Chapter One: Settlement

"Miss Mills replied, on general principles, that the Cottage of content was better than the Palace of cold splendour, and that where love was, all was." – David Copperfield by Charles Dickens

Tuesday morning at the library was Frieda's favorite shift. There were hardly any adults aside from the occasional student. She had been there for the opening and to set things up. With little to do, she was now free to sit at the desk with a book. She had a good view of the surroundings and any who had a query came to her. They usually did during busy hours because nobody knew books like Frieda Howard.

Frieda read. That was her talent, and she had a knack for picking the best of the bushel. She could have gone into publishing with the skill but she was comfortable here in the town library. The pace was slow, people were familiar, and she was just uninteresting enough to remain below her neighbors' radar. Besides, she had her books to read.

Today's book was a classic, The Notebook. It was an old favorite of hers and she always wept at the end, no matter how many times she'd read it. It was a sweet, comfortable romance. It was a story of two people whose love spanned decades without a glimpse at each other and how they fell deeply in love. Ally was lucky to have a Noah, much in the way Elizabeth was lucky to have Darcy, or Jane had Mr. Rochester. All of them had these grand and glorious romances, and Frieda couldn't help but wonder at the close of each book. What was it like? The clock struck then, and she noted her watch.

Promptly at 12:30, the Women's Book Club meeting started, as it always did every Tuesday. An army of women in their thirties entered the lobby, all clutching various copies of Eat, Pray, Love. She was broken from her thoughts and crossed the floor to usher them into the basement community room. Since coffee and doughnuts were served, she snatched one of the doughnuts, tucking it into a napkin. She'd eat it in the break room later.

She returned to her station and the pages of her book. What is it like to have someone who loves you that desperately, who would almost literally go through hell and back for you? Someone so deeply in love with you, he doesn't care who disapproves? Frieda certainly didn't know and she was quite sure she never would.

Men, real men of flesh and blood, weren't like that. They didn't say heartfelt speeches while declaring their love. They weren't willing to put up with familial pressure. They weren't willing to be faithful or committed. At least the men she had known in her life, so far. Thousands of women could attest to that truth. It was one of the major causes of divorce according to the books by the Drs. Phil and Laura. She made her rounds through the rows of shelves and picked up stray paperbacks and reference books. She put the self-help section to rights, noticing two or three copies of Why Men Marry Bitches left forgotten on the floor. She put those back and went to check her faded make-up in the ladies' room.

She dabbed on some powder and a bit of lipstick while she finger-combed her hair, now limp, straggly locks. She looked critically at her reflection.

Boring. That was the word that would best describe her. She looked boring with her mousy brown bun and skinny body hidden in prim folds of fabric. She was boring because she was quiet with nothing to say. And she was boring in bed, those few times she had lay down like a sacrificial maiden while a paramour grunted as he slammed in and out, trying to invoke a reaction. Her sex life was long gone, and she was none the worst for it.

She was boring and bloodless, and no one could want her. She would never marry, but she could pretend. She could pretend that Mr. Darcy loved her mind, body, and soul; or that some handsome stranger from a less serious novel had to have her: right there, right now.

Returning to her desk, she recalled that she had such a novel hidden innocuously in a holds pile. If anyone asked, (and no one did) the books were held for a Miss Bennet, M. Nobody got the Pride and Prejudice joke. Romance novels were a secret pleasure for her, a kind of reward for the end of a long day. All day they would safely remain in the holds pile for the non-existent and a half hour before closing, she'd slide the books out and check them under her name and take them home. The next day, she'd replace them with whatever struck her fancy next, for until she returned the held items. It was a marvelous system, and it hadn't failed her yet.

For now, she would check out things, scan returned items in, collect fines, and of course search for a book or two while the hours passed until she could get her hands on the next story. At three, her shift ended, and she milled about the library, idly studying the ordered stacks. When she was free to go at five, she simply slid into her oversize car coat and hoisted a patched canvas bag over her shoulder as she bided her sanctuary adieu, until next time.

Not being in possession of a car, Frieda was accustomed to walking places. She relished the only real air she felt all day, the frigid blast of air conditioning could not compare to a balmy June evening. The heady scent of lilacs from the nearby park wafted past her delicate nose, and several families were barbequing. It was easy to tell from the smoky scent of woodchips and the sound of sizzling meat.

She would not be joining in, she never had. Instead, she walked briskly into the store, and returned with two bottles of water, a pint of strawberry sherbet, and a Lean Cuisine for One. Dinner would be lonely tonight, as it was every night. It was a long and lonely walk home.

Matt Bennet was as far from home as he could ever have expected to be and still remain in the same country. It was a long way from Little Italy, and about an hour's drive from the base but this seemed perhaps the best place for someone to relax. Even if a few of his buddies thought it was weird.

"That's practically Po-dunk City in the center of a fifty mile radius of nowhere," his commanding officer had ranted. "Come with us, and we'll find a place with more action to offer." But Matt was sick of action.

He'd found plenty in Baghdad, alone. No, better to lick his wounds elsewhere, still close to base for when they needed him again. He had plenty of wounds, some more emotional than physical.

All Rangers had scars, invisible and not and it sort of bound them in a sad form of camaraderie. If they survived whatever they went through, they were sure to be promoted well.

However not everyone survived, so that made the promotion sort of grim. Usually, you came away a little salty, maybe a bit rough around the edges.

He was glad to get off the highway. He'd had the windows rolled down in lieu of faulty air conditioning, and the breeze was making him sick. It was making him feel the rush of danger rolling off the vehicles around him, and it made him wary.

Stop IT. He reprimanded himself sharply. You are not having an attack. He breathed in slowly, counting Hail Marys off the Rosary hanging from his rearview mirror. Methodically, slowly, he whispered the words under his breath. It's alright, it's alright.

Two Stations of the Cross later, he arrived in a place that appeared to be half town-half museum.

A battered metal plaque with peeling paint letters read "Welcome to the City of Springfield. The term city seemed a misnomer. There couldn't be enough residents to fill a block on the Lower East Side. Springfield looked like it had been built in the early 1800's although he couldn't be sure. For the most part, it looked like the set of a John Wayne movie, or maybe Bonnie and Clyde. There was an old clapboard courthouse next to a small town jail and jammed in between the jail and a weather-beaten law firm was a Seven-Eleven, practically brand-new. It was a stark and ugly contrast to the gracefully aging buildings.

The rest of the town seemed to think so too, judging by the protest fliers posted everywhere. Somebody had spray-painted "NO" several times on the floor of the entranceway. He drove carefully past it, looking for his new address. There didn't appear to be any sign of his new apartment building.

After consulting his map twice, he hailed down a man who appeared to be in his late forties, with a bushy brown beard and crinkled blue eyes.

"You lost, stranger?" The man asked good-humoredly. Matt nodded and told him the address.

"You're looking for old Mrs. Kline's boarding house. Turn left at Rose Drive and go three doors down." Matt was confused. "But my apartment…"

The man snorted. "You must be from out of town if you don't know. Couple years ago, some yuppies in fancy suits offered the town a lot of money to build some big-ass condominiums. They were going to price them at $1200 a month, which if you don't know, it's too much for most folks around here to pay. There was a town meeting and everybody shot it down. Mrs. Kline's family has kept the boarding house since the Civil War. I hear it's real nice though, very modern. Are you looking to be a permanent fixture to this town?"

Matt grinned. He liked this town already and its people already. "Maybe. My base is an hour away but it's good to sink roots. My name's Matt Bennet. What's yours, stranger?"

The man stuck out a hand and Matt shook it. The man had a grip like a blacksmith, tough and callused. "Amos Warren. I'm Sheriff. Good to meet you. So what branch are you?"

The answer was automatic. "I'm a Ranger."

The sheriff's eyebrow flew up. "No kidding? God bless you, man. Listen whenever you want, come on down to the station. We'll talk. I've got to get going. Despite it being a very prestigious job, being sheriff of this town," he said mock-pompously, "I have to pick up my daughter from Brownies." He waved goodbye, and trotted down the sidewalk.

"Awfully friendly people," Matteo muttered. It was kind of a novelty.

In New York, most people hardly knew their neighbors. Where he'd grown up had been the exception. You couldn't help but know the elderly couple fresh from the Old Country, who sold their homemade pasta. His family had arrived in America, some sixty years ago, and settled where everyone else from the Old Country had, in Little Italy. It was habit, and it was safe. But now, everyone was moving elsewhere or rotting where they stood. It was better to plant roots elsewhere.

Old Mrs. Kline was a woman advanced in her years, with eyesight mostly long gone. She squinted through bifocals, in vain, trying to size him up.

The years had shrunk her height down to somewhere just above his midriff, and she shuffled around him like he was a pioneer wagon train and she was a Brave. She did this all the while squinting at him, and he felt like he was being inspected.

"You'll do," she pronounced finally.

Briskly she led him up two flights of stairs, and down a dimly-lit hallway. The building was wired for electricity but clearly, the lighting was a result of the florescent bulbs. She stopped at the end of the hallway and motioned for him to be quiet.

"Try not to be too loud. Ellen is in 4C across the hall from you and she's likely to bang on your door until you answer. She doesn't mean any harm, she's really a dear, but she's just a lonely woman stuck in the past. If she does bother you, just call my number, and I'll take care of it. I've left my number taped next to your phone. I charge calls to your room, it's only fair I do so. There's a small kitchen on each floor that everyone can use, and you get a shelf in the refrigerator, don't take anything not on your shelf. There are four residents per floor; I live in the gardener's cottage. My son's the handyman, he's a good boy and he'll fix whatever's broken. I think that's it," She said, and stuck out a hand.

He was careful not to squeeze her hand too hard; the bird-like bones of her hand looked all too easily breakable.

"You don't look like a troublemaker, but mind that you bring no women to that room, or out you go. This is a family establishment." She sniffed, as if she expected him to bring all manner of riffraff in. Privately, he didn't think he'd have any occasion to invite a girl home, and he certainly wouldn't do it now. The elderly landlady would likely try to shoot him, and with her limited sight she might hit some unlucky bystander.

He bid her good night. He lugged his duffel bag in, and shut the door as quietly as he could.

He could hear the sound of a peephole slide open just as the door closed. Whoever was spying hadn't seen him, and for that he was grateful. He was too tired to be an object of curiosity.

Turning around, he surveyed his new living quarters. Mercifully, it had a small en-suite bathroom with a tub and sink, a toilet squeezed economically in the corner. There was a murphy bed, a chair, and a desk. There was a hastily scribbled note on the desk. It said "you can install your own television and computer, but you have to see Ernie about it".

Matt assumed Ernie was the handyman. Mrs. Kline had been kind enough to spring for a vase of sunflowers as a room-warming gift. The bright gold and orange petals were easily the most vibrant colors in the room. They were obviously bought fresh in the morning but as the day had passed, they were slightly limpid. Still, the thought was nice.

Welcome home.

It didn't seem all that likely that a town like Springfield would have much in the way of places to shop but he figured they'd have bookstores.

He'd looked up Barnes and Noble locations on his laptop. (All the while he privately thanked God there was a McDonalds just six blocks away. It is common knowledge that McDonalds restaurants can be counted upon to have Wi-Fi, even if they are at the city limits of a city with a population of 250 or less.) The results had him cursing discreetly into a napkin.

The nearest location was forty-five minutes away in Battle Creek, and he didn't have the energy to get on the highway again.

There was a mom and pop used bookstore, and a Christian bookstore, neither of which would serve his needs. But there was also a local library two blocks away. Taking a sip of his Coke, he scribbled down the address and directions.

He'd check it out and decide if the convenience was worth it.