“Yes,” I lied. “A few dozen.”
“Okay,” she agreed, even though she was eyeing me strangely, as most girls would a thirty-two-year-old who’d confessed to having a collection of chapter books at home.
“Great! I have to go. See you later,” I said because now I wanted to be sure that I had time to get back to the bookstore before it closed.
A week after I first lent Elmira the dozen new chapter books I’d bought, she knocked on the door of my classroom.
“Hi, Elmira,” I said, stepping down from the ladder I was using to hang the kindergarteners’ sock puppet self-portrait gallery. “What’s up?”
“Thanks for the loaner, Ms. Fairisle.” Elmira lifted all twelve books out of her backpack and placed them on the edge of my desk.
“Not a fan?” I asked.
“No, I loved them!” she enthused. “I read them all.”
“Already?”
“Yeah.” She looked sheepish. “Now I have to buy some new batteries for my parents’ flashlight so they don’t find out I was reading past bedtime.”
I winked at her. I would have to get more books.
Remembering Elmira’s talent for art, an idea hit me. “As it happens, I could use a helping hand on this project I’m working on, and you’re exactly the person I need.”
“Really?” she breathed, as though I’d just asked her to join a trip to Narnia.
“Really. Here’s the thing. I’d like to gather some books that people don’t want anymore so I can lend them to others. I think we need a flyer asking people to donate. Could you help me design it?”
Elmira’s ponytail was swinging as she nodded. “I’ll do it!”
The next afternoon, she handed me a drawing. Over the edge of a book that someone was reading, all that was visible were two eyes and the top of the person’s hair, similar to the little old ladies you’d see behind the steering wheel in Florida. It was funny and silly and . . . absolutely perfect!
“I love it!” I cried, giving her a big hug. Elmira looked surprised.
“Thanks,” she said shyly.
“Do you need a ride home?”
“Sure, that would be great. My parents got tied up . . .” She looked down at her shoes.
After dropping her off, I rolled down the window to get my fix of fall air. I could smell burning leaves somewhere. It should have felt more like winter by now. But I loved the slow change of the season, the way the leaves smoldered red for weeks and weeks before sailing dazedly off the branches toward earth. Breathing deeply, I felt my heart lift even higher as I arrived home.
Back in July, my Chatsworth house had the same happy effect on me when my mother and I first visited it. Mom had come to town to help me choose a place to live. Partly because of how amazing she is. Partly because she and Dad were going to loan me a little money for a small down payment, knowing it would take me some time to find my financial footing. But mostly because she feared that when it came to the really big decisions—like which adorable house I would want to buy—I might be a little . . . indecisive. She and Dad had had to listen to me talk for hours about whether I would want Greek Revival style or Queen Anne, or a Victorian or a Federal home. Even before I had known whether those existed in Chatsworth or if any of them would be in my limited price range.
Sullivan had started scouting for-sale houses when she was driving around town. “There’s one you have to see. It’s got kind of a weird mushing together of different styles, which some people wouldn’t go for, but I think it’s super cute.” When my mom and I pulled up to the house that day, my face flushed. I was certain, right away, that it was meant to be my home. I couldn’t describe the architectural style. Turns out, neither could the broker, Bonnie. As we stood in front, she shuffled through the papers attached to her clipboard. “Um, it says Arts and Crafts on one page, Tudor on the other, and Cotswold Cottage on this other description.”
Mom later told me my eyes lit up. Three times. Especially at the mention of “Cotswold Cottage.” How very fairy-tale-ish!
I loved the fact that it had three different identities all linked by a certain quirky but solid charm. The main foundation was a sensible brick rectangle, but sticking out from what would have been the second-floor level, above the front door, was a projection of sand-colored stucco facing. A single peaked gable bisected the roof rising behind it. Forest-green half timbers striped downward from the peak above the mullioned window. The whole roof was covered in thin, almost pumpernickel-dark shingles. On the left side of the house, there was a tall brick chimney; on the right side, an adorable little room jutted out from the front, also in sand-colored stucco, with dark-green frames on the three floor-to-ceiling windows. A sunroom!
When Bonnie gave us the tour, I saw that the sunroom was smaller than it had looked from the outside—the house itself wasn’t all that large—but it would be a lovely place to put a comfy chair so I could read and look out the window with a cup of tea.
As she took us through the rest of the rooms, it felt like a house that had been well loved, lived in, and—most of all—that wanted to be well loved and lived in again.
“And this is the final treat,” Bonnie announced, gesturing through the kitchen toward the back of the house. I was busy imagining where all my pots and pans would go, the dinner parties I would throw there, and chatting with my guests in the adjacent living room, which was open to the kitchen. Bonnie opened a glass door at the back of the house that had been covered by a gauzy curtain. “This is the full sunroom.”
I turned to my mother and whispered, “I want to live here.”
She nodded, giving me only a Shh, we don’t want to seem overeager look. Instead of being surprised by how sure I was, she recognized that this house was perfect for me too. I smiled at my mom reassuringly. She was probably worried we’d have a repeat of New York, when the broker I was working with to find an apartment to rent claimed that he’d never received my check—after cashing it.
Her return smile didn’t quite reach her eyes. She might also have been a little worried about my transition from the big city to a small town. In New York there had been plenty of glamorous parties with my worldly boyfriend Daniel, cultural events featuring artists and literati, and restaurants serving burrata over arugula with Dalmatian fig jam (for example). But New York also meant giving up a lot. As much of an optimist as I was, I could best describe my experience of the New York dating scene as meeting different versions of the same immature, superficial man over and over. I knew there were others, but I hadn’t found them. And I missed being able to take long green walks. Central Park was great, but it wasn’t a tree-lined neighborhood. I didn’t have a yard in New York. I couldn’t get a dog. On the salary I’d probably be earning there for the foreseeable future, I couldn’t have more than four walls. I had found myself wishing for an escape from the city, not only for a weekend here or there to somewhere I felt less anonymous but to somewhere I could put down roots and belong.
Now, thanks to Sullivan and my parents, I had the perfect house of my own—a blend of city and country, stately and humble and homey and artsy and overall cozy and welcoming.
As I put the key in the door, I felt just how charmed my life was. Now if only I could keep making it better for Elmira . . . and Lula and her kids . . . and all the other people of Chatsworth who had a big, fat, book-shaped hole in their lives without a nearby library to go to.
—THREE—
The flyer was a smashing success. I set up three big wicker baskets in my art room so that the kids and parents could stop by anytime to dump in their donations. The baskets filled up more quickly than I could have imagined.
“Your flyer is a classic,” I complimented Elmira on the sidewalk a few days later. “We’re swimming in books!”
I set up a community lending library in my classroom, but it didn’t last very long. Patrons stopped by and disrupted my classes, and it started taking over all the shelves that were meant for art supplies. When Gibbon’s Decline a
nd Fall of the Roman Empire fell off a desk and crushed my student Abel’s rather miraculous drinking-straw suspension bridge, I knew it was time to reconsider the location.
“Tell me everything,” Kendra insisted when I called a debriefing over coffee in the teachers’ lounge, and I happily obliged, right down to Abel’s stoic response when he heard about the demise of his construction.
“So I’ve been trying to figure out where else it could go. I was hoping some part of the school library could be used for the lending library, but I know you only have room in there for a small selection of children’s books as it is.”
“What about the public library at Derbyshire?” Kendra asked.
“I thought about it, but we need something here. And I really want the place to have a different vibe. I don’t want anyone who comes in to feel like they have to be quiet or obey a ton of rules. I see it as more of a social place,” I revealed. “More intimate feeling. Plus, Derbyshire Library is so far away.”
Kendra nodded. “You’re thinking of installing it in your home for now, aren’t you?”
I secretly had been. “Part of me realizes it’s a crazy idea. I mean, my house isn’t that big. But it’s big enough, especially for one person. I could use the sunroom in the back of the house for the time being. Move out some of the furniture and try to fit as many books in as I can. There won’t be room for tons of people to linger, but that’s okay. Hopefully they’ll be encouraged to come and find a book, have a cup of tea together somewhere afterward, invite each other over for book clubs, that sort of thing.” Actually, I hoped all those things could be squeezed into the back sunroom somehow, but first things first . . .
“It sounds great. You could throw some cheap curtains over the windows that look into your living room to give you some privacy,” Kendra suggested. “And you can lock the door between the sunroom and the rest of the house, right? That way, if you need someone else to tend the library when you’re out of town or just want to keep people from getting too curious, you’ll be all set. I’d love to help you.”
“Thanks, Kendra.”
Kendra thought my plan could work. And she was the school librarian! I could do this. I just knew it.
On Sunday I joyfully made lists of all the books I wanted to track down for my sunroom library. I hoped that some targeted advertising would bring them in, but I had started socking away a little money for special must-haves anyway.
I also paged through many of the volumes on my own shelves, and a stream-of-consciousness book search began. A Tale of Two Cities made me think of the eighteenth-century French Revolution, which made me think of the French Revolution in the novel Les Misérables, which came out when impressionism was starting in France.
Soon I was on the floor of my living room surrounded by art books—on Monet and Sisley, and then the Nabis, who followed the impressionists and included some of my favorite painters, like the incredible colorist Bonnard. The open pages cast the room in a glow of apricot and periwinkle, quince yellow green and pomegranate red. As I was tracing the peach-like cheeks of a mother watching over her sleeping baby in a Berthe Morisot painting, the phone rang.
“Hi, honey. What are you doing?” Mom asked.
“Just getting some inspiration for the lending library.”
“That classroom must be really full by now,” she said.
“Well, yes, I’ve recently decided to put the library in the back sunroom at the house.”
“In your home? Do you really think that’s a good idea? I mean, you’ve only just moved somewhere with more than four walls. Don’t you want to keep them to yourself for a little while?”
“No, not really. I mean, I have a whole house now. With multiple rooms. I like reading in the sunroom, but I’m happy to share it with others. And I think this is something the town really needs.”
“The town needs it, huh?”
“In my opinion, yes,” I said as decisively as I could.
“And you don’t think it’s taking on too much when you’re just starting to get settled in at the school and in the town?”
“No, I can handle it,” I snapped.
She was silent for a second, then conceded. “Okay, well, you know best.”
I didn’t want to leave things this way. My mom was only trying to help. Sort of. “So what were some of my favorite books when I was growing up? I have a bunch down already, but I could use your help in filling out my list.”
“Mouse Paint . . .” That had been the first one I’d written down!
“The Very Hungry Caterpillar.” Ooh, yes, I’d loved that one.
“Strega Nona.” And that one.
“The Cat in the Hat, obviously. Where the Wild Things Are. Oh, and your number one favorite was Jellybeans for Breakfast.”
That definitely made sense. Except today it would probably be more like Ice Cream for Breakfast (and Sometimes Lunch and Dinner).
“Then when you were older, you loved Miss Nelson Is Missing! Madeline, of course. And eventually, Mrs. Piggle-Wiggle. The Anne of Green Gables series. And so many Judy Blume books.”
Mrs. Piggle-Wiggle! The funny British lady who always found the perfect way to get kids to do the right thing. Like Mary Poppins crossed with Mrs. Doubtfire. I sighed with contentment.
“Do you still have my copies of all of them there?” I asked.
“I think so. I’ve seen some of them around. Let me check and get back to you. So . . . what else is new?” Mom asked. I knew she was wondering whether there were any developments on the man front. Her voice sounded so hopeful, so why did I feel myself bristling again?
“Nothing,” I sighed.
“What about giving it another go with that nice Daniel? Nice and famous, to boot! I’ve always imagined you showing up in the tabloids at a fabulous party on someone’s yacht.”
The smile fell off my face. “Is that your dream for my life?” I said dryly.
“Of course not, Do. You can do anything in the world you want. Books and art have always been your first loves. And I know how much you like teaching. However, in addition to knowing your life would be brainy, I also envisioned moments of glamour.” My mom was a voracious reader too—she practically ate books—but she had a soft spot for celebrity gossip. Daniel had made her a beautiful blue tweed suit one Hanukkah and sent flowers on her birthday, so she was a huge fan.
“Well, if that is the case—which I doubt—it won’t be with Daniel. He broke my heart, remember?”
“I’m sure it was all a misunderstanding,” my stepdad chimed in, having picked up another phone in the house. They used this impromptu, low-tech conference call feature often so that neither would miss a word.
“Hi, Dad,” I said. “And yes, it was. I thought he would stand by me no matter what, and instead he made me feel like an idiot right after I was publicly humiliated.”
“I’m sorry, Do. I didn’t mean to push,” my mom said. “It’s only that we really want you to be happy.”
“Forget Daniel because I could never be happy with him.”
“Okay, okay. We’re off to dinner. Love you,” Dad said.
“And Dodie, it’s really great that you’re starting a little library,” my mom said. “You’ve loved books so much since you were a baby. I think it’s a wonderful idea.”
“Thanks, Mom.”
I couldn’t help but feel unsettled after we talked. They meant well, but sometimes they still treated me like a little girl. The one who had quit horseback riding lessons after two stinky weeks and gymnastics after three when I hurdled into the vault instead of over it.
I gathered all the books into my arms, replacing them on the shelves. All except the book with the Berthe Morisot picture. The woman in the painting looked exhausted, her eyes half-closed. Not only with fatigue, I imagined, but also with joy. She was gingerly pulling down the lacy canopy hung over the crib to keep out the drafts. Lucky baby, I thought. Lucky mother.
It was going to be pretty challenging to become a mother at the r
ate I was going. I hadn’t felt like trusting anyone thanks to what had happened with Daniel.
After art school, I had worked in a gallery during the day and painted most nights and on weekends. As a reward for gofering for crazy bosses at a fashion glossy, my friend James got to attend tons of glamorous events in the evenings, and he brought me along on the rare occasions when he could pull me away from my paintbrushes and canvases.
At one of these shindigs, I was standing next to a rakishly handsome man at the buffet table. James was flirting with a male model nearby whose cheeks were so sunken he looked like he’d swallowed a vacuum cleaner. I was doing my own impression of a vacuum, hoovering these really delicious little morel mushroom and Idiazabal tarts with sprigs of tarragon and some microgreens with a hint of spiciness to them that was probably from . . . anyway, the man next to me was being interviewed, so I knew he was someone important, but of course I didn’t recognize him. I overheard him saying, “Well, I figured Daniel G had a little bit more of a stylish ring to it than Daniel Gargamel.”
His eyes smiled before his mouth. Of course I knew who Daniel G was. He had debuted his first couture collection when he was twenty-three and in the ten years since continued to prove how precocious and rare his taste was.
Our eyes connected. “Excuse me,” he said to his interviewer. “I have somewhere to be.”
I turned quickly away from him and stuffed another hors d’oeuvre in my mouth, half-afraid and half-hoping he was coming toward me. A moment later, a deep cinnamony cologne enveloped me, and I felt a tap on my shoulder. “Hello?” he said.
“Yes,” I croaked. The crinkly lines around his eyes suggested he could eat girls like me for breakfast—and probably did.
“I noticed you were interested in my interview.” It was not a question. Such staggering confidence was more intoxicating than the three glasses of cheap Pinot I’d had on an empty stomach. Empty before all the tarts, that is.
“I . . . um . . . I was just reflecting that you have it even worse than I do,” I blurted.
He raised one dark eyebrow in amusement. “Really? And how is that?” Daniel G probably wasn’t used to being told that he was less fortunate than anyone else.
The Lending Library Page 3
