The Lending Library

by Fogelson, Aliza

  “Um, Dodie?” the woman tried again.

  “Sorry,” I said, unable to remove my gaze from the window.

  “Hey!” the woman protested as I stamped her hand instead of the book.

  “Sorry,” I apologized again.

  “It’s okay,” she said graciously, as if remembering my advice.

  Was he coming in? He seemed to be scrutinizing the number of people inside the library. It is definitely on the crowded side, I thought in consternation. People lined up at the desk were actually standing sideways so that other visitors could get around them to the stacks. Not the perfect setting for a conversation. To top it all off, Jonah Brownlee took the opportunity at that exact moment to let out a bloodcurdling scream. Of course. By the time his mother determined that someone had accidentally shelved Edward Gorey’s The Gashlycrumb Tinies in the bins of books for young readers, I turned back to the window to see the hard hat retreating.

  He was leaving. I lurched forward, startling the next person in line at the circulation desk. “Would you excuse me a moment?” I practically begged.

  I wanted to run after him. But what would I say? I was too nervous. Plus, I had a library to run. I rushed to the bathroom instead, splashed cold water on my face, and took deep whiffs of my Diptyque Baies candle until I finally felt like I could be a proper librarian for the next hour and twenty-nine minutes before I could close up the library for the night.

  The following day at the same time, 5:21 p.m., my eyes were fixed on the window. Then the door. Back to the window.

  “What the heck is going on with you?” Kendra demanded. True to her word, she had taken to helping out a lot at the library, and she seemed to like it as much as I did.

  “What are you talking about?” I asked innocently.

  “I’m talking about your incredibly twitchy behavior today. Did you get hit by lightning yesterday or something?”

  That wrapped a grin right around my face. “Something like that,” I laughed.

  “You met someone? He came here? Tell me everything!” She perched on the edge of the desk as if there weren’t dozens of people around.

  I lowered my voice and described him and his hat and his eyes. “He didn’t come in. It was crowded, and Jonah Brownlee kept screaming, ‘I don’t want to get thrown out of a sleigh! I don’t want to be smothered underneath a rug! What if I fall down the stairs?’”

  Kendra stifled a snicker. “He’ll come back, obviously. The guy, not Jonah Brownlee. Although probably him too once he calms down a bit.”

  “Would it be too much if I proposed when he comes back?” I joked.

  “Um, yeah. But maybe you should do it anyway. Or at least flirt with him for a start.”

  “No, I can’t. I can’t.” I sat back down, my knees weak at the thought of trying to have a conversation with him.

  “Yes. You. Can.”

  “No, I can’t.”

  “Do you want me to tell him that your pipes haven’t been serviced since you moved to Chatsworth and if he doesn’t bring his hard hat and tools and get in there soon, they’ll probably burst?”

  My head was on the desk. I wanted to laugh, but all the air had rushed out of my lungs. What if he never came back?

  When Kendra finished giggling at her own joke, she rubbed my back and glanced at the clock. “There’s always tomorrow,” she pointed out. Except there wasn’t, really, because she was womanning the library by herself the next night. I was taking Geraldine out to dinner for her birthday.

  Geraldine and I ate a huge meal at Hibachi-Ho-Yes, where we’d met in the early days after my move to Chatsworth. On that all-important night, we bonded after we had both confessed to pretending it was our birthday so that they’d sing us the clapping song and bring us extra pineapple. It had seemed fitting to celebrate her real birthday there.

  “So how are you doing with the library being closed?” I asked, dipping a monster shrimp into the ginger sauce.

  “It sucks. I like working at Wendell Wye’s; he’s a nice man, passionate about what he does, and of course I love bookstores. But it’s not the same.”

  “I know.”

  “Having the lending library to go to makes it better, though,” she added, leaning away from the flames and covering her eyebrows protectively as the chef lit up a stack of onions.

  I grinned at her. “I really appreciate all your help.”

  “Sure thing.”

  “Do you think the Chatsworth Library will be up and running anytime soon?”

  She shook her head. “It sounds like a mess. In January I actually started an online course to get my master’s in library science. I’ll do that until the fall, when I can hopefully start going to classes if I get accepted to one of the programs I’m applying for now.”

  “You don’t waste any time!” I said, impressed.

  “Nope. I figured, if Chatsworth reopens soon, I’ll keep up with the online course instead. I’m pretty flexible about it as long as I can keep moving forward.”

  “I know you have lots of ‘real’ librarian friends, but if you ever need a recommendation for your application, you know I’m here and will be embarrassingly but hopefully effectively gushy on your behalf.”

  Geraldine laughed. “Thank you. I will keep that in mind.”

  After our feast, I flipped open my phone. A message from Kendra. My very full stomach attempted a graceful dive. It felt more like a belly flop.

  HE CAME IN SWEET JESUS HE IS DREAMY, her text from three hours ago reported. CALL WHEN YOU CAN.

  She whistled as she answered the phone.

  “What? Is he that gorgeous? What time did he come? Did you talk to him?”

  “Okay, slow down there.” Kendra laughed. “Yes, five twenty-one, and yes.”

  “What did he say?”

  “Not much,” she replied. “He introduced himself—his name is Shep Jameson.”

  “Like the whiskey?” I said.

  “Yep, like the whiskey.”

  “That’s sexy.”

  “Wait until you see him. He’s got masses of wavy hair.”

  “What else did he say?”

  “Well, he kept looking around, which was weird. It was almost as if he was looking for . . .” Her voice trailed off.

  I held my breath. Someone? Was she going to say someone? “You don’t actually think . . . ?” I stammered.

  I could almost hear her smile through the phone. “I guess we’ll find out.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “He asked for a book. I told him we didn’t have it today but that it would be available tomorrow.”

  “Which book?”

  “The Stephen Colbert one.” Kendra was intentionally avoiding its title. The book had come out in October, but I still broke into hysterical giggles every time I saw it or even thought about it.

  “You mean I Am America (and So Can You!)?” A laugh-squeak slipped out.

  “Oh no, here she goes,” Kendra murmured under her breath.

  “Wait a second—we have that book.”

  “How do you know?” she asked innocently.

  “Because two people donated their copies in the past week. One of them is probably still hidden in the circulation desk drawer. You stashed it there because it kept making me laugh and then forgot to put it back in the stacks. And come to think of it, so did I.”

  “Yep. I remembered about that copy today too. And I know about the other. But Shep Jameson doesn’t. Fortunately, he didn’t think to check the stacks. He took my word for it instead.”

  “Your sneaky, lying word?” I teased, but gratitude softened my voice. “You did this for me, didn’t you? So he would come back?”

  “Yep!”

  “You’re such a good friend.”

  “And you’re going to buy me rectangle pizza and Tater Tots in the caf tomorrow as my reward,” Kendra announced. “Night night!”

  It was a fortunate thing my feast with Geraldine had been food coma inducing, or who knows how long it would have take
n me to fall asleep? I dreamed of deep diving in a yellow submarine. Suspiciously similar to the color of a hard hat, in fact. Maddie (and Freud) probably would have had a field day with that one.

  Needless to say, on Friday evening, my tuchas was glued to the chair and my eyes to the window by 5:20.

  Nothing.

  Mackie dropped by the library to pick up a book I’d recommended to her about the decadent Third Republic in France. I had slipped inside it a bookmark cut from a piece of a James Tissot painting—with a gorgeous, luxurious ball in progress and glowing chandeliers and women in gowns—and had written, “A little indulgence never hurt anyone.”

  “Terabithia had a great week,” Mackie reported as I handed the book to her. “He gets bigger every time I look at him.”

  I grinned. At least my ineffectual bedtime skills hadn’t stunted his growth. The memory of his terrified face on the night of the snowstorm wiped the smile off my face.

  She gently placed her hand on mine. “You okay there, Dodie?”

  “Oh, yes, absolutely,” I assured her. “I felt a draft or something.”

  “Okay, well, we’ll be at Sullivan’s this weekend if you want to stop by.”

  “And hang out with my little man? Of course I do!”

  “She’ll be pleased to hear it. She knew I’d see you today and told me to mention it. Terabithia’s been teething, so she hasn’t had a chance to call.”

  “No problem,” I said. I was just happy to be invited whenever they wanted me.

  After Mackie left, I checked the clock. Only seven minutes had passed. Still nothing. Could I have missed him? Nope. Because even though I had absolutely, positively been listening 100 percent to every word Mackie had said, I had also been checking the window over her shoulder.

  By the time six thirty rolled around, I was feeling a little deflated. What if he had only been visiting Chatsworth, had blown town, and would never come back again? Possible, but it seemed pretty unlikely that a visitor would spend three days stalking a library and give up as soon as he heard the book he was looking for wasn’t available. Not to mention, something told me he was the same guy from Wendell Wye’s Bookshop, though I couldn’t be sure since his hair had been covered. That would mean he’d been in Chatsworth for more than a month.

  At six forty-five, before last call for checkout, the library door opened. As he headed toward the circulation desk, there was a faint unfamiliar smell—the clean scent from the kind of earthy, irregular Irish soap that’s handmade. I was having trouble breathing. He smelled so good, like a robe you want to cuddle right into.

  “Hey.”

  “Hi. May I help you?”

  “That would be great. The librarian lady yesterday said the book I’m looking for would be here today.”

  “Okay. Do you think she put it on hold for you? If you give me your name, I can check.”

  “It’s Shep Jameson,” he said.

  “Good evening.” Ugh. Who was I, Count Dracula? “I’m Dodie.”

  “Am I too late?” he asked. “You’re closing soon.”

  I tried to place the color of his eyes. A vision of a Eugène Boudin impressionist painting of the seaside arose in my mind, the waves bright blue green, more toward blue than green. “No, not at all.” I smiled at him. At his hair, actually. First of all, because it was safer than trying to look into those eyes. Also because his hair was dark, full, and a little wavy but in a slightly shaggy way—just as I’d somehow known it would be. Not like a man who spends more on hair products than food. Now that the hard hat was off, there was no doubt that this was the intriguing-haired man from Wendell Wye’s Bookshop.

  Glancing back at me from time to time, he meandered around the stacks. He had obviously just showered, but I couldn’t let myself think about that. I tried to think of something clever to write on a bookmark instead. My mind was completely blank. I took a bookmark cut from a colorful Richard Diebenkorn painting and simply wrote “Shep Jameson” on the back. For the next few minutes I pretended to read Cook’s Illustrated. It would usually be impossible to distract me from an issue devoted to truffles, but somehow they couldn’t hold my attention.

  “Here’s the book.” I handed it to him when he came back to the counter.

  “Thanks. Say, do you have any other suggestions?” He was standing right in front of me again. I raised my eyes slowly over the top of the magazine, savoring the feeling of excitement in the pit of my stomach.

  “Sure. What kind of books do you like?”

  He sucked in his bottom lip, thinking. “To tell you the truth, I’m not much of a reader,” he admitted.

  “Then what are you doing at a lending library?” I bantered, feeling proud that I was practically flirting.

  “I wanted to see what all the fuss was about. Ever since I came to Chatsworth to work on the new mall construction, everyone has been talking about it.”

  “What do you think?”

  “I think you’d better kick us out now, or you might end up with overnight guests.” Shep was looking around the library at the few other visitors debating their options, which luckily prevented him from seeing that I had blushed all the way down to my toes. Overnight guests—holy pajamas! Or preferably, no pajamas at all!

  “Right. Five minutes, everyone,” I announced, pulling myself together.

  “If anything comes to you for what I should read next, could I get a suggestion when I return this one? Maybe for a novel? I read Don Quixote a couple summers ago and thought that was really funny.”

  “Absolutely.” There was going to be a next time! He wasn’t just going to use the book drop outside!

  I wanted to blurt out, When will that be? but I figured a little mystery never hurt anyone.

  —SEVEN—

  February 2008

  My wallet had definitely taken a hit starting the library. Now I was beginning to discover that it wasn’t cheap to maintain one either. The second round of bills was better than the first but not by as much as I had hoped. There were still plenty of expenses. Especially if I wanted to buy any of the fun extras that, in my mind, library visitors shouldn’t have to live without. I wasn’t sure that the donors behind the library grants I was planning to apply for would agree, but it didn’t matter because I’d missed all the deadlines for the current year and would have to wait until the fall before the application process opened up again.

  Digging into my own pockets, I always made sure to have a fresh supply of cookies from Billybee’s Bakery on hand and plenty of hot apple cider to warm everyone up. Now that Elmira’s mother had acknowledged the library was within walking distance, Elmira had practically become a fixture. She cheerfully offered refreshments to people as soon as they came in from the cold. Sometimes she showed up after school to help me reshelve books or tidy up or just to chat; often she would sit in a corner and lose herself in another book that was impressively advanced for her age. A smile would play about her lips when she was reading something funny, or her brow would knit in concentration when she was reading something serious. When she closed a book, she would clutch it to her chest. Just like I did.

  “What did you think of that one?” I asked Shep when he came to return Romain Gary’s The Promise of Dawn a week later. I had hoped to give it to him myself, but he’d come in on my night off, so Kendra had passed it along for me with a bookmark tucked inside that showed a glowy sunrise. I had worked up my courage to write the words “Welcome new beginnings” on it.

  He laid it down on the circulation desk. “It was . . .” He trailed off, meeting my eyes. Tingles ran up my spine. His hand was so close to mine I could almost touch it. I imagined what his palm would feel like. Warm. His hand lingered on the book, but when he saw my expression, he jerked it away as though the book had burned him.

  “Sorry,” he said with a nervous laugh that sounded like a bark, “it’s just that your eyes aren’t blue anymore. In that sweater, they’re sort of a greenish gold. They remind me of this painting I saw once . . . by some Frenc
h artist. But I can’t remember which one.”

  I took a slow, steady breath. “We need to get you something new,” I rushed out.

  “They call those kinds of eyes stormy, don’t they?” Shep murmured. I blushed down to my roots and was very grateful to find Diderot’s Jacques the Fatalist and His Master right at my fingertips.

  “You’ll love this one if you liked Don Quixote,” I promised. “Almost as absurd and even more witty. It’s by a French philosopher who was one of the founders of the first encyclopedia.”

  His tone completely casual again, he teased, “Is this what you give to all the construction workers?”

  “No,” I replied, daring to speak as quietly and honestly as he had, “only the really special ones.” I handed it to him over the desk. It was only as he turned to go that I caught the guilt in his expression.

  “You know, it’s funny. All anyone ever talks about is the madeleine,” Lula observed at the first session of our Foodie Book Club. “Personally, I’m more of a chocolate person, so the whole vanilla cakey thing never really did it for me. But beyond that, it’s really more about the tea Marcel dips it in. Tilleul, which people usually translate as lime blossom tea. But it’s not the same tree that grows the lime we’re used to, is it, Dodie?” She looked to me for confirmation.

  My smile widened. I loved linden flower tea. In cafés all over Paris, you could order an infusion de tilleul—literally only the dried flowers, steeped in hot water, for a flavor that expanded on your tongue like petals opening, like those layers of the town that sprung out of the soaked pastry in Marcel’s cup. When I was an au pair, I had treated myself to a cup of tea and a croissant any time I had a morning off.

  “Is it, Dodie?” Lula repeated, a little more insistently.

  I planted the feet of my head (erm . . . or whatever) back on solid Chatsworth ground and rushed to say, “Yes, that’s right—it’s linden flower.”

  “Linden flower?” Geraldine said. “What’s that?”