“I just love being there,” Willow replied, pleased to receive recognition for her efforts. “Don’t get me wrong, I love my work at Quincy’s Whimsies, but it’s so rewarding to watch a family pick out a dog or cat.” Willa sighed happily. “Did you know that our shelter doesn’t euthanize? It’s wonderful, but it also means our cages are always full.” She pointed at James, who was busy pouring chilled champagne into one of the punch bowls. “I keep trying to persuade Mr. Henry to adopt a pet for Eliot. Every kid needs a furry friend.” She lowered her voice. “Especially an only child. It’s nice for them to have someone to talk to. Can’t you just see Eliot and a frisky little puppy rolling around in that big backyard of Mr. Henry’s?”
Fern smiled at Willow. “I’d like to volunteer at the shelter too, but I’m afraid I’d end up filling our apartment with animals. How do you keep from bringing them all home?”
“Easy—our landlord would toss us out on our butts!” Willow laughed. “But maybe when our lease runs out in the fall we could rent a small house instead? That way, we can at least provide foster care for some of the shelter animals until they find permanent homes.”
“I’d love that,” Fern readily agreed. “And I’m one of those crazy people who actually enjoys yard work, so you’ll never have to cut the grass.”
As the two young women exchanged excited chatter, James smiled at how rapidly they’d become friends. He finished arranging the plastic punch cups on a card table and then dropped a pile of napkins in the center. Standing back, he examined his handiwork with a frown.
“Doesn’t look too good,” he murmured.
“It was a nice try, dear, but this calls for a woman’s touch.” Milla gently pushed him aside. “Why don’t you carry in the food from my van and leave the decorating to me?” She patted him lovingly on the back. “You need to keep your daddy away from the spiked punch,” she ordered, her eyes twinkling. “He’s been grumbling all day over having to be here and if he drinks too much on an empty stomach, he’s gonna ride that wheeled book cart home before the party even gets started!”
Laughing, James went out to Milla’s lavender van and carried in trays of hors d’oeuvres, a platter of ham biscuits, and a stunning cake made to resemble a stack of library books. Easing the cake carefully onto a side table, James paused in order to admire Milla’s artistry. The frosted book on the top was entitled, Quincy’s Gap Loves Mrs. Waxman. Below that line was a chocolate fudge subtitle listing the years she’d worked at the library. In place of the author’s name were the words, From Your Grateful Patrons. James inhaled the delectable scents of chocolate and coffee and sighed.
“Chocolate mocha cake with coffee icing. It’s Mrs. Waxman’s favorite,” Milla told him as he admired the confection. “Why don’t you take a picture of the food before the festivities start? Fern told me she’d like to assemble a scrapbook of the party for our retiree.” She glanced over at James’ newest employee. “She’s a lovely girl. You know how to pick ’em, honey.” Milla’s mouth crinkled into a smile. “I do believe she’s sweet on our Scott, too. How do you feel about inter-office love affairs?”
James rubbed his chin. “Their shifts don’t overlap much, so I’m not worried about things getting awkward if they start dating and then break up. What perplexes me is Scott’s reluctance to ask the young lady out.” He lowered his voice. “You see, he’s become close to someone via the computer and feels that he can’t pursue a relationship with Fern until he meets this other girl in the flesh.”
Milla put her hands over her chest. “So they need to see if the sparks will really fly—how exciting! Where and when is this face-to-face going to happen?”
“It’s hard to say,” James removed the plastic wrap from a platter of sliced strawberries and baked brie. “She canceled their original meeting time at the last minute, so Scott is now filled with doubts. Poor kid.”
Clucking her tongue disapprovingly, Milla said, “Computer dating sounds awful sticky to me. Call me old fashioned, but I don’t think it’s wise to fall in love with a person when you can’t look into their eyes or listen to the sound of their laughter.” She placed a silver ladle next to the punch bowl. “Folks just don’t come off the same in black and white. You can make yourself into anybody you want by typing a few words, but then someone might fall in love with a ‘you’ who doesn’t really exist.”
“It’s how our world works now, Milla. People do most of their communication through the computer.”
Puckering her lips, Milla waved her hand around the room. “A machine will never be able to replace this.”
James had been so busy placing the food trays where Milla wanted that he hadn’t taken notice of the library’s transformation. Bright balloons and paper streamers hung from the ceiling and floral cloths covered the study tables in the main room. Fern and Willow were setting small vases filled with Gerbera daises in the center of each table, while Scott laid out a guest book for the party goers to sign and Francis programmed one of the computers to play three hours’ worth of smooth jazz and then strummed an air guitar to amuse Willow.
Several guests had shown up early intending to lend a hand. One placed garbage cans in strategic positions, another wheeled the cart of sale books in from the lobby, and a third helped Jackson lift his latest painting, covered by a white cloth, onto an easel on the counter of the Information Desk.
As the sound of saxophones, trumpets, and clarinets floated through the room, the supper club members began to trickle in as though lured from outside by the enticing strains of music.
Gillian and Bennett entered first and James was pleased to note that they were holding hands. Lucy was the next to arrive. James had told her to bring Sullie along and she’d been delighted by the suggestion. Lucy introduced her handsome boyfriend to the other guests as a fellow deputy, but her face, glowing with happiness, betrayed her deeper feelings. Sullie kept glancing at her from the corner of his eye and occasionally he’d whisper something into her ear, causing her to laugh or blush with pleasure. James had never seen Lucy look so beautiful.
When Lindy appeared, running ten minutes late, she sped right over to James and clutched his arm as if he could save her from slipping through a thin patch of ice. “Look out, James, she’s here! The Dragon Lady of Mexico! Is there anyone you can find to entertain Luis’ mama for five minutes?”
“Only five minutes?” James teased.
Lindy nodded. “That’s all it’ll take for me to chug down three cups of champagne punch. I don’t want her to see me drinking or that’ll be yet another strike against me. It’s bad enough that I’m a ‘half-blood’.”
James frowned. “She called you that?” He watched as Luis and a small, plump woman with wiry black hair and walnut-brown eyes entered the room, surveying the surroundings with a curled lip as though she was standing in a landfill and not in James’ beloved library. Luis walked with rounded shoulders, darting apologetic glances in Lindy’s direction as his mother pulled on his sleeve, forcing him to bend to her height so she might more easily release a stream of complaints (all in Spanish, of course) into his left ear.
At that moment, Luigi joined the party. Mrs. Waxman had spent countless hours giving the restaurateur advice on the education of his six children and he had become one of her adoring fans. He’d even offered to cater the event, but Milla and Willow wouldn’t hear of it.
“PROFESSOR HENRY!” He shouted from across the room. “THE LIBRARY—CHE BELLO!”
Waving Luigi closer, James offered him a glass of punch. The restaurateur accepted the beverage with a booming “GRAZIE” and then left James to mingle with the older widows and divorcees. By the time the other guests arrived, along with Mrs. Waxman and her closest family members, Luigi had made his way to the side of Luis’ mother.
“ALMA? SUCH A LOVELY NAME! YOU ARE THIRSTY? COME! LUIGI WILL GET YOU A DRINK!”
James held his breath, expecting Alma to reject Luigi’s vociferous offer, but to his surprise, she seemed to forget all about h
er son and, smiling, took Luigi’s proffered arm. Luis stared after them in amazement.
The noise level escalated as Mrs. Waxman made her rounds. James felt a pang of sadness as he watched his former middle school teacher and coworker accept handshakes and warm embraces from everyone in the room.
“I still don’t think I should be here,” Fern whispered to James. “It doesn’t feel right.”
“Mrs. Waxman specifically asked that you attend,” James reminded her. “And I’m thrilled that you’re here. After all, you’re part of our team now and you’re capturing the event on film.” He pointed at her camera. “Whenever Mrs. Waxman misses us, she’ll only need to open the scrapbook you’re creating in order to feel like she’s with her friends in Quincy’s Gap. See? You’re an asset already.”
“Your father’s painting will help her remember too. I can’t wait to see it.” Fern glanced around the room. “Have you ever thought of using all that great wall space to display the work of local artists?”
James followed her gaze. The three walls surrounding the tech corner were well lit, yet rather bare. A few posters featuring celebrities holding their favorite books were the only adornment.
“That’s a terrific idea, Fern. Maybe my father would let me hang his next series before the paintings are shipped off to D.C.”
As Fern navigated the room snapping candids, Scott acted as her assistant. He carried her punch glass, replenished her empty dinner plate, and directed the guests to stand this way and that so Fern could take their photographs.
The noise level rose as the punch bowls and platters of food grew empty. Francis had to turn up the music more than once in order for the guests to be able to hear the songs over Luigi’s thunderous chatter.
Finally, it was time for Mrs. Waxman to cut the cake. She accepted a knife from Milla and then positioned herself behind the cake, dabbing under her glasses with a tissue. “Please don’t force me to make a speech,” she sniffed. “I know I’ve talked most of your ears off between my tenure as teacher and librarian, but there aren’t enough words in the English language to express how grateful I am to have been a member of this wonderful community. To say that I will miss you all is the greatest understatement of my life. Thank you so much.”
She slid the knife into the cake to a round of raucous applause. Afterward, she personally distributed a generous wedge to everyone in the room. Even Alma’s stony expression softened when Mrs. Waxman welcomed her to town and praised Luis for being the most progressive and talented principal she’d ever known.
“You are too kind,” Alma responded, and then turned to chat with Luigi once again.
Once all the guests had eaten their cake (including each and every one of the supper club members—this was one sugary treat they weren’t going to pass up), Scott and Francis directed everyone’s attention to the Information Desk. Standing on either side of the shrouded easel, their boyish faces flushed with anticipation, the twins waited for James to say a few words about Mrs. Waxman’s farewell gift.
“Thank you for coming tonight,” James began. “I always suspected that Mrs. Waxman was friends with half of Quincy’s Gap, but it wasn’t until this evening I realized it was true. We have all benefited from her wise, patient, and generous spirit. She’s treated every student and every patron in this library with respect, dignity, and equality.”
Mrs. Waxman honked into her tissue, allowing several members of the audience to wipe their own moist eyes and exchange nods of agreement with their fellow townsfolk.
Turning to Mrs. Waxman, James concluded his brief speech. “Teacher. Librarian. Friend. You have left your mark on many, many people. Now thanks to my father, Jackson Henry, you can at least take a moment of your life in Quincy’s Gap with you when you join your sister in sunny Arizona. Godspeed, dear Mrs. Waxman. You will be sorely missed.”
The Fitzgerald twins reacted immediately to their boss’ signal —a slight dip of the chin after uttering the last word. In perfect synchronization, they whisked the white cloth off the surface of the painting, beaming as they witnessed Mrs. Waxman’s reaction to her gift.
The guests broke into spontaneous applause as they gazed at the work of art. A portrait of Mrs. Waxman, it depicted the older woman in her familiar place behind the information desk. For years she had reigned over that small territory, squared in by four equal countertops displaying the monthly staff picks and the latest book club reads.
Every evening, she’d put her dinner in the break room and then organize the stacks of bookmarks, recommended reading flyers, and piles of free magazines and community newsletters located on her countertops.
Jackson had included her regular workspace in his painting, but what he’d captured best was the joy Mrs. Waxman felt in helping another person. He had positioned her standing at a slight angle and her face, gently etched with wrinkles and laugh lines, was focused on a young girl of about ten years of age. The girl had been painted in profile with her hands held out in order to receive the book Mrs. Waxman was presenting. Her young face was filled with gratitude, as if she understood that the librarian was offering so much more than a simple book. The painting showed Mrs. Waxman in her element—every fiber of her being was invested in opening up new worlds to her young patron. Passion shone from her eyes like a beacon.
“It’s wonderful!” Mrs. Waxman cried, her lips trembling. She allowed James to put an arm around her and squeeze while she struggled to keep her emotions in check. “Your father is a maestro! How can I ever thank him?”
Knowing that Jackson was bound to be hiding in James’ office, James promised to lead Mrs. Waxman to him before he grabbed Milla and made an escape. “Now that the food portion of the evening is done, there’s a good chance he’s hanging out in the van. He likes to sit in the den and watch game show reruns before he goes to bed. He says they settle his stomach.”
Mrs. Waxman laughed. “His habits must have served him well. Look at the man! He’s fit as a fiddle. Not only is he thin, but it must take a great deal of energy and concentration to produce paintings like his, so he’s strong as well. James, your father is as sharp in the mind as he is in the body.” She patted his hand. “You’ve got some good genes going for you, my boy.”
James tried not to frown. “I think I take after my mother. As you can see, the only thin part of my body is my hairline and as far as possessing any artistic ability, I can’t even draw a stick figure.” He smiled, not wanting to spoil a second of the Guest of Honor’s special night. “There’s just more of me to love,” he joked and excused himself to go off in search of Jackson.
Tracking down his father took longer than expected. Everyone wanted to comment on how much they admired Jackson’s work and James found himself conversing briefly with several guests about their own art. Before he knew it, he’d received commitments from three artists willing to display their watercolors, engravings, and textile pieces on the walls in the Tech Corner.
When he finally reached the circulation desk, he stopped again in order to praise Fern for her wonderful idea. “Our library gallery is going to be a hit! Well done.”
“I’d like to be included as a local artist too,” Fern added with a trace of shyness. “I think I told you that I was a freelance photographer, but my passion is nature photography. I have a whole series of color photos that I took in the Great Smoky Mountains National Park. I framed them myself.”
James put a hand on Fern’s shoulder. “Your work will be displayed first. This was your idea and it would be a wonderful way to introduce you to our community. We could post a short bio and, if you have a website or an email where folks can buy prints from you, that might help you with your long-term goal of renting a house.”
“I don’t have a website yet,” Fern answered, her entire being sparkling with enthusiasm. “But maybe I could build a simple one over the weekend.”
“If you need any help, Scott’s quite adept at that sort of thing.” James suggested slyly and headed for his office. The moment he s
tepped inside, he knew something was wrong.
Jackson was seated in one of the office chairs facing the desk. His shoulders were slumped and he didn’t look up when James approached. Milla was squatting on her heels, a hand on each of Jackson’s knees as she spoke to her husband in a voice riddled with worry. When James entered the room, she shot him a fearful glance and then turned back to her husband.
“Your left side? Does it hurt?” She asked Jackson.
“What is it?” James’ eyes darted back and forth from Milla to his father. “Pop?”
Jackson tried to wave him off. “It’s nothin’. My leg’s gone to sleep—probably from sittin’ around this damned place all night.”
James looked closely at this father’s face. “But you’re not experiencing any pain or discomfort?”
“Nah,” Jackson answered, but suddenly his gaze seemed to lose focus.
Brushing aside the apprehension blooming in his mind, James gently lifted his father’s left hand. “Can you squeeze my fingers, Pop?”
“James!” Jackson’s voice seemed to come from a long way off. He reached out with his right hand, clumsily feeling for his son’s shoulder. “I can’t see you!”
“Call 911!” James urged Milla and then captured his father’s panicked hand in his own. “It’ll be all right, Pop. Hold on. We’re going to get you help.”
James listened as Milla spoke to the emergency operator. He knew the call would be routed to the fire station across the street and that an EMT could be in the room in less than five minutes.
Those minutes were the longest of his life. As James held onto his father, trying not to concentrate on the frailty of his weathered hand, the left side of Jackson’s face slowly drooped downward and a line of spittle leaked from his open mouth.
“Pop?” James tenderly shook his father. “POP!”
A black pulse of fear throbbed in James’ chest. Milla had left the room to wait for the paramedics in the lobby and, alone in his office with his unresponsive father, James struggled to keep his voice calm and even. “Don’t leave me, Pop. Hang on. I’m right here with you. I won’t let go.” James had to stop speaking because his throat swelled tight with emotion. He refused to give way to despair, so he inhaled a deep breath, choked back the terror, and continued to repeat the words, “It’s okay, I’m right here,” over and over and over again.
Black Beans & Vice Page 13