One of my favorite writers of all time is the author Marie Beauchamp. A Frenchwoman who moved to the States in the 70s, settled in as a professor at a liberal arts college in the Northeast, and wrote some of the greatest literary masterpieces in English (in my opinion, anyway). I guess she’s not very well-known, although some of her works have been pulled out from her publishing company’s stacks and reprinted by the New York Book Consortium. That gave her a bit of a wider release, though I think she’s still largely ignored. Beauchamp recently passed away and with her death came the trickles of interesting information that a bookworm like myself can’t help but eat up.
You see, Beauchamp serialized a novella in a literary journal in the 70s that has been since lost to time. It was a small journal and no copy of it exists anymore. Oh, perhaps somebody has the magazines stuffed away somewhere, rotting in their basement, but because of its very limited release all those decades ago, not even libraries have it in their collections.
That is until Beauchamp passed.
In her will, Marie Beauchamp bequeathed a copy of this novella, called The Parisian in America, to the university that gave her her start as a teacher before she moved on to the Northeast. That university was the University of Chicago, in my own hometown of Chicago. Once I heard the news I just about collapsed. I had to go to the university library and read it. One of the stipulations of her donation was that the novella could not be released to general public or republished in anyway until 30 years after her death. This was to ensure that the library at the University of Chicago would have a draw of visitors to read the novella at the library itself, under librarian supervision of course. A librarian would watch you read the novella so that you wouldn’t be tempted to make a copy of it and thus take Beauchamp’s novella outside of the library walls.
If we’re being honest, this particular policy was aimed at super-fans and completists like me. If I was able to go to the library, check out the novella by myself for use in the library only, you can bet your ass that I’d scurry over to the copy machine and make my own private copy. I mean, I wouldn’t share it with anyone or let it get out into the wild. I’d just keep it for myself at home, in my own collection. But under the watch of a stern librarian, this desire could never become a reality for me. I would only be able to read the novella at the library. I suppose I could handle that.
*
I wasted no time in making my trip to the university library after I read about the news online. Dressed in my thick winter tights, my furry snow boots, a big and well-insulated wool coat, and my hat, I made the trek by the train down from the city to Hyde Park to visit the library and read this story by one of my favorite authors. It was a beautiful snowy winter day in January, the snow freshly fallen and fluffy, and it really wasn’t all that cold for a Chicago winter. It was nice to commute in the late morning, with all the normal commuters already at work. One of the benefits of working from home for myself as a video transcriber. I got to make my own hours.
I pushed through the front door of the library and smiled to myself, quickly removing my gloves and stuffing them into my pockets. The library was beautiful. Harper Memorial Library. It was something straight out of Hogwarts, at risk of showing my nerdiness. Gothic architecture, huge ceilings, amazingly large windows. As I looked around, I mused to myself that it was simply a travesty that I didn’t make it down to Hyde Park more often to frequent the library. It was magnificent. I felt like I could almost cry it was such a sight.
Breaking from my geeky reverie, I meandered up to the information desk and waited for a crotchety-looking man to finish what he was doing on the computer screen in front of him. After a moment, he looked up and noticed me.
“Can I help you?” he asked in a droll voice.
“Yes,” I said eagerly. “I’m here to read the novella A Parisian in America by Marie Beauchamp that was recently released to the library.”
“Huh?” he said, furrowing an eyebrow and looking me over. “Oh yes,” he intoned, my request sparking something in his memory. “Go to the other side of the library. You’ll see another information desk. There’s a librarian there, Esme Strong, who can help you with your special collections request.”
“Thank you!” I beamed, swiftly turning from him and scooting my boots across the tightly woven carpet below. My heart raced with excitement, my usually pale face rosy from the cold outside.
As I approached the second information desk, as the old librarian up front had instructed, I slowly pulled my winter cap off and stared in a dumbstruck wonderment. Sitting behind the desk was one of the most beautiful women I’d ever seen. She had curled and twisted deep red hair, quite natural in color, twirled around and held up in back by a bun. Dark black plastic eyeglasses rested on her nose. Her face was pale like mine, though lightly speckled with vague freckles under her eyes. This woman was lithe and fair, delicate in her mannerisms, with lips colored a deep red and pursed tightly as she deliberated over whatever paperwork was laid before her on her desk. I could tell she was older than me, but how much older I could not say. For a moment, I completely forgot why I was there as I admired this fresh-looking beauty of a woman.
“Excuse me,” I said to her, feeling totally embarrassed. I pushed my hand through my slightly messy brown locks, fluffing them out and trying to look presentable to this total knockout sitting in front of me. She was even more beautiful up close. She wore a tight white button-down shirt with the top few buttons undone, showing off her ample cleavage. I even spotted some light freckles on top of her chest before she looked up at me and smiled. Her green eyes peered at me over top her black frames. She was playful and happy.
“Good morning,” she said. “How can I help you?”
“I’m looking for a special collections librarian,” I said. “Esme Strong.”
“You’re talking to her,” said Esme with a joyful grin. “What can I do for you today?”
“Oh,” I said softly, still taking her in. What a perfect turn of events. How lucky was I that this gorgeous woman would be the one who was to help me find the novella. My heart fluttered with a hint of nervousness, trying not to say something silly or stutter or otherwise make a fool of myself in front of Esme.
“Yes?” she said, nodding at me, still smiling patiently as I tried to find my words.
“I’m sorry,” I said, giving myself a light smack on the cheek. “I’m here looking for a novella,” I went on. “Um, A Parisian in America by Marie Beauchamp,” I said, watching Esme as she watched me. “I heard it was recently released and only available here.”
“You heard correctly,” said Esme. “It’s a wonderful story.”
“You’ve read it?” I asked with pleasant surprise, quickly feeling embarrassed by my eagerness.
“Of course,” said Esme. “Beauchamp is one of my favorite authors.”
“I love her,” I said. “I’ve read everything she ever wrote. Well, apart from this novella,” I said. “I’m so excited to finally read it.”
“What’s your name?” asked Esme, pulling her glasses off her face and setting them down in front of her. A hint of fire danced in her eyes, a keenness, an alertness.
“Me?” I said. “My name’s Amelia.” Esme stuck her slender hand out to me and I took it almost automatically, the two of us gently shaking.
“Esme,” she said. “It’s lovely to meet another Beauchamp fan. Honestly, I don’t meet very many,” she said with a soft laugh.
“I feel like she’s a writer I can truly relate to,” I said, looking down slightly, feeling a bit awkward. “Her themes really resonate with me.”
“Sometimes it’s difficult being…” said Esme, mulling it over, looking off slightly as she searched for her words. “Who we are,” she said finally, giving me a knowing smile. “I mean, in Beauchamp’s time it was even more so. We’re very fortunate today.”
“Yes,” I admitted, flattening my lips and bowing my head. I could tell Esme knew what really drew me to Marie Beauchamp. I could tell she
knew who I was just by finding out how much I loved this author. And I could tell that she was admitting to me that she felt the same way.
“So if you’re unaware,” continued Esme, her face bright as she looked up at me from behind the desk. “You may only read the story here in the library under librarian supervision,” she said. “The story cannot leave the building.”
“I understand,” I said.
“It was Marie Beauchamp’s wishes,” said Esme. “It cannot be republished until 30 years after her death.”
“That’s what I read,” I said. Even though I knew what Esme was telling me, I have to admit that my mind still tried to figure out ways to get the story out of the library. Perhaps I could bring a blind person into the library under the guise that I was going to read them the story, all while secretly recording my voice on my phone as I read. Or I could wear some sort of trick glasses that had a built-in camera, snapping pictures as I turned each page. I knew these thoughts were wrong, and I hadn’t even read the story yet, but I knew I wanted it for my own personal collection.
“How old are you?” asked Esme suddenly, lifting a brow, her face serious yet impish. It was certainly a strange question to ask and caught me a little off guard.
“Me?” I said. “I’m 24. How old are you?” I said and then quickly regretted it. What a strange conversation to be having with a librarian. But, hell, she started it.
“Hmm,” said Esme, brushing her hand over the paper on her desk as though the question didn’t make sense to her. She pursed her lips and scribbled a little something on the paperwork with a pen. “I’m a bit older than you,” she said after a moment.
“Okay,” I said. “Well, you don’t look much older.” She laughed gently to herself, dropped the pen, and looked up to me.
“I’m 37,” she said. While it took me a moment to realize what was going on, it soon became apparent as I watched Esme’s face. This librarian was flirting with me.
“You don’t look 37,” I said, reiterating my compliment. “30 maybe,” I said.
“You’re very sweet, Amelia,” she said, her lips curling into a devilish smile. “You’re going to love the novella,” she said, bringing our conversation back to my reason for being there. “It’s very much a Beauchamp story.”
“So how do we do this?” I asked. “I’m so excited to read it.” Esme pushed herself back from her desk and stood up, showing off that she was wearing a thin black pencil skirt and black tights to go along with her slim-fitted white button-down. She fiddled slightly with the two chopsticks pushed through her hair bun and smiled at me.
“Follow me,” she said.
*
Sitting at the desk in a small, private reading room, I turned to the last page of the novella, my eyes glued to the pages. Esme sat across from me in the corner, perfect posture in her seat as she delicately filed her nails without making a sound. Looking up from the story for a moment, my eyes met with Esme’s and she gave me a gentle smile, pushing her black glasses up her nose before she returned to her filing. I returned to reading but felt a little uneasy, a little flustered, a little excited that Esme and I were so close together in this small room.
As I finished the last page in the novella, I smiled happily and closed the binder that housed the story. I looked up to Esme and she furrowed her brow questioningly.
“Finished?” she asked.
“Mm hmm,” I said. “It really was spectacular. I’m just amazed that it was never republished before her death.”
“I believe the journal it was originally published in held the rights,” said Esme. “But then they went under in the late 70s and it was just a strange legal mishmash. Thankfully we get to read it now,” she said with a smile.
“I don’t think this will be the last time I come in to read it,” I said. “I’ll have to think it over for a bit and then come in for a reread. So many questions in my mind.”
“We could talk about it sometime,” said Esme. “I’ve read it about a dozen times already so I could help you work through any questions you have.”
“Oh,” I said, feeling that familiar sense of embarrassment rear its ugly head, the increasing palpitations of my heart, a little bit of sweat accumulating on my hands. “That would be cool,” I said finally, a tender smile washing over my face.
“What did you think about the encounter with her professor?” asked Esme. “Do you think that the professor was being… “ she said, pushing one lip over the other in thought. “Hmm, predatory?” she said. “Or do you think the advance was welcomed?”
“I don’t know,” I said. “That was one of the bits that was confusing. Purposefully so, I imagine.”
“Right,” said Esme. “You’re very sharp.”
“Thanks,” I said, slightly blushing.
“Do you live in the city?” asked Esme, relaxing into her chair, crossing one stockinged leg over the other.
“Yeah,” I said. “I live in Logan Square.”
“Me too,” said Esme with a coy grin.
“You do?” I asked. “Really? Wow, that’s a coincidence.”
“I live in one of the old mansions off the boulevard,” she said. “The house has been partitioned off into condos. I really love the vintage charm of it.”
“I’m by the square,” I said. “Just off of Milwaukee. Not in an old mansion, though,” I said with a nervous laugh.
“You should totally come over sometime,” said Esme. “I have a first edition of Beauchamp’s The Flesh Tribunal,” she said. “It’s a really cool old book.”
“Wow!” I exclaimed. “I would love to see that. But I can’t promise I won’t try to steal it.”
“I won’t let it out of my sight,” said Esme, laughing softly. “Much like that binder in front of you.”
“What binder?” I said, casually but quite obviously slipping the binder with Beauchamp’s novella down under the desk and into my lap.
“You’re funny, Amelia,” said Esme, wagging her finger. “If that story leaves this library under my watch, the university will give me the ol’ heave ho!”
“Aw, okay,” I said, bringing the binder back up and replacing it on the desk. “It was worth a shot.”
“Listen,” said Esme, straightening up, pushing her knees together and placing her hands on top of them. “Why don’t you come over tonight for a glass of wine?” she said. “It’s rare that I meet someone who has similar tastes in literature as me and I have some books that I could turn you on to.”
“Oh,” I said, confused and anxious, yet eager for Esme’s invitation. I felt so mousy next to her. She was a total redhead bombshell. Trim, yet busty, well-manicured, a lissome body and a pretty face with slight features. “I mean, that sounds great,” I said. “I’d really love to talk about books more with you.”
“Terrific,” said Esme. “Pop out your phone.”
“Okay,” I said, reaching down into my bag and taking out my phone. Esme began to give me her phone number.
“Now text me,” she said, after I’d completed creating a contact for her. “Once I get back to my desk, I’ll text you my address.
“All right,” I said, tapping into a text message ‘Hi, this is Amelia’ and sending it to her. “Sent,” I said.
“Splendid,” she said, standing up and stepping toward my desk. Reaching down, Esme took the binder from in front of me and slipped it under her arm. “Do you want to say 8PM?”
“That works,” I said.
“A little bit of wine,” said Esme, bobbing her head along with her voice. “A little bit of literature. It’ll be fun.”
“Great,” I said with a smile. “I’ll be there.”
“See you soon, Amelia,” said Esme, winking at me as she opened the door to the reading room. Her lovely alabaster face offered me a joyful smile as she slipped out of the room, closing the door behind her.
Sighing happily, I slid down in the chair where I sat and folded my hands across my lap. I didn’t know what to expect for our little date this
evening but I was excited nonetheless. Would it be just a friend thing? Just a little evening discussing books? Or would it be more? Esme’s beauty intoxicated me in a way I’d never felt before. She was mature, yet young and playful. She was older, yet slim and fit. And although she had the look of a stern librarian, she was happy and excited. I wanted to be sure to give off the right impression.
I was certainly interested.
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DORMITORY DEAREST
“OKAY,” SHE said, like she was preparing for some task. “Get up here.” She motioned to my legs, indicating I should sit crosslegged like her on the couch. I followed her instructions and the two of us positioned ourselves to face each other.
“All right,” I said, breathing deeply, feeling my nerves buzz. I was preparing myself for anything, which was a difficult task for me.
“Look at me,” said Hosannah tenderly. Our gazes met and I tried to follow along as her blue eyes shifted ever so slightly back and forth.
“Okay,” I said in a subtle murmur.
Without saying another word, Hosannah slowly leaned her face in closer to me, causing my heart rate to speed and my arms to shake just slightly. As she moved toward me, I watched as her eyes closed and I followed her lead, closing my own eyes. Before I could even allow my brain to process much more information, I felt Hosannah’s lips touch mine, her plastic glasses bump lightly against my nose, instigating a delicate and gentle kiss. She placed her palm on my leg and leaned into me, releasing a low sigh, her lips wetly smacking against mine in an amorous collision. Although I had actually kissed someone else before, a boy, when I was younger, this kiss with Hosannah, sitting there on my dorm room couch, felt like my very first real kiss. It felt passionate and right.
I moaned just so as I quickly learned from Hosannah, tilting my head to one side just as she did, focusing on feeling her lips coalesce with my own. Her hand felt heavy and pressured on my leg, in a comforting way, and although my anxiety was running wild it all felt like some necessary release, some detonation of pent up doubt. As I kissed Hosannah, I could feel pleasure and happiness welling up in my heart.
Please Professor I Need An A: A Lesbian Romance Short Story Page 6
