“I was hoping you would have extra chowder after the lunch crush,” Violet said. “The Blue Anchor has the best clam chowder on the East Coast.”
“That’s a fact,” Beth said.
“I don’t suppose there were any extra clam fritters?” Nancy asked.
“Just for you, Nance,” Mary said. “They’re in the bag.”
She shook out her shoulder-length dark brown curls and hefted the bag over to the table and started unloading it. Then she took her knitting out of her backpack, a fisherman’s sweater for her husband, Ian, and sank into one of the cushy upholstered chairs. “So, Rebecca; was she awful or what?”
“But she’s dead,” Nancy said. “Is she awful, or is it just the memory of her that is awful?”
“I think she was,” Beth said. “She was pregnant by another man.”
“And she taunted poor Maxim,” Violet said. “I’m glad he found a new wife, although the poor thing has to contend with the ghost of her memory.”
“The new wife is the narrator,” Lindsey observed. “She’s an interesting character, yes?”
“Very,” Nancy agreed. “She is quite a sympathetic figure.”
“Remind me, what’s her first name?” Lindsey asked.
The others exchanged glances. Mary opened her mouth and then closed her mouth. She and Beth dove for copies of Rebecca at the same time.
Lindsey smiled as they flipped through, trying to find the name of du Maurier’s narrator.
“Honestly, food in the library, knitting, a fire in the fireplace,” Ms. Cole said. “Our former director Mr. Tupper never would have allowed such goings-on. I really have to protest, Ms. Norris.”
“You can call me Lindsey.”
Ms. Cole said nothing. She merely looked at the food and the books and the happy women clustered around the roaring fire and looked pained.
“Ms. Cole, I know you find this difficult,” Lindsey said. “But this room was never used before, and it’s such a lovely space. It’s perfect for little groups like the crafternoon club to gather. There are no books in here to be damaged by food, and the fireplace is more than a decoration. It actually gives heat.”
Ms. Cole gave her a flat stare, and Lindsey sighed. “All right, what is it that needs my attention?”
“Follow me, please,” Ms. Cole said and led the way out of the room. Her sensible shoes didn’t make as much as a squeak on the highly glossed wooden floors. In a brown skirt, thick beige stockings and a white blouse under a tan cardigan, Ms. Cole was the picture of nondescript. Her gray hair was worn in fat sausage curls on her head, and a pair of reading glasses hung from a chain around her neck.
She looked as if she’d been frozen in time since 1955.
Lindsey followed her stout figure as she strode back to the main library. She could only imagine how Ms. Cole was going to take it when she invited the gardening club to use the room or, even worse, had Mary host a cooking class in there.
They approached the circulation desk, which was currently being staffed by their part-time clerk Ann Marie Martin. The mother of two rambunctious boys, Ann Marie only worked a few days a week. It was what she called her “grown-up time.”
“You need to talk to her,” Ms. Cole said. “Mr. Tupper always said, ‘A fine is a fine, and we don’t make any exceptions.’ ”
Ann Marie glanced up at them. She was a little older than Lindsey and wore her brown hair in the standard mom ponytail and dressed in corduroy jumpers with pretty blouses underneath. She always smelled like apples and was quick with a grin and quicker with a laugh. Lindsey thought her boys were pretty lucky to have her.
Right now, Ann Marie was not grinning, however; in fact, it looked as though it was taking all of her self-restraint not to roll her eyes.
“He didn’t have any money,” Ann Marie said. “I made a note on his record that he would pay his fine the next time he comes in, but yes, I let him check out the books he needed for his school project. I take full responsibility for the two dollars and twenty cents that he owes.”
Ann Marie spun the flat computer screen on the desk so that Lindsey could see it. She looked at the circulation record and saw Matthew Carter’s name and information as well as the note Ann Marie had said she’d put on his account.
“Seems okay to me,” Lindsey said. “Our policy is that we don’t revoke borrowing privileges until the patron owes more than ten dollars. Matthew’s a good kid. I think we need to give him the opportunity to prove himself.”
“If he would return his items on time, he wouldn’t need that opportunity,” Ms. Cole said with a sniff.
“That’s why we value you so much,” Lindsey said. “You help us to be better than we are, Ms. Cole, by keeping your expectations high.”
Ms. Cole blinked at her as if uncertain whether she was being mocked or not.
“If you’ll excuse me,” Lindsey said. “I’m just going to finish up our book talk, and I’ll be right back.”
“Have fun,” Ann Marie said. “Oh, and Milton wanted to talk to you.”
“Is he in his usual spot?” Lindsey asked.
“Yep,” Ann Marie said. “Same corner as always.”
“Thanks,” Lindsey said.
She turned away from the desk and scanned her library. It wasn’t huge, but it was a wonderful space all the same. The old stone building was two hundred years old. Before it had been the town library, it was the private residence of a ship builder. It had been renovated numerous times over the years, but it still retained a nautical charm with its wooden floors and beamed ceilings and long tall windows that overlooked the bay.
The children’s section was Beth’s domain, and she had designed it to look like a small enchanted island. There was a couch that looked like a big sand dune, the floor was soft blue carpet, fake palm trees were stationed around the room and a large pirate’s treasure chest was filled with puppets and dress-up clothes and building blocks.
And, of course, there was Fernando, Beth’s colorful toy parrot, who lived in a large birdcage in the corner. The kids especially loved that he had a sound-activated recorder programmed to repeat everything they said. He was of particular delight to Ann Marie’s boys, who liked to teach Fernando naughty words.
Lindsey cut through the children’s area to the adult section, which was much less fanciful. Cushy armchairs were scattered around this space, with small tables to accommodate laptop computers; study carrels with soft green banker’s lamps lined one wall, and a bank of computers with word-processing and Internet capability lined another. Shelves and shelves of books, fiction in one section and nonfiction in another, filled out the remaining space in the room.
Lindsey passed by the computers and books and arrived at the small lounge area for the adults. Magazines and newspapers filled freestanding racks circled by a big sofa and several armchairs. And there in the corner, standing on his head, was Milton Duffy.
CHAPTER 2
It had taken Lindsey a few weeks to get used to Milton—okay, it had been months, and she was still getting used to him. He was a certified Yogi and was frequently found doing an asana wherever the mood struck him: the grocery store, the café, the pier, wherever.
He was also the heart of Briar Creek, serving as chairman of the library board and the tourism board, and he had been president of the historical society for the past fifteen years. He was the institutional memory of the town, and he had been invaluable in helping Lindsey get acclimated to her new position as director of the library.
“Hi, Milton,” she said.
His eyes popped open with a flash of bright green, and he said, “Ms. Lindsey, always a pleasure. Are you coming down, or shall I come up?”
“I’ll come down,” she said.
“Excellent,” he said. “Uttanasana increases the blood flow to the brain. It’s an excellent way to fight off dementia.”
Lindsey positioned herself beside Milton and exhaled as she lowered herself into a forward bend. Milton had been coaching her on her posture, an
d she could feel how much more limber her body was compared with a few months ago. If she aged as well as Milton, then that was fine with her.
At eighty-two, Milton had more energy than a man half his age. Short, with a wiry build and no hair on his head, he sported a thick silver goatee and dressed in designer workout clothes. Every single woman over the age of fifty had the hots for Milton, but he remained loyal to the memory of his late wife, who had passed away just two years before. This loyalty did not stop him from accepting every dinner invitation that came his way, but still, he never favored one lady over another, for which Lindsey admired his tact.
“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.
Books Can Be Deceiving Page 2
