by Nancy Moser
“Unless you’re surprising me by giving me a hefty bonus, I have a pretty good idea. Thanks.”
“You’re welcome.” He pinched a piece of lint from the sleeve of his jacket. “The job’s still available, you know.”
“No thanks. I have research to do.”
He offered a smirk. “Why?”
“Why not?” She fumbled through a stack of papers, dropping a book on the floor.
Bailey reached to get it, and they nearly knocked heads. He brushed the book off and put it on the table. “You’ve got to admit most people don’t spend time researching a paper unless they have to.”
“Maybe I like knowledge.” It sounded lame—and defensive.
He eyed her, tapping his lower lip. “I’m having a hard time figuring you out, Ms. Claire Adams.” He stroked her name as though it were an alias.
She looked away. “Don’t waste your time.”
“I don’t intend to.” He took a seat. “Why are you in Steadfast, anyway? You appear to be jobless, so it isn’t because of work.”
A dozen lies surfaced, vying for attention. She didn’t want to get caught in that snare again. It took her a moment to think of a solution. Maybe part of the truth would appease him.
She set her pencil down and leaned on the opened book. “It’s an odd reason, Bailey, one that doesn’t make any sense to anyone but me.
He leaned close. “Sounds intriguing.”
She leaned back. “I saw a painting of Steadfast in a museum and was drawn to the picture, to the place.” She thought of something honest she could add that might lend credence to her story. “I’ve recently gone through a divorce. I’m starting over, and the essence of Steadfast portrayed in that painting appealed to me.”
He sat back, making a face. “Sheesh. What is it with you women? Merry comes here to start over. You come here to start over. You’re putting a lot of pressure on little ol’ Steadfast. I’m not sure it’s strong enough to take it.”
“But you’re here. You must like what it has to offer.”
He shoved his chair back and stood. “Yeah, well, I was born here. What can I say? It’s as good a place as any.”
“Exactly.” Her nod was quite triumphant.
He stared at her a moment, then wagged a finger. “I’ll buy your story. For now. But I’ve got a feeling there’s more to your presence here than you’re telling me.”
She turned back to the book. “Don’t strain yourself.”
When he didn’t respond, she looked up. Go away. Please go away, Bailey.
He planted his arms on the table, leaning close, his grin smug. “I’ve got my eye on you, Claire—and it’s not because you’re pretty. You have a secret, and I intend to find out what it is.”
“Good-bye, Bailey.”
With a wink, he executed a perfect pivot and left.
It took Claire a good fifteen minutes to calm herself enough to read what was on a page.
Claire’s nerves plagued her all day. She couldn’t stop worrying about Bailey’s curiosity. The world wouldn’t end if people knew who she was, but things would change. Whether they recognized her name as an artist or not, they would be affected by knowing she was somebody that a lot of people did know. When the most famous Steadfast citizen was a ninety-year-old man who had been the campaign manager for Hubert Humphrey’s presidential run, any name was news. And once the town anointed her a name, all hope of discovering a new purpose separate from her past would be impossible.
She had to stay anonymous. But how could she dissuade Bailey’s interest? She hadn’t done anything suspicious—except be a stranger.
Perhaps that was enough.
Claire heard the jangle of Merry’s keys. It was time to close down the research shop. She started to pile her books onto a corner of the table. It was nice to know they’d be left undisturbed until tomorrow.
“You two leaving for dinner, or staying?” Merry called out.
“We’re staying.”
Claire was surprised at Sim’s reply. “We are?”
Sim didn’t answer. Merry said her good-byes and locked the door behind her.
They were alone.
Claire looked at Sim. “What’s this about dinner? You’ve made it clear you prefer spending your evenings away from the library.”
Sim shrugged. “What’s on the menu?”
Claire thought about the meager pickins in the cooler. “Nothing exotic, but I’m sure I can find something.”
“Good.” Sim headed toward the back room. “Want me to do the fixing?”
“Sure. I’ll finish straightening up and be there in a minute.” She thought of something. “Actually…Sim?”
The girl stopped at the door. “What?”
“Over dinner…there’s a book I’d love to discuss with you.”
“Which one?”
“Atlas Shrugged.”
Sim’s smile made John Galt’s ninety-page monologue worth the effort.
Twelve
Direct me in the path of your commands,
for there I find delight.
Turn my heart toward your statutes and
not toward selfish gain.
PSALM 119:35-36
“MERRY! COME SEE THIS.”
Merry joined Blanche, who stood beside the computer she always used. Blanche waved a piece of paper. “I found it taped to my computer.”
Merry read the paper.
There are lots of things
With which I’m blessed,
Tho’ my life’s been sunny and blue,
But of all my blessings,
This one’s best:
To have a friend like you.
In times of trouble
Friends will say,
“Just ask, I’ll help you through it.”
But you don’t wait
For me to ask,
You just get up and do it!
And I can think
Of nothing in life
That I could more wisely do,
Than know a friend,
And be a friend,
And love a friend like you.
Merry looked up when she saw it was from Ivan. “What do you know?”
“Amazing, isn’t it?” Blanche shook her head. “I never knew the old kumquat had it in him.”
“Apparently that old kumquat loves you.”
“Temporary insanity. He’s afraid of rotting on the vine. He just wants to be picked.”
“Pick him while he’s ripe, Blanche. You have to know he’s been upset about you spending so much time with your on-line acquaintances.”
Blanche put a finger to her lips. “Speaking of…I wondered if you had a photo of yourself I could send to a man in Cincinnati.”
“A photo of me? I’m not that desperate.”
“You don’t understand.” Blanche leaned close. “I’d pretend you were me. He wants a photo, but he thinks I’m thirty and—”
“No way.”
“But Merry—”
“That’s deceitful. And dangerous.” She put a hand on Blanche’s, remembering her apple-pie conversation with Claire a few days before. “Why are you looking elsewhere when right here, in this town, in this library, you have a man who loves you?”
“A kumquat in the hand?”
“Is worth three on-line veggies in the bush.”
Blanche read the verse again. “This is nice.”
“So, what are you going to do?”
Blanche screwed her mouth to the left, then the right. “Where is the old kumquat this morning?”
“He should be here any minute.”
She sighed and wiggled her toes. “Then I suppose I’ll have to pin him down and tell him thank you.”
Merry smiled. “Can I watch?”
She put a hand to her chest. “Why, Merry Cavanaugh! What would your mother say?”
“This is a public place, Blanche.”
Blanche folded the note in half. “Then I’ll make every attempt to contain myself.”
At that moment she saw him come through the door. Merry greeted him with a mischievous smile. “Morning, Ivan.”
He flipped a hand, a gesture that could be taken as a greeting or something worse. He headed for his stool. His eyes locked on the note. His forehead furrowed.
Sim slunk into the stacks to watch.
He opened the note. His left eyebrow raised, then lowered. “Well, I’ll be.”
“You’ll be what?” It was Blanche, standing on the edge of his territory, her note in hand. She moved from side to side, making her skirt sway like a schoolgirl in the midst of a flirt.
“I’ll be busy.” He folded the note, slid it in his shirt pocket, grabbed a bowl of green tiles, and took his seat. He rifled through the bowl, as if looking for one specific tile, ignoring Blanche’s courting dance.
She stared at him a moment, then picked up a bowl of blue tiles, doing her own sifting.
Ivan’s right pinky twitched.
Sim couldn’t believe it. How could they be so stubborn? She was tempted to—
Suddenly, Blanche put the bowl down with a clatter.
Ivan’s hand momentarily stopped, then resumed its digging.
Blanche took a pen out of her shirt pocket and began to click the end of it, down, up, down, up.
His fingers delved deeper into the dish.
She began humming the “1812 Overture,” zipping straight to the climax.
“Shush!”
Blanche smiled. Throwing all subtlety aside, she cleared her throat repeatedly, raising the volume as well as the pitch until it was nearly a squeak.
She got him. He spun toward her, losing a dozen tiles over the top of the bowl. “Will you please be quiet!”
Blanche put a hand to her chest. “Why, I’m sorry, Ivan. Was I disturbing you?”
He groaned and picked up the fallen tiles. “The gig’s up, Blanche. I know your game.”
“Game?”
He patted his shirt pocket. “What’s this about, woman?”
She shuffled her shoulders. “I hate it when you call me that, you old squash.”
“I can’t call you woman, but you can call me squash?”
“An old squash.” She let her shoulders settle. Her voice softened. “But actually, I love vegetables. It’s a sign of affection.”
“Maybe calling you woman is a sign of affection too.”
She crossed her arms and glared at him. “Is it?”
“Could be.”
Sim closed her eyes. This was not how she had thought this conversation would play out, which, considering the dialogue participants, was not a total surprise.
Blanche pulled the love note from her pocket and held it out to him.
He took it. “What’s this? A recipe for arsenic stew?”
She threw her hands in the air and turned on her heel. “You’re impossible.”
“I…” He read the note. “Hey! I didn’t write this.”
Blanche did an about-face and returned, her finger extended ahead of her, ready to impale the note. “Your name’s on it.”
He drew the other note from his shirt. “And your name’s on this.”
She moved her lips as she read the words. “It’s the same! But I didn’t leave this for you.”
“Your name’s on it.”
“Well, I didn’t—”
He took the note back and folded it. “I should have known it wasn’t real. A token of love from a woman who longs to slice and dice me?
“And kind words from an old rigatoni? Ridiculous.”
“Rigatoni is not a vegetable.”
“I’ve moved on to pasta. I’m tired of dealing with vegetables like you.”
When she started to walk away, Sim was on the verge of popping out of the stacks to explain the whole thing. But then she heard something that froze her in her tracks.
Ivan’s voice lost its edge. “Blanche, please come back.”
She turned slowly. “And why should I, Mr. Manicotti-breath?”
He rose from the stool and took a step toward her. “Because the words in the notes…I like them.”
“You do?”
He nodded. “They’re better than what I could have put together.”
She came closer. “Me too. I never was good at lovey-dovey stuff. But that doesn’t mean I don’t feel it, want to say it.”
“Yeah. Me too.”
There was a moment of silence. “So you really think I’m a blessing?”
“Sure I do.”
‘“Cause I think you’re a good friend.”
“Good.”
Blanche beamed.
“But if we didn’t send the notes, who did?”
Blanche looked to the ceiling, then her eyes lit up. “Must be the library ghost.”
“Nonsense. Nobody’s brought that up in years.”
“That doesn’t mean it doesn’t exist.” Blanche swished her skirt again. “Merry told me Harold got some new licorice the other day. No one knows how. And now the notes…”
“I refuse to believe in ghosts.” He looked toward the far corner. “Maybe Harold wrote the notes.”
Blanche shook her head. “Harold would have quoted Shakespeare.”
“Then maybe Merry.”
“Merry’s methods are more direct.”
“Then who?”
They both looked at the notes, then at each other. Sim pulled back, deeper into the stacks.
“That only leaves Claire and that girl.”
Blanche considered it. “They don’t know us well enough to do this for us. Besides, why would they?”
“Then I guess you’re right.”
“I am?”
He grinned. “It must be the library ghost.”
“Well, I’ll be.”
“That’s my line.” Ivan put the bowl of tiles down. “You want to go to the Plentiful and have a cinnamon roll?”
“Love to.”
Sim did a little jig. The library ghost had struck again.
Merry turned off the television. The sounds of TV people going through the highs and lows of their lives were often distracting, but tonight their inane existence—they dared to be happy—got on her nerves.
She hated them.
The sudden silence reinforced her depression and loneliness. A quiet house in the morning didn’t bother her, nor one after work. But once the sun went down, it was disconcerting to have no hope of hearing anyone’s voice but her own until morning, when she went back to the library. She had two lives: the one with people at work, and the one without them. Alone. Her public and private faces were not the same. Two masks, veiling the real Merry Cavanaugh.
If only Sim were here.
A quick thought sped in and then out. Had she invited Sim to stay with her for her own benefit more than Sim’s? Was she that desperate to not be alone?
What bothered her more than aloneness was the fact that she was getting used to it. There was shame in that. Since her family was gone for good, shouldn’t she be grieving for good?
Yet acceptance was not assent. Battles were still fought daily. Merry lived in a constant state of frustration at her family’s absence. Every time she’d get a notion to share a thought, ponder a decision, or discuss her day, she’d find her sounding board gone. Without Lou’s response, the details of her life were not free to return to her nourished and refreshed. Without his input, they fell to the ground half-formed. And because she was getting used to not receiving feedback, she feared she was getting used to not receiving anything from anybody. The wall that separated her from the world was getting higher. And the bricks of grief were very strong, rough, and heavy.
Hadn’t God created man and woman to be together? Two by two? Wasn’t she obligated to be half of a couple? Wasn’t that the right order of things?
Everyone said she should dat
e again. Bailey had certainly made his intentions known. Yet even when her interest flared, she couldn’t bring herself to do it. Dating led to commitment, and commitment to grief.
Besides, it wasn’t like she needed a man. She’d done all right since Lou’s death. She wasn’t one of those women who didn’t know how to balance a checkbook or unstop a toilet. She’d always prided herself on being able to do whatever needed to be done. She didn’t need a man to do for her.
But did she need a man to be for her?
If she were to date…the main advantage of living in Steadfast was also the main disadvantage. What Bailey said was true: The small population limited her options in the dating game. Sometimes it seemed the only answer was to move back to the city for a few months, tap into the larger population pool, find a companion, and then return to Steadfast. But such schemes weren’t feasible. And so she waited.
Would her heart ever be ready to let a second man into her life? Maybe if she started slowly? Lunch? Or even dinner?
Dinner.
Blanche and Ivan were going out to dinner together after accepting each other’s love notes. A start. A friendship working toward commitment.
Yesterday, Bailey asked her to dinner. She’d gotten out of every date with him by using a variation of Lou’s death as an excuse. It was a bad habit. Whenever she didn’t want to deal with something, she fell back on her widowhood. “I’m not ready.” Would she ever be ready—even if the right man did come along?
The right man would have to be full of determination. He’d have to pass her long mental checklist: good-looking, kind, funny, ambitious to the right degree, smart enough to discuss the newest books in the library, and laid-back enough to watch Abbott and Costello movies. Considering the condition of her Victorian house, he would need to be handy at repairs and even-tempered. She’d prefer he had a job that made him happy so he wouldn’t be moody and complain all the time, making Merry work to the point of exhaustion to build his ego at the expense of her own.
And he needed a strong faith. Even though her own faith rode the roller coaster, that was one of the things she missed most about Lou. His faith. Whatever had happened in their lives, he had a way of looking to the good of it. So much so that sometimes it drove her crazy. How many times had she heard him say, “God is in control, Mer. He’s got it. We don’t have to worry; we just have to give it up to Him.”