with cat-eye glasses, a navy blue hoodie, and skinny jeans. I needed the glasses for reading, but more importantly, they made me feel smart. Feeling smart made me feel powerful.

God knows I needed that tonight, the first night of my life during which I was engaging in criminal activity. 

After crossing the common, I parked my bike on the shadowy side of the brick library, the side with only one floodlight that burned out two weeks ago. I knew this, of course, because I came to this library every day. It was where I did nearly all my research for my PhD thesis. They knew me here, especially Marybelle the head librarian. Briefly, I wondered if my friendship with them made what I was about do easier or harder. 

Harder. Definitely harder.

Laughter rippled from across the street. My heart rate shot up and I plastered myself against the bricks, feeling their cool, rough faces against my palms. Had I been followed? How would she know I was planning this for tonight? I hadn't told anyone, not even my boyfriend - and let me tell you, he had been very busy asking why I was so distracted lately.

Okay, Diana, focus. If someone was following you, they certainly wouldn't be making so much noise.

I dared to peek around the corner and saw a group of teenagers hanging out by the benches on the common, one of them holding a heavy-looking bottle wrapped in a paper bag. They passed it around their little circle with an oddly even rhythm for a bunch of underage drinkers. Phew. They definitely hadn't noticed me.

The numbers on my Apple Watch shifted to 11:01. A lump appeared in my throat, and I swallowed hard, wiping sweaty palms on my jeans. Okay. It was now or never. I took a deep breath, as if I was embarking on a dangerous scuba dive, and kicked in the long, rectangle window behind the shrubbery. It was the window that led to the basement, where Marybelle kept a selection of used books for sale for twenty-five cents. The glass shattered over the non-fiction section. I cringed, waiting for alarms to go off, even though I was pretty sure they wouldn't. As far as I knew, Marybelle didn't worry about the basement windows. "We don't need security cameras for those," she had said, laughing. "Who even knows they are there behind all the azaleas? It's just the front and back doors I worry about."

I nearly lost my balance as I backed onto the top of the bookcase and proceeded to use the shelves as a ladder, sure that with each step, my weight would be too much and the entire case would fall forward, pinning me beneath it as an easy target for the police come tomorrow morning.

But luck was with me, and I landed easily on the cement floor of the basement, my black sneakers nothing but a dull thud in the darkness.

I was in.

A jolt of adrenaline tingled in my body, like this simple act of breaking and entering had turned my veins into electrical wires. The buzz made its way to my brain, hot and exciting. Was this how people who broke the rules felt? I should do this more often. 

That energy carried me through the basement, up the stairs, past the front desk lobby, and into the section I had been looking for - cookbooks. The culinary books were kept on the third floor, in part because they weren't as popular as things like new releases or thrillers, but also because Marybelle always said she would gain weight if she had to stare at glossy covers with chocolate cakes on them all day. 

Now this was the most important phase of my plan. Kneeling in an aisle of titles like How Veggie Burgers Changed My Life and 100 Ways to Use Bananas, I took the slip of paper from my pocket. It was unevenly torn on one side because I had to rip it from my notebook in panic when Dr. Cline walked in on me in her office today. 

641.5, M. Hawley

641.5 was the Dewey Decimal number for cookbooks. M. Hawley was the reason I came.

With my phone flashlight turned on, I scanned the rows for Hawley. Hanson, Hardwell, Hawton...no Hawley. And then I was at the end of H. With that realization, the spike from the adrenaline softened, and I felt nothing but my real emotions, which were - not unexpectedly - anxiety, fear, and disappointment. If I didn't find this book, it meant failure. Failure to do what was possibly the most important thing I had ever been called to do.

After allowing myself a moment of wallowing, I put the piece of paper back in my pocket and prepared to leave. But as I turned to the side, my flashlight illuminated another shelf of cookbooks, one which was not part of the regular aisle at all. It was one of the original built-ins, there from when the library was built in 1850. At the top of the built-in cabinet was a sign that said POPULAR COOKBOOKS OF THE 19th CENTURY. There were six books on display, weathered with worn edges and faded old-fashioned lettering. 

Holding my breath, I walked towards them. The Boston Cooking School Cook Book, Fannie Merritt Farmer. Good Cooking, by Mrs. S.T. Rorer. And, miraculously, A Woman's Guide to A Happy, Healthy Kitchen by Martha Hawley.

With shaking fingers, I removed the book from the shelf, the hard cover feeling as heavy as history in my hands. I wondered if I should try to cover it up, maybe replace the space on the display rack with another book, or even move the others around so the gaping hole was less noticeable. It's not like anyone ever came up to this hidden corner of the library, anyway - in fact, A Woman's Guide to a Happy, Healthy Kitchen had a film of dust. In the end, I settled on moving the others and tucked the small wooden book stand into my backpack along with Martha Hawley's work. With a step back, no one who wasn't looking would never even notice something was missing.

The book bounced against my back with every pedal of the bicycle all the way home. As I crawled into bed, Ryan rolled over and groaned in protest, saying, "I didn't know you were staying out so late with the girls tonight."

"Sorry," I said, dropping a kiss on his cheek. "Go back to sleep."

He pulled me close and within minutes his breathing was deep and even. But I couldn't sleep. All I could think about was Martha Hawley's cookbook, hidden in my old high school backpack, slumped on the big armchair next to the dresser. The lumpy shape of it was barely visible in the pitch black, blending in with the throw pillows and an afghan. 

I knew better than anyone that the most interesting things in the world are often the ones coated in dust, long-forgotten in dingy corners, patiently waiting to be opened again.