by Laura Briggs
"And Annette reads to patients," said Stacy, thoughtfully. "And loves to make pasta by hand."
"So what do you propose?" said Marina. "I'm not going to say anything. No more advice from me on whether you should or shouldn't. I'm only curious to know." She held up her hands, as if signaling her removal from the whole question. Just not the removal of her curiosity.
"Just give Tim and Annette a little hint," I said. "I'm not interfering, I promise. Just dropping a hint to see if they realize how much they have in common."
"How?" Stacy had given up on shelving books, watching as I took two book-shaped packages from the shelf under the circulation desk — the one where we kept all interlibrary loans until they were claimed. One of these books was Tim's on cooking Italian-style; the other was a book requested by Annette on scenic photographs of the west.
They were pretty close in size and shape, so I slipped them out of their packages and switched them. A harmless mistake, one any librarian could make who was in a hurry when processing the books, maybe.
"There," I said. "What could possibly go wrong with this?"
"Nothing," said Stacy. "They have a chuckle over the mistake, they return the books. Or they swap them —"
"—at the next meeting," I said. "And maybe that leads to a conversation about something besides Charlotte Bronte."
"That's actually pretty good," said Stacy. "I like it. It's like indirect matchmaking."
"It's not matchmaking, it's a hint," I said. "That's all it is. I don't get involved in people's love lives. Marina is totally right about it being a bad idea."
"Fate should always decide our destinies," said Marina. She wheeled the cart of free books near the front door, where rose-colored light was cast over their romantic covers from the stained glass windowpanes.
"The problem is, Annette forgets to pick up her books half the time," said Stacy. "I sent back her last one on knitting patterns and the one on traveling Scandinavia."
"No problem," I said. "I'll just make one of my rare personal deliveries to ensure our patrons receive their requested materials." I popped the packages into my patchwork messenger bag and shouldered it. "Man the fort for an hour, Stacy."
She giggled. "If this works out, maybe you can find me someone," she said. "If there was ever a romantic more hopeless than your book club crowd, her name is Stacy McKee; she's twenty-seven, and has no hope of ever finding Mr. Right around here." For a California blonde who was far from hard on the eyes, Stacy was one of those girls who manages to escape being asked out by guys for reasons not yet known to science, apparently.
"There's plenty of Mr. Right Around Heres," said Marina. "You're looking for Mr. Right Only for Me, I believe." She winked at me after this horrible wordplay, and in a flash I saw Marina as she must have been at twenty-five or so.
"Mr. Whoever might do at this point," said Stacy, who propped her chin on her folded arms, eye fixed on the clock — our first stream of summer reading patrons usually stampeded at eleven. I would be back in plenty of time to help check in a few dozen books and clean up the children's room.
"Hey, Miss Turner," said a voice, as I emerged from the library. Enrique, the roofer, was carrying scaffolding from the back of his truck to the rear of the library. I had forgotten that repairs started today.
"Hi, Enrique," I said. "Call me Peg."
"Peg, it is," he said with a smile — and with a really rich, Latin American accent that was probably causing half of Lewis Cove's female population to giggle helplessly in front of this handsome figure. Even I was having a hard time not doing it.
"Um, you've seen the pictures of the damage, and you definitely know where the roof is, so is there anything else you need to know?" I asked. "I'm just on my way to run a couple of errands, but I'll be back in an hour or so."
"I think we're good," he said. "I only wanted to be sure you knew we were here, since you have an apartment on the third story, where we will be working. It will only be a week, I think."
"Thanks for the warning," I said, making a mental note to remember to close my drapes to avoid any awkward encounters. "Just don't fall through the roof into my place, huh?"
He laughed. "I promise we will not." With that, he and his assistant finished carrying their scaffold frame around the corner, and I set off for the garage.
Tim's garage seemed more like an antique store, with the vintage gas station signs and pump out front. The bays were open, and I saw my poor Beetle sitting forlornly in the last one. The hood was open and Marty was studying it with a doleful look.
Things did not look good for my vacation plans.
"Is it bad?" I paused just inside the garage bay doorway, loathe to end up with spilled car oil or grease on the soles of my high-top sneakers. Marty shook his head.
"Could be the carburetor. Or your fuel injection system. I'm running some tests to figure it out. So far, I've ruled out spark plugs. And your battery is okay."
"But the rest of the car's a doorstop, right?"
"Maybe I'll have Tim look at it," said Marty, tucking his thumbs in his pockets. "You know, he can fix just about anything. He might have an idea if it isn't one of those two problems I just named."
"Is Tim inside?" I asked. I didn't see him working on either of the two cars currently raised in the bay — a crushed front end on one, a classic Corvette with no tires in the other — only Tim's part time high schoolers at work right now.
Tim was in the office, his coveralls hanging on a hook and a pencil tucked behind his ear as he looked through a stack of invoices. He smiled as I entered.
"One book, fresh from the library's postal delivery," I said. I had taped the package shut at the top again. Maybe Tim wouldn't peek inside until I was gone.
"Gee, thanks, Paige," he said. "I've been looking forward to this one. Bought a hand-crank pasta machine so I could try out some home-made fettuccine or tortellini."
"Big fan of Italian food?" I guessed.
"Yeah. My grandmother used to make it all the time," he said. "She was from Naples. Funny thing is, I never asked her to teach me. I guess I finally realized how much I miss her recipes. I always wished I'd been one of those lucky people who was smart enough to ask her how she did it ... or at least ask her to leave me her recipe box," he chuckled.
"Well, I hope you enjoy it," I said. As I turned to go, my hand brushed against a little carved wooden Native American statue and toppled it. "Sorry," I said, standing it up again.
"Don't worry, it's not an antique," he said. "It's just an old souvenir. When I worked out west, the filling station used to sell them to tourists. I kept one around for sentimental reasons. I used to joke around and say it was the only western art I could afford back then."
"You like art?" I said.
"I like bronzes," he answered. "And good western painters. The only real art I bought was some pretty nice pottery from a Native American artisan. They were trying to sell to the tourists, but it wasn't colorful enough for them. But I bought a lot of good clay pieces from him. He showed me his clay ovens one time, and the way he mixed the sculpting mud. It was pretty neat."
"I can imagine," I said. "See you later, Tim." I noticed a framed landscape above the office door — one of the Painted Desert in black and white, with sharp contrast. Interesting, I thought.
I dropped off Annette's book for her at the hospital desk, since she was busy with a patient. I swung by Cam's for a quick bite on my way back to the library. As usual, Hill o' Beans was busy for the lunch hour — Cam had expanded his menu to include chicken salad sandwiches and tomato, cheese, and avocado ones that tasted gourmet. I was glad I had an extra fifteen minutes to waste, since it took that long for me to reach Mallory at the counter. Five minutes later, Cam emerged with a paper sack for me.
"One chicken salad with cranberry, celery, and pecans, one bag of sun sweet potato chips, and a cranberry lemonade," he said.
"I didn't order the lemonade," I said. "I think you got someone else's order mixed up with mine." Cam sho
ved the takeout cup across the counter until it was right in front of me. A frozen lime circle floated inside, with the straw through its middle.
"It's on the house," he answered. "It's a new blend. I'm trying out a secret ingredient."
"What's the secret?" I grinned.
"If I told you —" he began, then rolled his eyes. "Forget it. Get out of here, and take your sandwich with you."
"Fine, fine," I said. "I guess you're willing to wait for that feedback, huh?"
"Maybe I'll get it from a worthier customer instead," he retorted. "I'll have Mallory hand them out like free puppies."
I hid my second smile by taking a sip from my cup. "Mmmm," I said. "Wow. Delicious. Cam, I'm serious."
"Good." He glanced to one side, where Mallory was delivering the next customer's special-order vegan sprout sandwich. He leaned closer to me. "Pomegranate," he whispered.
"I won't tell," I whispered back. I could see he was pretty pleased with my reaction as I took my leave. For all Cam's gruff indifference, it secretly mattered to him that every flavor be the best.
I was planning to save a sip for Stacy to try, but, sadly, I was greedy enough to drink the whole thing before I ever reached the library's front doors.
***
I made cranberry lemonade punch for Friday's meeting. Following Cam's example, I added a few pomegranate seeds to the mix, and floated a few frozen cranberry juice stars on it to make it look nice. It was a precarious journey to the first floor carrying it from my tiny kitchenette, making me wish I had mixed it up downstairs instead. I heard the front bell ring just as I reached the last step.
"Coming," I shouted. They would have to wait five minutes.
Annette was the first to arrive. "I thought for a change, I'd bring some cookies," she said.
"Oh, thank you," I said. "You didn't have to."
"I had a day off, I got some cravings, so I baked some biscotti," she said. "It was simple. But to make them extra good, I dipped one end in chocolate." She opened the box to show me.
"Now all we need is some coffee," I said. "Sadly, I went with tropical punch instead."
"Who cares?" said Annette. "I think they'll be perfect together." She carried the box into the meeting room. "By the way, I hate to say this, but you brought me the wrong book on Tuesday. I sent for one on western landscapes."
"Did I?" I said. "I'm so sorry. I must have gotten it mixed up with another one somehow."
"Somebody's missing a book on making pasta, then," said Annette.
"That would be me," said another voice. Tim had come to join us. "I went off and forgot that photography book tonight. It's still on my desk."
"It's Annette's," I said. Annette had produced the cookbook from her tote bag, handing it over to Tim.
"It's a good recipe book," she said. "That recipe for cannelloni is really authentic."
"You know your Italian recipes, huh?" said Tim.
"Third generation Italian," she said, with a smile. "And with a lot of Polish and Irish mixed in me, too. But my great-grandparents were Italian bakers. I can still remember her teaching me to bake bread."
"I was just saying I wished I had those memories of my grandmother," said Tim, shaking his head. "Small world after all." He tucked the book under his arm. "You ever make pasta by hand?"
She laughed. "All the time. It's easy, don't worry."
"I'm just sorry that I forgot your book," he said. "I guess I got caught up looking through it. You know, I used to live out there."
"You did?" said Annette.
"It was a long time ago. But it sure brought back some memories."
"I guess it was a lucky mix up," I said, opening the box of cookies. "Biscotti, anyone?"
"Sure," said Tim. "My favorites."
"Really?" said Annette. "I — I made these. My grandmother's recipe."
"No kidding! Say, any chance you'd share it with a beginning cook?" he asked.
"Of course," she answered, laughing.
So far so good. But at this point, Sophy arrived, followed shortly by Llourdes and C.J., and the new group immediately pounced on the biscotti with praise for Annette. I was glad her cookies were a hit — but it cut short her and Tim's conversation, which had been going so well. It was obvious how much they had in common. Until now, I hadn't realized how little we club members knew — or forgot — about each other.
"Everybody in the academic community always reads so much into Jane's illness," said Sophy. "Is it really symbolic of a life passage — or just a romantic literary device?"
This was one of my favorite subjects when it came to Jane Eyre, but I checked myself to keep from cornering the conversation. "I think it's both," I said. "But I think it's more interesting to look at it from the perspective of its role in the whole story's structure. The way it parallels Jane's episode of transition at boarding school, for instance."
"That's a good part," said Tim. "I don't know about the academic stuff, but I like how it shows Jane being strong enough to fight on the inside, not just in the world."
"She's fighting her own weakness, you mean," said Annette. "Yes, I feel exactly the same way. I feel like Jane is at a crossroads of weakness versus strength, temptation versus independence."
This sounded like the stuff straight out of my old dissertation on Jane's life — one that was tucked away in my desk drawer upstairs. I itched to expand the idea of Jane's dual self, but bit my tongue. Especially since Annette and Tim seemed to be on the same page — literally and metaphorically. I let Sophy chime in instead, whose choice of summer scarf for this evening was printed with elegant calligraphy, I noticed — and definitely contrasted with her funky patchwork denim skirt. I let the three of them debate the symbolism of Jane's subconscious battles as I took a second biscotti.
"Biscotti?" C.J. asked, holding the box towards Llourdes. "They're really good. And don't you think they're sort of — romantic? Italian cookies and all?"
"I don't eat sugar," said Llourdes. "I'm macrobiotic."
All of Annette's biscotti had been eaten by the end of the debate on Jane's internal battle, and the cranberry stars had all melted in the punch pitcher. Annette and Tim were still talking in the main foyer, though, as Sophy hurried home, muttering something about working on a scholarship essay. C.J. shuffled off homewards, pausing only to watch as Llourdes hopped in the only remaining passenger seat of a convertible filled with giggling girls.
"... and the Mesa murals covered the walls on either side," said Annette.
"That must've been something to see," Tim replied. "Me, I have a Remington framed in my living room. I used to joke around that if I ever got married, I’d have to move it to a den, to make room for a more feminine touch."
"Some women like western art, though," said Annette. "I know I do."
"You're going to make a guy real lucky," chuckled Tim.
Annette's phone beeped and she checked its screen. "That's my ride home," she said. "Goodnight everybody." She gave us a smile as she stepped outside into the summer heat.
Tim looked at me. "I'll bring that book by tomorrow before work," he said. "The photography one. I meant to do it tonight."
"Oh, no need," I said. You could deliver it yourself, I was dying to suggest, but didn't. "I'll come by and collect it. After all, it was my mistake."
"A good one, though," he said. "Like I said, I enjoyed looking at it. I'll bet Annette will love it. She told me she wished she had time to go out west and take some photos herself. Did you know she took a photography class before?"
"No, I didn't," I answered. "Maybe if she gets the chance sometime, you can give her tips on the best spots to visit."
"I'd be happy to," he said. He gazed thoughtfully at the night scene outside, through one of the window panes that wasn't made of stained glass. "I kind of thought about asking her over some time," he said, clearing his throat. "You know, to teach me how to make a little pasta. She said her great-grandparents' ravioli is the best ever made."
"Sounds like fun," I
said. "You know, Italian cooking is supposed to be the most romantic kind."
"I've heard that before," he said. And I thought maybe he blushed a little. "Say, you know any place around here that sells fresh Italian spices?"
"I think Greenbrier's Nursery does," I said. "Go check them out some evening."
"I'll do that," he said. "Thanks, Paige."
I watched through the window as Tim made his way towards the garage, no doubt to spend another evening on a hard-to-fix project, maybe even the mystery ailment of my Beetie. I wondered if Tim would actually go through with his notion about asking Annette over for what was basically dinner ... or if he would get caught up in his work the next evening, and the next, just as everybody always drifted back to their usual routines after Friday night's meeting.
Maybe there was a way to make sure the two of them spent an evening sharing a recipe — without crossing the line into 'meddling' that Marina warned me about. With that in mind, I swept the last of the crumbs off the reading room table and dimmed the lights, casting shadows over bookshelves between the windows, the musty, leathery copies and peeling vellum of the library's classics.
Upstairs, I moved the bucket in the hall that usually caught the rain from our roof leak, since Enrique and his crew were hard at work now. Through the window, I could see the new stacks of shingles on the scaffolding, and the replacement timber for a rotten rafter. Tomorrow, they would fix the roof to the turret room, Enrique had told me after lunch — that was my office upstairs, where I kept all my old college research and the library books being catalogued for circulation.
My apartment was made up of tiny rooms put together after someone tore out the dividing walls between the servants' quarters, probably to make bigger, modern bedrooms. Most of the furniture up here was from the thirties and forties — right down to the old mixer I'd found in a cupboard in the yellow-painted kitchen. Marina, who had lived in the apartment before me, told me that every stick had been purchased at thrift stores and garage sales.
I curled up in the worn out floral armchair with an afghan on my lap, and a DVD of An Affair to Remember on my television screen. Romeo was curled up next to me, since I had carried him upstairs for the evening. It didn't do to leave him alone every night, I decided. He emitted rusty purrs as he kneaded my blanket, but showed a decided grumpy disdain for Cary Grant onscreen. Oh, well, to each his own.