by Laura Briggs
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, and events are a product of the author’s imagination. Any resemblance between characters and persons either living or dead is purely coincidental.
The Bronte Book Club for Hopeless Romantics
COPYRIGHT © 2017 by Laura Briggs
All rights reserved. No part of this book maybe used or reproduced without the author’s permission.
"So, can it be cured?" I asked Marty, hopefully, as I tucked my thumbs in the pockets of my jeans — fingers crossed on the outside, where he could see them. It couldn't hurt, letting him see I was eager.
Marty shook his head. "It depends, Paige," he said. "First we have to figure out what's wrong. And I'm afraid the diagnosis looks a little grim."
If we were talking about anything but my little Volkswagen Beetle, this might be a truly tragic conversation. But as it was, I still felt a surge of disappointment as I gazed dolefully at my poor little blue car practically on blocks in front of the library. Marty wiped his hands on a greasy rag and closed the hood of my car as if confirming his previous words.
If Lewis Cove's engineering genius didn't have an answer, then my summer vacation of sandy shores and paperback beach reads was probably doomed. I sighed.
Lewis Cove is fairly quiet in the summertime, as if the distant warm salt breeze and heat waves on the sand find their way across the miles to lull bright garden hibiscus blossoms into sleepiness, and lift ripples of heat from the old stone buildings and brick and mortar in the heart of the right-off-the-coast’s highway village. People buy popsicles from the modern Five and Dime in the old department store building, and an ice cream man makes the rounds in neighborhoods of old craftsman houses with painted sides and shingled rooftops, where kids play beneath water sprinklers.
But for me, the first three weeks of summer were really busy, thanks to the library's summer reading program, and the fact that we finally have funds to repair the leaky roof over the tower room. I had definitely been looking forward to getting away for a little peace this weekend, and for longer in the coming weeks. A chance to dive into a few delicious paperbacks while lounging on a beach towel ... before the mechanics of my little Beetle dashed my dreams, anyway.
I watched on the library steps as Marty drove away in his wrecker, pulling away my poor car. Then I reached for the handle of the old-fashioned door that would let me enter my workplace again.
Lewis Cove’s library isn’t an ordinary-looking one — in fact, most people mistake it for somebody’s elegant home, since not many towns have libraries in three-story Victorian houses with craftsman-style remodeled interior.
Her name — yes, I said 'her' — was Wilshire Manor before she became the Alice Wilshire Lending Library. There’s a mixture of styles and architectural eras crammed into three stories of faded pink Victorian splendor beneath white gingerbread trim. Its windows are stained glass and leaded panes, with gables that lend themselves to reading nooks and window seats — and there's even a turret room on the third floor.
Inside, high-ceilinged main floor and the rooms at the top of the grand walnut staircase, all remnants of the once-glorious days of the Wilshire family. For all the dark wood beams and intricately-carved fireplaces, for every stick of grand furniture left behind over the eras, however, there are three dozen more bookshelves to rival it. Some were left by the family; most were donated or bought over the years since this place has been a library since the 1960s. Bookshelves wrapped around the fireplace mirror, framing every window and window seat, filling every room with titles from thick coffee table-style photography books to musty travel volumes, to paperback classics and soft cover modern bestsellers.
Her nickname at the turn of the 20th century was the ‘Grand Dame of Gull Avenue', although every kid in town now simply calls it 'the pink house.' Even with a little paint peeling from its gingerbread trim, and the walls of its exterior faded to pale rose, it’s still a grand sight.
First story has everything from classics to children's books; second story is research books and hard-to-find volumes that are either rare or out of print. The third story is off limits, mostly storage and empty rooms, except for a small apartment (where I, the librarian, have a cozy spot all to myself). That's the biggest perk of being Lewis Cove's official librarian.
"Looks like you guys are going to be stuck with me for awhile," I said to Stacy as I closed the door behind me.
Stacy is the library's best employee. Well, our only employee, actually, besides myself, the librarian. It's not as if Alice Wilshire Library needs a staff on par with New York City's Metropolitan Library, even with our maintenance issues.
"Paige, what happened?"
"On-the-Go's finest mechanic has declared my car a door nail," I answered. "On par with Jacob Marley himself. So until further notice, I guess I'll be spending my vacation rounding up extra copies of Charlotte's Web and James and the Giant Peach." Like I said before, our summer reading program, the 'Explore Adventures through Books,’ was at its zenith, with one more week of kids logging stacks of adventure stories to earn prizes and candy.
"No striped bikini and daisy-print beach towels this weekend?" said Stacy, making a sad face. “And I was really looking forward to a little sun on the beach this weekend...with us maybe meeting a couple of cute guys at the volleyball net.”
“And I was looking forward to devouring the new Neil Gaiman novel in one sitting,” I sighed. I was saving my ‘guilty pleasure’ reads — a stash of Emmuska Orczy’s most melodramatic turn-of-the-previous-century titles — for my upcoming vacation.
Stacy shook her head. “You are the only person I know in this town whose beach fantasy involves more paper than it does sand.”
"True, true," I said. "Maybe it’s because volleyball wasn’t exactly my forte in college. Plus, I’m practically a redhead. Sun plus strawberry blond equals sunburn. And more freckles than I already have." I blew a stray curl out of my face, and adjusted my glasses as I checked the date on each book. “I’ll turn into Little Orphan Annie if I’m not careful.”
“You’re not a true redhead. And your freckles are noticeable only to you,” retorted Stacy. “And they’re not the reason you’re an unattached hermit who hasn’t had a date in ages. That’s purely personal choice, even with Lewis Cove’s small pond.” This time, Stacy sighed, in part for herself. Hopeless romantics who aren’t in relationships tend to see the whole world through the prism of ‘in love/not in love.’
“A pond is only small if you are a hungry fisherman.” I thought this sounded like something I’d read in a book on Asian wisdom...or was it on the slip of paper in my last fortune cookie?
“Have you had a date since college? Since taking this job? You did date when you were in college, right? Maybe we should establish that fact first.”
“Har, har,” I said. “I’ve had a date since then. Or two. Even in Lewis Cove.” Vague and nonchalant replies, I know...but it seemed appropriate, since those dates were fairly vague and nonchalant themselves.
“You’ll end up the town’s old maid librarian.”
“If I am, it’ll be because I was too busy to sit around waiting for Prince Charming,” I answered. “I won’t throw myself from the tower window like the hopeless old maids in Alhambra’s legend. I think I’ll just hang out with Romeo in the Romantic Classics stacks ... or maybe sit around in children’s lit.” I pictured myself ninety-five, a copy of Raggedy Ann open on my lap, a pair of triple-thick bifocals perched on my nose. I wouldn’t be the frowny-faced ‘shush or else’ little old librarian I remembered from my childhood — I’d build towers with the alphabet blocks, probably.
“You think Romeo has tha
t many years left in him?” Stacy’s eyebrow lifted. “He’s pretty ancient, Peg.”
“What’s this you speak of? Lewis Cove Library without Romeo? Never,” I said. “You’re going to live forever, aren’t you, Romeo?” I said, addressing him as he wobbled to his mat beside the circulating desk.
Romeo was the ancient official library cat who ‘came with the job’ as I was informed when I came here two years ago. Way past cat retirement age, he was a semi-surly, moth-eaten calico who mostly slept, except when it was mealtime. Right now, he was trying to lift one of his hind legs to bathe it, succeeding mostly in toppling on his side on the feather cushion I had given him.
“So what are you going to do about your vacation?” asked Stacy, taking us back to our original subject.
“I guess I’ll look on the bright side. For instance, autumn is a great time to get away from it all.”
“You do remember we have the Haunted Library this year?”
“Thanks for reminding me,” I said.
"Here comes something to help cheer you up," said Stacy, who had glanced through the window as she unwound the vacuum cleaner’s cord to start cleaning the Oriental carpet. "Looks like a double macchiato and a frappuccino from here.”
That could only mean Cameron McAllen was on his way over. He would have ditched his green and brown retail apron, which means his graphic tee of the day would be on full display. And, most likely, so was the five o’ clock shadow that seemed to never quite disappear no matter how many times he shaved.
The library’s entrance bell rang as the door opened, a colored carpet pattern of light traveling across our threadbare foyer rug as he crossed the threshold. In his hand, a cardboard coffee carrier from his coffee shop Hill o’ Beans on Main Street, just one block down from the library. Today’s t-shirt was an old Garfield one, probably from his high school days, since most of Garfield’s snarky message had peeled off the black fabric.
“Daily dose of caffeine, ladies,” he said, placing it on the reception desk. “On the house.”
“Free coffee?” Stacy said. She was already sidling towards the newly-arrived goodies.
“What’s the occasion?” I asked, raising one eyebrow. “Some beans going bad? A gross flavor nobody’ll buy?”
“What? No,” he protested. “I’m just being nice.”
“Free coffee, Peg,” said Stacy. “Let’s be reasonable here. Maybe he’s just being nice.”
“Is that really so hard to believe about me?” Cam asked.
I raised my eyebrow a little higher. I took a sip from one of the cups, with an air of skepticism — it melted away a few seconds later. Cam’s coffee had that effect on me, usually.
“This is pretty good,” I said. “Is that mint? Maybe some chocolate?”
“Yup,” said Cam.
“Mmm,” said Stacy, taking a sip of hers. “Cinnamon and cherry.”
“And as I recall...weren’t those your top December flavors?”
Cam looked slightly deflated. “Okay, maybe I had a little extra stock to unload —”
“But that doesn’t make them any less delicious,” supplied Stacy, who was more than happy for an excuse to avoid vacuuming our dusty carpets. She took another sip as she sat down on the green velvet horsehair sofa that had seen better days long ago.
“Here,” said Cam. “If it’ll make you feel better, I brought you these, too.” He tossed a pastry sack onto the circulation desk. “Not last year’s Christmas cookies, but some of my latest stuff. Enjoy.”
“Don’t tell me,” I said, hastily digging it open. “Coconut mango lime squares?”
“Proof that I’m not some cheap ogre,” he said. “Oh, and the little ones in there — they’re lemon custard drops, and I want an opinion on them. You know, keep ‘em or drop ‘em.”
“Keep.” I had already wolfed one down. Stacy smacked my hand away from the sack.
“Hey, slow down there, Little Pig Number Three,” she said. “Save one for your lowly employee, will you?”
“Saved you a coconut square,” I managed to mumble apologetically before I swallowed. “Cam, I must apologize for initially rejecting your defunct coffee flavors. Without a doubt, that is the best summer pastry I’ve ever eaten. I can’t detect the slightest evidence that you skimped on its flavors, either.”
“Oh, like he did those pumpkin cranberry clusters?” said Stacy.
“Hey, I was going for subtle on those,” protested Cam. “And seriously — when have I ever cut corners when it comes to flavors? Name one time. One.”
“True,” I grinned. “We’re teasing you.” Cam might be fierce about keeping his business in the red — I knew for a fact that his cupboards at home were stocked with discounted canned goods only — but he would never, ever cut corners when it came to his menu at Hill o’ Beans. If we weren’t good friends, he would take huge offense at even being teased over that issue.
“Still, the cranberry could have been just a little stronger in those clusters,” said Stacy.
“That’s it. I’m out of here,” said Cam. “Next time, no sweets on the house, just for that.”
“No, wait!” said Stacy. “Peg, apologize to him, quick!”
“I think it’s an idle threat,” I answered, crossing my arms. “Besides, Cam can tell when I’m lying. He’ll know that I’m apologizing just to kiss up, since I was obviously kidding him. My compliment to his lemon custard is proof.”
“Yeah, right. You’re a tough cookie, Paige Turner,” Cam said. “You and your little minion.” He pretended to glare at both of us. But I caught the hint of a smile before he disappeared outside again, the coffee carrier tucked under his arm.
“There goes your coffee privileges,” said Stacy. “No more free lattes or cappuccinos. He’ll make you pay your giant tab now. Cut off your chocolate cookie cherry drops.”
“We’ll see,” I answered, taking a sip from my coffee cup. “Now, we better get the rest of these kids’ books checked in and on the shelves before the next wave of kids arrives.”
I gathered up an armful of Doctor Seuss and headed for the children’s room, while Stacy sorted out the paperbacks from the pile. “At least the Hopeless Romantics won’t be disappointed tonight,” she called after me. “Don’t they meet on Friday evenings?”
“Seven o’ clock,” I answered, and prepared to clean up the war zone that today’s crowd of juvenile readers had left behind them, a sea of stuffed animals, alphabet blocks, and half-dressed Barbie dolls. Then we drew closed the library’s heavy damask drapes, turned out the upstairs lights, and the Lewis Cove Library was officially closed for the night.
***
The Bronte Book Club, or, as they were unofficially known, the Hopeless Romantics, had been meeting every Friday evening in the library’s sun room. Having made their way through Wuthering Heights, they were halfway through Jane Eyre. It was a motley crew of readers of varying ages, most of them having various reasons why their Friday nights were free for reading the classics ... hence the nickname Stacy had given them. Lovers of romance, each of them either lovelorn or alone.
As the librarian and a fan of the celebrated sister authors, I had been invited to participate, and not entirely for the sake of using the library after hours, I hoped. But as a single girl (and one hopelessly romantic when it came to loving books, anyway) I felt I fit in nicely with their group.
I turned on the powder room’s light, then grabbed a tin of butter cookies I had stashed in the closet under the stairs before I joined them in the sun room. With the tapestry-patterned drapes drawn, it looked like a tiny version of a medieval hall — except for the wing chairs and yarn pillows, of course.
“Sorry I’m late,” I said, opening the cookie tin on the side table. “Help yourselves, everybody.” C.J., the club’s youngest — and nerdiest — member, a graphic artist, eagerly dove for them, stopping only when he remembered he was sitting next to the club’s newest (and hottest) member, a girl named Llourdes.
Tonight's meeting covere
d our latest chapters read — Jane's wedding-that-wasn't, and the foreboding events leading up to it.
“So I don’t know about anybody else, but this is my favorite part,” said Annette. “From the first time I read it, I loved the gothic side of the story. Jane being haunted by Rochester’s wife...it was just as thrilling as anything in the movies.”
"Great modern gothic movies," said Sophy. "It's like they can make fear of love and human primal fear share the same symbolism, and, like, the same courage to face them. But while still scaring you."
“That's the old classic thrillers, yeah,” said Tim, with a chuckle. “I know what you mean. First time I saw The Uninvited on the late night movie program. Man, I was twenty, and it was just an old black and white movie, but I must’ve jumped two feet in that séance scene.” He scratched his chin beneath his salt and pepper beard shot through with gray, except where streaks of black mechanical grease dyed them accidentally.
“I love horror movies,” said C.J. His black ‘tech geek’ sneakers had little LED lights running across the laces, which lit up every time his feet moved. “But for me, it’s not about the spooky side, but the science behind it. The c.g. for those movies is amazing. I’m totally blown away by the graphics that make a ghost look real, or a disembodied hand come out of the darkness — or transforms some guy into a cloud of flies, for example —”
“Ew,” said Llourdes. “Flies?”
C.J. coughed. “Of course, I love chick flicks, too,” he said, recovering himself. “Like ... Ten Things I Hate About You?” He cleared his throat, and pushed his glasses up the bridge of his nose again.
Silence, except for a snort from Llourdes — and maybe an eye roll from Sophy, a college sophomore and artist whose t-shirt was emblazoned with some sort of fairy princess. Sophy was one of those girls who'd had a love affair with romantic fantasy fiction since she could first read a book, even while meshing it with girl power. Her school notebooks were probably decorated with cutouts from Labyrinth and The 10th Kingdom.
