“You wanted to see me?” she asked. She noticed her voice sounded different when she was upside down, as if her head was stuffed with cotton, but maybe that was just all of the blood rushing to her brain in its quest to fight off senility.
“I’ve been thinking about our annual book sale,” he said. “We usually hold it in February, but I was thinking we should do it before the holidays this year. Times are tough, and people are looking for bargains. They might be more in the mood to shop then.”
Lindsey mulled it over. She had not been here long enough to witness the annual book sale, but she had heard it was quite a moneymaker for the Friends of the Library, who in turn used the money to help the library fund reading programs and such. She didn’t think there was a problem with moving it, and she trusted Milton’s judgment.
“Sounds fine to me,” she said.
“Fabulous. I’ll bring it up at the next meeting and mention that we have your approval. Some of our people are very resistant to change, you know.”
Lindsey thought of Ms. Cole. “I know the type,” she said. She began to unwind out of her forward bend.
“Slowly,” Milton coached. “Remember to go vertebra by vertebra.”
Lindsey eased out of her stretch, and she had to admit that she felt amazingly refreshed. “Always a pleasure, Milton.”
“Likewise,” he said and his eyes closed as he went back to his meditation.
Strands of Lindsey’s long blonde hair had slipped from the clip at the nape of her neck. She reached back and undid the barrette, raked her hair back into a semblance of order with her fingers and reclipped it. She had inherited her mother’s hair: pale blonde and unruly. Well, her mother called it curly, but Lindsey had always thought it had a mind of its own. She had worn it short as a young girl, but given her strong features courtesy of her father, as a grown-up she felt it made her look too mannish. So in college, she grew it long and wore it tied back. Life was a compromise.
She headed back toward the cozy little room where the crafternooners were holed up. Her stomach grumbled, and she really hoped there was some chowder left.
The ladies were all packing up their knitting, but to Lindsey’s delight, there was one container of soup still on the table.
“We saved it for you,” Beth said.
“Thanks,” she said. “So what was the conclusion about our narrator? What is her first name?”
“She is never given one,” Violet said. “I can’t believe I didn’t catch that. It’s a technique I’m familiar with in theater, used to give the narrator no past or future but to keep her solely in the present.”
“Also, the reader can identify more with a narrator who is not named,” Mary added.
Lindsey smiled. There was nothing better than sharing her love of a great book with people who felt the same.
“So, what are we reading next?” Beth asked. “We have suggestions for
The Last Time I Saw Paris
, by Lynn Sheene, or
The Sea, the Sea
, by Iris Murdoch.”
“Let’s read
The Last Time I Saw Paris
and then
The Sea, the Sea
,” Nancy said. “This rainy weather makes me long for a jaunt in Europe, and
The Last Time I Saw Paris
is a period piece set during World War II.”
“Sounds good to me,” Lindsey said. “Agreed?”
Everyone in the circle glanced at one another and gave a nod. “I’ll go ahead and get the copies. Violet, will Charlene be joining us?”
“I’ll ask her, but I’m pretty sure she will. You know how she likes to talk,” Violet said. Her eyes widened as if it mystified her that her daughter could be so chatty. No one pointed out to her that the acorn had not fallen far from the oak.
Charlene was a local television news reporter in New Haven. She and her husband owned a house on one of the Thumb Islands that surrounded Briar Creek and frequently came to town with their three kids for weekends away from it all.
“Beth, are you still working on that children’s picture book?” Nancy asked. “The one about the hamster that lives in the library?”
“When I get the chance,” Beth said. “It’s almost finished, but I need some time to polish it. Why?”
“Well, I heard from Jeanette Palmer at the Beachfront Bed and Breakfast that an editor from Caterpillar Press just booked a stay with them for this weekend.”
“What is Caterpillar Press?” Mary asked.
“A children’s book publisher in New York,” Nancy said. “I think you should show her your work, Beth.”
“Oh, I couldn’t.” Beth shook her head. “I don’t even know how you approach a person like that. I’ve heard editors can be very prickly. Rick has told me about authors who pester editors and how they’re banned from the industry for life.”
“That’s ridiculous,” Violet said. “You’re not going to pester her. You’re just going to show her your work, and she should consider herself fortunate. You are very talented. They’d be lucky to sign you.”
“You sound just like my mother,” Beth said with a wry smile. As if sensing their collective doubt, she added, “I’ll think about it. Really.”
The other women exchanged glances. Beth was a terrible liar, and it was obvious she was putting them off. Despite her art background, she had very little confidence in her work. It drove them all crazy that they couldn’t get her to be more aggressive about submitting her work to publishers.
Beth and Lindsey set to cleaning up the room, waving away the offers of help from the others. Lindsey switched off the gas fireplace and the room felt instantly colder. They rearranged the cushy chairs so that they were back in their haphazard arrangement and threw away all traces of Mary’s chowder and fritters, except for the container Lindsey was keeping for herself.
“There, now the lemon has nothing to complain about,” Beth said.
She had been calling Ms. Cole “the lemon” since she’d gotten her job, ten years ago. She said it was because Ms. Cole frequently looked as if she’d been sucking on a lemon. Lindsey knew that now that she was Ms. Cole’s boss, she should discourage the nickname, but it was hard when it was so spot-on.
“Beth, I don’t want to pressure you, but I am curious. Why don’t you show the editor your work?” Lindsey asked. “Do you not want to get published?”
“No, I do,” she said. “I really do, but . . .”
Lindsey waited, and when Beth said nothing, she prompted her. “But what?”
“Well, I showed my book to Rick,” Beth said with a frown. “He said it is far too amateurish.”
Lindsey felt her jaw clench, and she had to force herself to unclamp her teeth. Rick Eckman, Beth’s boyfriend, happened to be an award-winning children’s picture-book author. He had arrived in Briar Creek five years ago, and Beth had been completely swept off her feet by his interest in her and their mutual love of children’s literature. When he won the Caldecott Medal for his first book shortly after they started dating, Beth had taken it as a sign that he was her soul mate. Lindsey had never really seen it herself.
The truth was that Rick was an arrogant horse’s patoot, and Lindsey had never managed to warm to him. She failed to see what Beth saw in him, but being a good friend, she had never said as much, although it about killed her not to.
“I know that Rick is an author and illustrator himself,” she said. “But I don’t think he has the same eye toward other artists’ work as an editor would.”
“Maybe,” Beth said. “I really would love to hear what an editor thinks of my story.”
“Then let’s at least entertain the idea of querying her,” Lindsey said. “What do you say?”
“All right.” Beth laughed. “But only because I know you’ll just keep bugging me and bugging me if I don’t.”
“Don’t what?” a voice asked from the door.
Lindsey and Beth spun to find Ms. Cole poised in the doorway. She had her usual stern look about her, and Lindsey found she didn’t want to tell her what was going on, although she couldn’t say why.
“Oh, we’re just talking about following through on a project,” she said.
“What project?”
“Weeding,” Beth answered. Lindsey looked at her out of the corner of her eye. Surely she knew the very idea of weeding sent Ms. Cole into conniptions.
“Mr. Tupper didn’t feel the need to weed,” Ms. Cole said with a sniff. “He felt that all materials once acquired were a part of the collection.”
“I know,” Beth said with a frown. “Which is why I was never allowed to pitch any of my picture books, even if they had spit-up on them.”
“Ew,” Lindsey said.
“Indeed,” Beth agreed. She glanced at Ms. Cole with a sly look. “So, Lindsey, shall I make a list of all of the reference books we’re going to pitch? I was thinking I’d start with the
Oxford English Dictionary
.”
Ms. Cole went red in the face, and she clutched her chest as if she were having palpitations. For a second, it appeared as if she might keel over, but instead she shook her gray curls and gave Lindsey her most stubborn glare.
“Mr. Tupper would never remove the
OED
from the collection,” she said.
“I know,” Lindsey said in a placating voice. “And neither will I. Beth was just teasing.”
“Is that so?” Ms. Cole asked, looking very much like she didn’t believe her.
“Oh, look at the time,” Beth said and glanced at her wrist, where a watch would be if she actually wore one. “Gotta run.”
“Beth . . .” Lindsey called a warning after her friend, but Beth clearly was not finished teasing Ms. Cole and did not turn around.
“She really was just kidding,” Lindsey said. Ms. Cole said nothing, and Lindsey followed Beth, feeling distinctly uncomfortable.
She could feel Ms. Cole’s eyes burning on her back, and she thought of Violet’s observation that Ms. Cole was very much like Mrs. Danvers in
Rebecca
. She was suddenly very grateful that the library had long ago done away with most of the second story and was now made up of vaulted ceilings instead. Perhaps it was the rainy weather giving her gothic thoughts, but she was grateful there were no nearby windows to be pushed from.
At the door, she glanced over her shoulder to see Ms. Cole still staring at her with a forbidding frown. Lindsey clutched her container of chowder to her chest and gave her a faint smile. Then she put on a burst of speed, which brought her back to the lively warmth of the main room of the library.
CHAPTER 3
“T
he library will be closing in ten minutes,” Lindsey called out. There were a few patrons still using the public-access Internet computers, and a young couple was squabbling over which DVD to check out. None of them seemed inclined to move toward the exit. It was Friday evening and as much as the patrons would have liked the library to stay open, Lindsey and her staff were ready to go.
Lindsey patrolled the small library, making sure the copier and online computer catalogs were off, books were put on cleanup trucks and all the puzzles and toys in the children’s section were in their proper places.
Ms. Cole was standing at the last checkout station glaring at the young couple. Lindsey knew only too well that if they didn’t get there before the stroke of five, Ms. Cole would shut off her terminal and refuse them service.
Lindsey wandered over in their direction. “Can I help you find anything?”
“I want a romantic comedy,” the young woman said. She looked to be in her late teens, with long, straight black hair and pale skin. She wore heavy eye makeup and was rail thin.
“And I want action adventure,” her companion said. He looked to be the same age as the girl. He wore very baggy jeans, had the scruffy start of a beard on his chin and sported a crooked ball cap on his head. “No chick flicks.”
“Why not?” the young woman asked. “It’s supposed to be our date night.”
Lindsey scanned the shelves. The movies were filed alphabetically by title. Yes! There was one copy available. She snatched it and handed it to the man. “Here. It’s the best of both worlds.”
“
True Lies
?” he asked. One of his eyebrows lifted in doubt.
“Schwarzenegger and Curtis, explosions, romance, comedy, chase scenes, the works. Trust me,” she said. “Now get moving, or you won’t even get that.”
She pointed to Ms. Cole, who was still glaring daggers, and the young couple hustled over to the checkout counter. As soon as they had their film, Lindsey took a deep breath and called, “The library is now closed. You don’t have to go home, but you can’t stay here. Have a nice night.”
The last of the patrons shuffled out the door. Ann Marie quickly shut off the computers, while Beth locked the front door. Ms. Cole deposited the cash drawer into the safe, and they all gathered their things from the workroom and trooped to the back door.
Lindsey let everyone out and then set the alarm behind them. She had fifteen seconds to get through the back door or the alarm would go off, bringing the town police screeching into their parking lot. She had discovered this the hard way her first week on the job.
She and Ms. Cole had been closing when Ms. Cole said she was sure she had left the coffeepot on. Lindsey went back to check, not knowing she only had fifteen seconds, and sure enough, the alarm sounded, scaring her half to death, and when she came out the door, there were two town police officers, Chief Daniels and Officer Wilcox, standing with guns drawn and Ms. Cole smirking behind them. It was a small miracle that Lindsey had not disgraced herself completely and peed her pants.
“Good night, everyone,” she called after her staff. Ann Marie gave her a cheerful smile, but Ms. Cole said nothing. She strode to her compact car without so much as a wave.
“I don’t think I’m being overly sensitive when I say that woman loathes me,” Lindsey said to Beth.
“Don’t take it personally. The lemon loathes everyone.”
Beth and Lindsey both rode bicycles to work and left them chained to the bike rack on the side of the building.
As they turned the corner around the stone building, the breeze blowing in off the bay just yards away was like a cold slap against the cheek, leaving its briny smell lingering in the nostrils. It woke Lindsey up better than smelling salts, and suddenly, she wasn’t that eager to go home and cook.