“Ms. Vivian, don’t worry. We saved The Secret Shelf once, Ms. Vivian. We can save the whole library, too, Ms. Vivian. I have an idea, Ms. Vivian. A big idea. An idea about the books in The Secret Shelf, Ms. Vivian. An idea about a very special book, Ms. Vivian, a book I found yesterday, hidden at the back of The Secret Shelf, a book with no title on the cover, a book with a name inside it, Ms. Vivian, a name I think you need to see, right now, before Mr. Dalton leaves, because that book, Ms. Vivian… that book might be worth two hundred and fifty thousand dollars, all by itself.”

Sam Carter, nine years old, stood in Maplewood Public Library in Cleveland, Ohio, holding Vivian Hart’s hand tightly, looking up at Mr. Richard Dalton, the real estate developer who had just told Vivian Hart, the newly promoted Acting Director of Maplewood Library, that the City Council of Cleveland had voted, in a closed session, to close Maplewood Library in thirty days, and to sell its land to Dalton Condominiums for two million dollars, to build luxury apartments, unless Maplewood Library could raise two hundred and fifty thousand dollars, in thirty days, to buy back its own land.

Two hundred and fifty thousand dollars, in thirty days, for a small, poor library, with a librarian who gave books away for free, seemed impossible to everyone in the library, except to Sam Carter, who was holding a secret, a secret book, a secret that Sam had found yesterday, hidden at the back of The Secret Shelf, the secret room Vivian Hart had built for poor children, the secret room that had just been made official, after Mr. Alan Pierce, the former director, had been suspended for embezzling money from the Eleanor Thompson Trust Fund, a trust fund left by Mrs. Eleanor Thompson, the old librarian who had once hidden books for Vivian Hart herself, when Vivian was nine years old, poor, with worn shoes, hungry for stories.

Vivian Hart looked down at Sam, then at Mr. Dalton, who was smiling a cold, cruel smile, holding a folder stamped with the seal of the City of Cleveland, offering Vivian a job as a “consultant” for the new condominiums, for fifty thousand dollars a year, if Vivian agreed, quietly, not to fight the closure, not to protest, not to tell the children, and Vivian said, quietly, firmly, proudly, the words that would become famous in Maplewood, and beyond, in the days to come:

“Mr. Dalton, thank you for your offer, but I decline. I will not let Maplewood Library close, quietly, or loudly, or at all, if I can help it. And Sam, my brave boy, show me this special book. Show me right now. Because if this book can save our library, Sam, then we need to see it, together, right now, before Mr. Dalton leaves this building.”

Sam ran to The Secret Shelf, to the back room, to the very back shelf, behind a row of dinosaur books, behind a row of princess books, behind a row of science books, and pulled out a small, old, leather-bound book, with no title on the cover, with pages yellowed with age, with illustrations drawn by hand, in ink, with a name written inside the front cover, in elegant, old handwriting, a name Vivian Hart recognized instantly, a name that made Vivian gasp, out loud, in front of everyone in the library.

The name inside the book was: “Eleanor Thompson, age 12, Maplewood Library, 1958. This is the first book I ever wrote, by hand, when I was a poor girl who could not afford books, so I wrote my own. If you find this book, please read it, please share it, please never sell it for money, because a story is worth more than money, a story is worth a library.”

Vivian stared at the book, tears streaming down her face, because Eleanor Thompson, the old librarian who had hidden books for Vivian, who had left one hundred thousand dollars in a trust fund for Maplewood Library, who had died ten years ago, had, when she was twelve years old, poor, in Maplewood, in 1958, written her own book, by hand, because she could not afford to buy books, because she was just like Sam Carter, just like Vivian Hart at nine years old, just like every poor child who had ever come to The Secret Shelf, hungry for stories, with no money to buy them.

And Eleanor Thompson’s handwritten book, her first book, written when she was twelve, had been hidden, for decades, in The Secret Shelf, in a room Eleanor herself had built, long ago, before Vivian was born, a room Eleanor had passed down to Vivian, without Vivian even knowing it, a room full of books, full of secrets, full of love.

But Sam was right about one thing, too, something Vivian did not yet know, something Mr. Jonathan Hayes, from the Ohio State Library Board, who was still in the library, investigating Mr. Pierce, knew instantly, when he saw Eleanor Thompson’s handwritten book, and when he called an expert, a rare book appraiser from New York, on the phone, right there, in Maplewood Library, in front of everyone.

THE APPRAISAL
Mr. Jonathan Hayes called Dr. Amelia Foster, a rare book appraiser from New York, who specialized in handwritten children’s books from the 1950s, who had appraised books for museums, for libraries, for collectors all over America, and Mr. Hayes described Eleanor Thompson’s book to Dr. Foster, over the phone, carefully, slowly: a handwritten book, from 1958, by a twelve-year-old girl in Cleveland, Ohio, who later became a famous librarian, who later became a beloved figure in Ohio’s library history, a book with hand-drawn illustrations, with a story about a poor girl who talks to stars, who dreams of a library where every child can read for free, a story that, as Dr. Foster listened, made her gasp, over the phone, because Dr. Foster had heard of Eleanor Thompson, Dr. Foster had studied Eleanor Thompson’s work, Dr. Foster knew that Eleanor Thompson, before she became a librarian, had tried to become an author, had written one book, by hand, at age twelve, a book that was thought to be lost forever, a book that collectors had searched for, for decades, a book that, if found, would be worth, at auction, at least two hundred and fifty thousand dollars, possibly more, possibly three hundred thousand dollars, to the right collector, to the right museum, to the right library that wanted to preserve Eleanor Thompson’s legacy.

Dr. Foster said, over the phone, on speakerphone, so everyone in Maplewood Library could hear, including Mr. Dalton, including Sam, including Vivian, including Mr. Hayes:

“Mr. Hayes, Ms. Hart, if that book is authentic, if that handwriting matches Eleanor Thompson’s known handwriting from her later years, if that story matches the story Eleanor Thompson described in interviews, in the 1980s, as ‘the first story I ever wrote, about a girl who talked to stars,’ then that book is priceless, historically, and financially, it is worth at least two hundred and fifty thousand dollars at auction, possibly more, and I would like to come to Cleveland, tomorrow, to examine it in person, to authenticate it, and to help you, if you wish, to sell it, or to preserve it, whichever you choose, because that book belongs to Maplewood Library, Ms. Hart, and to the children of Maplewood, and it should be used to save Maplewood Library, if that is what you wish.”

The library erupted in cheers.

Sam Carter jumped up and down, shouting, “We did it! We saved the library! Eleanor Thompson saved us, again, even after she died! She wrote a book when she was twelve, and now that book will save our library!”

Maya, age ten, who loved books about princesses who were also scientists, hugged Sam, crying, laughing, shouting, “Sam, you found it! You found Eleanor’s book! You’re a hero, Sam, just like a dinosaur, just like a paleontologist who digs up treasure!”

Jayden, age eleven, who loved books about basketball players who overcame poverty, high-fived Sam, and said, “Sam, my man, you just saved our library, with a book! That’s the coolest thing I’ve ever heard!”

Little Mia, Sam’s sister, age six, who loved books about animals, hugged Vivian’s leg, and said, “Ms. Vivian, does this mean we don’t have to leave the library? Does this mean The Secret Shelf stays open forever?”

Vivian hugged Mia, tears in her eyes, and whispered, “Yes, sweetheart, if Dr. Foster is right, if Eleanor’s book is worth what she says it is, then we can save the library, Mia. We can save The Secret Shelf, forever.”

Mr. Dalton, the developer, stood in the corner of the library, his cold smile gone, his face pale, because Mr. Dalton had planned to buy Maplewood Library’s land for two million dollars, to build luxury condominiums, to make millions in profit, and now, a handwritten book by a twelve-year-old girl from 1958, a book Mr. Dalton had never heard of, a book hidden in a secret room Mr. Dalton had never known about, threatened to ruin Mr. Dalton’s plan, completely, by giving Maplewood Library exactly the money it needed, two hundred and fifty thousand dollars, to buy back its own land, from the city, in thirty days.

Mr. Dalton left Maplewood Library that afternoon, without another word, without his folder, without his offer to Vivian, slamming the front door behind him, so hard the windows rattled, so hard the books on the shelves shook, so hard Sam Carter, who was still holding Eleanor Thompson’s book, looked up, scared, and whispered to Vivian:

“Ms. Vivian, Mr. Dalton looked really mad, Ms. Vivian. Do you think he’ll try to stop us, Ms. Vivian? Do you think he’ll try to take Eleanor’s book, Ms. Vivian?”

Vivian hugged Sam tightly, and whispered back, “Sam, don’t worry. We’ll keep Eleanor’s book safe, Sam. We’ll lock it in Mr. Hayes’s office, tonight, in a safe, with a code only Mr. Hayes and I know. And tomorrow, Dr. Foster will come from New York, to authenticate it, and then, Sam, we’ll decide, together, as a library, as a community, whether to sell Eleanor’s book, to save the library, or to keep Eleanor’s book, and find another way to save the library, because Eleanor herself wrote, inside that book, ‘please never sell it for money, because a story is worth more than money.’ Sam, we have a difficult choice to make, Sam, and we’ll make it together, Sam, as a family.”

THE FUNDRAISER
That night, Vivian Hart did not sleep.

She sat in her small apartment, above a bookstore in Cleveland, looking at a photograph of Mrs. Eleanor Thompson, an old photograph Vivian had kept since Mrs. Thompson died, ten years ago, a photograph of Mrs. Thompson smiling, in Maplewood Library, holding a book, with a young Vivian Hart, age nine, standing beside her, smiling too, both of them happy, both of them free, both of them in love with books.

Vivian thought about Eleanor Thompson’s words, inside her handwritten book: “please never sell it for money, because a story is worth more than money, a story is worth a library.”

Vivian thought about Maplewood Library, about to close in thirty days, about Sam, about Maya, about Jayden, about little Mia, about twelve children who needed The Secret Shelf, about hundreds of children in Maplewood who needed Maplewood Library, about a city council that had voted to close it, about a developer who wanted to tear it down, about a trust fund that had been embezzled, about a book that could save it all, if Vivian was willing to betray Eleanor Thompson’s wish, and sell that book, for money.

Vivian decided, that night, in her apartment, alone, with Mrs. Thompson’s photograph beside her, that she would not sell Eleanor Thompson’s book.

Instead, Vivian would use Eleanor Thompson’s book, not as something to sell, but as something to inspire, as a centerpiece for a fundraiser, a read-a-thon, a community event, where children in Maplewood would read books, for pledges, for donations, for thirty days, day and night, to raise two hundred and fifty thousand dollars, to save Maplewood Library, without selling Eleanor’s book, without betraying Eleanor’s wish, by proving, to the city council, to Mr. Dalton, to everyone in Cleveland, that Maplewood Library was worth saving, because its children loved reading, because its community loved its library, because a library is not a business, a library is a promise.

The next morning, Vivian announced her plan to Sam, to Maya, to Jayden, to Mia, to all twelve children, to Mr. Hayes, to Mr. Earl the janitor, to Carla Carter, Sam’s mother, to every parent in Maplewood, and to every reporter in Cleveland who would listen, which, thanks to Dr. Foster’s phone call, and thanks to Sam’s letter to Mr. Hayes, and thanks to the story of Eleanor Thompson’s handwritten book, was every reporter in Cleveland, and soon, every reporter in Ohio.

“Friends,” Vivian said, standing on the steps of Maplewood Library, with Sam beside her, holding Eleanor Thompson’s book carefully, in a glass case, for everyone to see, but not to touch, “we will not sell Eleanor Thompson’s book. Eleanor wrote, ‘a story is worth more than money.’ So, instead of selling her story, we will share her story. We will hold a thirty-day Read-A-Thon, here, at Maplewood Library, where every child in Maplewood, every adult in Maplewood, every person who loves books, will read, for pledges, for donations, day and night, for thirty days, until we raise two hundred and fifty thousand dollars, to save Maplewood Library, to save The Secret Shelf, to save Eleanor Thompson’s legacy, forever.”

The crowd cheered. Reporters took photographs. Television cameras filmed Sam holding Eleanor’s book, in its glass case, smiling, brave, like a dinosaur, like a hero.

And for the next three weeks, Maplewood Library became the most famous library in Ohio.

Children read, day and night, in shifts, in the library, in The Secret Shelf, in classrooms, in churches, in homes, reading books about dinosaurs, about princess scientists, about basketball heroes, about animals, about stars, about libraries, about everything, while their parents, their neighbors, their teachers, their friends, pledged money, one dollar per book, ten dollars per book, one hundred dollars per book, until, after three weeks, after twenty-one days of reading, Maplewood Library had raised one hundred and eighty thousand dollars, close to two hundred and fifty thousand, but not quite there, with only nine days left, with only seventy thousand dollars to go, with hope growing, with fear growing, too, because seventy thousand dollars, in nine days, for a poor community, seemed almost as impossible as two hundred and fifty thousand dollars had seemed, three weeks ago.

And then, on the morning of the twenty-second day, the morning when Vivian Hart arrived at Maplewood Library early, before anyone else, to open the glass case containing Eleanor Thompson’s book, to show it to a group of schoolchildren who had come to see it, Vivian found the glass case empty.

Eleanor Thompson’s handwritten book was gone.

Stolen, in the night, from a locked library, from a locked glass case, from a locked room, with no broken windows, with no broken doors, with no signs of forced entry, except for a small, white note, left inside the empty glass case, in handwriting Vivian recognized instantly, because it was the same handwriting as the emails Mr. Hayes had shown Vivian, emails from Mr. Dalton to Mr. Pierce, promising Mr. Pierce a job, if Mr. Pierce closed Maplewood Library.

The note read, in Mr. Dalton’s handwriting, cold, cruel, triumphant:

“Ms. Hart, if you want Eleanor Thompson’s book back, drop your fundraiser, close The Secret Shelf, and let Maplewood Library close in nine days, quietly, as the City Council voted. If you do not, Ms. Hart, you will never see Eleanor’s book again, and Maplewood Library will close anyway, because without Eleanor’s book, without your fundraiser’s centerpiece, no one will donate seventy thousand dollars in nine days. Choose, Ms. Hart. Choose your book, or choose your library. You cannot have both. — R. Dalton”

Vivian stared at the empty glass case, at Mr. Dalton’s note, at Sam Carter, who had just arrived at the library, early, to read, and who was now staring at the empty case too, tears in his eyes, whispering, urgently, the words that would set up the next chapter of their story, the words that would give Vivian hope, even in the face of theft, even in the face of blackmail, even in the face of losing everything:

“Ms. Vivian, don’t worry. I saw who took Eleanor’s book, Ms. Vivian. Last night, Ms. Vivian, I couldn’t sleep, Ms. Vivian, so I came to the library early, Ms. Vivian, and I saw a man, Ms. Vivian, a man in a suit, Ms. Vivian, leaving through the back door, Ms. Vivian, with something under his coat, Ms. Vivian, something shaped like a book, Ms. Vivian. And Ms. Vivian, that man was not Mr. Dalton, Ms. Vivian. That man was Mr. Pierce, Ms. Vivian. Mr. Pierce, who was supposed to be suspended, Ms. Vivian, Mr. Pierce, who still has a key to the library, Ms. Vivian, Mr. Pierce, who is working for Mr. Dalton, Ms. Vivian, to steal Eleanor’s book, and to close our library, Ms. Vivian. And Ms. Vivian, I followed him, Ms. Vivian. I know where he went, Ms. Vivian. I know where Eleanor’s book is, Ms. Vivian. Follow me, Ms. Vivian. Follow me, right now, before Mr. Pierce and Mr. Dalton destroy it, Ms. Vivian, before it’s too late.”

TO BE CONTINUED IN PART 4…

❤️ IF YOU WERE VIVIAN, WOULD YOU CHASE A THIEF TO SAVE A RARE BOOK — OR WOULD YOU GIVE UP THE BOOK TO SAVE THE LIBRARY?

👇 COMMENT YES IF YOU WANT PART 4!