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very busy. Ronald is off most Tuesdays, so we don’t have children’s programs to fill the library with laughter and excitement. It was a good chance to get caught up on paperwork. Shortly before noon, our only patrons were two elderly sisters who never stopped squabbling and Harvey Spineta, a frequent visitor. Harvey had recently been widowed and I guessed that he mainly came to the library for the company. He’d taken his regular spot in a corner near the Austen alcove, and was reading magazines. The front door opened and a woman marched in. “Marched” being the operative word. Her back was ramrod straight and her steps were firm. She wore a gray T-shirt tucked into baggy gray knee-length shorts with a gray belt tied firmly around her thin waist. Her gray hair was tied into a tight knot at the back of her head. She ran her gray eyes over me, sniffed in a show of disapproval, and began studying the room.
    â€œGood morning,” I said. “Are you here to see the Austen collection?”
    â€œNo.”
    â€œOh.” I was momentarily taken aback, but plowed on. “We have a special exhibit for the summer. A full set of Jane Austen first editions. Also a personal notebook of Miss Austen herself. Written in her own hand.” The widower put down his magazine and the sisters stoppedberating each other over some long-ago, and long-forgotten, slight. I got to my feet. “They’re in that alcove, over there. Let me show you.”
    â€œI can see it perfectly well. Thank you. Are you trying to find something to do?”
    â€œNo.”
    â€œYou can get back to your work, then,” she said.
    I dropped into my chair.
    As he always did, Charles was keeping Harvey company. Maybe the man came here to let the cat curl up on his lap as much as to read. As the woman passed them, walking firmly in her sensible gray shoes, Charles slowly stood up. The hair on his back lifted; he arched his body and hissed.
    The woman stopped. “Are you allowed to bring your animal into the library, sir?”
    Harvey blinked. “Isn’t mine. Library cat.”
    The woman threw me a look that indicated the strength of her displeasure. But she said nothing and bent to examine the Austen collection. I went back to work.
    She didn’t stay long, and left in the wake of the still-squabbling sisters. There was something familiar about her, and I struggled to recall where I’d seen her before. Then it came to me: she’d been in the lobby of the Ocean Side Hotel last night, watching that scene between Mom and Karen. She’d been dressed in an all-gray suit then, too. A Gray Woman.
    Not a very friendly one, either. I put her out of my mind and carried on with my day.
    At six thirty I went to pick up Mom.
    I took the SLK. I put the top down and enjoyed the feel of the salty wind on my face and in my hair. My hair is naturally curly, and it fuzzes into a ball resemblingsteel wool when exposed to sea air. But I’m from Boston and after many tearful mornings, I decided that I’d have to live with what I’d thought of as my curse. My mother, of course, has sleek, silky hair. As I might have said, my mother is extraordinarily beautiful. I am not. Josie, in fact, looks more like Mom than I do. And Josie has the added advantage of getting her height from her six-foot father rather than the much shorter Wyatt women.
    I’d learned long ago not to wish for what I could never have.
    At the lights at Whalebone Junction, a car pulled up beside me. Two young men whistled and waved and gave me thumbs-up gestures. I grinned at them, assuming they were referring to the car, not to me. When the light changed, I pulled away in an impressive display of horsepower.
    Not your mother’s librarian.
    One of my mom’s virtues is punctuality. Despite living in a world of the fashionably late, Mom never was able to get rid of some of the fisherman and shop-clerk habits she’d been raised with.