by Jo Watson
“Does he look how you imagined?” It was the first thing Mike had said to me since climbing into the car.
“No, not at all. I imagined him differently.”
“Different how?” he asked.
“Less smiley, more smoldery, I guess.”
“Smoldery?” He turned and half-looked at me.
“He has laughing eyes, in this picture. I don’t know. I was imagining someone with more piercing, bedroomy, look-into-your-soul eyes.”
“Seriously, who has eyes like that?” he asked, a faint hint of amusement in his tone. Ever so faint, though.
“You do,” I said impulsively, without thinking.
Suddenly, with just those words, the atmosphere between us changed; it became prickly and awkward. I regretted saying it, since he’d made his feelings for me so clear. What had he said, exactly? Maybe I needed to remind myself. Nothing had been real, because I had been lying to him.
“Sorry,” I muttered. “I didn’t mean to say that. I know we’re trying not to say things like that to each other—well, at least, you’re trying not to say things like that to me . . . Not that you are, I guess. But . . .” I stopped rambling. “I don’t know what I’m saying,” I blurted, and then shrugged.
There was a pause, a lull in the conversation, as if there was a giant gaping hole in front of us and we were both standing on the edge, looking into it, trying to figure out how to fill it. I kept my mouth closed. I wasn’t going to fill it with another mindless stream of words.
“You’re making this so hard, Becca,” he finally said, tossing at least one thing into the hole. But it was still completely empty; those words hadn’t even made a dent in the abyss.
“What am I making hard?” I asked.
“This. Us.”
“I thought there wasn’t an us,” I said snappily, before I could stop myself.
“There isn’t,” he said softly, “but, down in the room, when we lay there, I don’t know, I felt . . .” He trailed off.
“Me too,” I said.
Another pause. I could hear my heart beating and I wondered if he could, too, it was so loud. That’s how loud it felt, anyway.
“Let’s just drop this, shall we?” His voice also had a snap in it.
“Fine.” I gently put the painting on the back seat and crossed my arms over my body. “Let’s drop it,” I agreed, as we pulled into a parking place in front of the library. It was painfully clear to me that, whatever we had once shared, no matter how fleeting, it was so over. I should just pack away any feelings and any hope I was holding on to at this point.
The library was just as you would imagine a little town library to be. It was a small room, crammed with shelves full of well-used books. The shelves were overflowing, in parts, and little towers of books had sprung up all over the floor. The smell was distinct, too—musky and old. To be honest, I hadn’t set foot in a library in years—a fact I should probably have been ashamed of, as a writer. In the middle of the floor stood an old, rickety-looking table and chairs, and, in the far corner, the counter, where an older woman was sitting. She looked up and I recognized her immediately.
“Mrs. Devereux,” I said, smiling at the old woman.
She looked over at us and immediately stood up. “My, my! And what brings you here?” She walked over to the two of us and put her hands on her hips.
“Mrs. Devereux,” Mike said, sounding formal.
“I didn’t know you worked . . . here?” I said, without thinking.
“Why, just because I’m over ninety, I shouldn’t be useful?” she asked.
“Sorry, I didn’t mean that,” I said quickly.
“I brought Becca here; she was looking for a book. Maybe you can help?” Mike jumped right into it, no small talk, and he said it defensively, as if he was making sure that she knew he had brought me here for business, nothing else.
“What are you looking for?” she asked.
“Pride and Prejudice,” he blurted out.
“Last shelf, there, under Classics.” She pointed to the other side of the room.
Suddenly, the door opened with a loud ring and three older ladies walked in. Mrs. Devereux’s demeanor quickly changed and she became very stiff.
“You’ll have to excuse me,” she said, and then hurried off to the group of women, who were now lurking suspiciously around the counter. I watched for a while as some hushed whispers were exchanged. They all looked up at us and then looked back down again. Odd. I glanced at Mike to see if he’d noticed it, too, this strange exchange that was happening right in front of us.
“What do you think is going on there?” I whispered to him.
“I have no idea.” Mike turned his back to them and walked to the last shelf. We found four copies of Pride and Prejudice and immediately started flipping through them. But, as suspected, there were no letters inside any of them.
I looked at Mike and he shrugged. He seemed thoughtful for a few moments and then spoke: “Well, it’s exactly as we thought.”
“It was worth a try, though, I guess.”
Mike pulled a few more books off the shelf and then ran his hand over the wooden shelf panel.
I folded my arms. I wasn’t expecting him to find some secret, hidden compartment or—
“I don’t believe it,” Mike said, his eyes going wide.
“What?” I asked.
“Look.” Mike pulled, and a piece of wood moved.
“Oh my God! A secret compartment. What are the chan—? Oh,” I said, when I rushed over and looked at it. It wasn’t a secret compartment at all; the shelf was just so old that parts of it were falling off. I looked through the hole that had been created and I could see all the way to the other side of the library, to where Mrs. Devereux was. “What the . . . ?” I leaned in and looked closer. She was surrounded by a new group of women, now, and they were definitely up to something.
“What the hell?” Mike whispered, as he also watched.
“What are they doing?” I asked. “It looks completely clandestine and—look, another group of women are coming through the door. Since when is a library this busy?”
We watched in fascination as more woman came; they handed their books to Mrs. Devereux, who quickly took them out of the covers, and then, as fast as lightning, she slipped other books into the same covers and passed them back to the women.
I looked at Mike in utter confusion. What the hell could be going on there?
“Let’s investigate,” Mike said. He walked around the shelf and started striding across the library, back towards the counter. Everyone at the counter suddenly turned, and then, as quickly and quietly as they had all appeared, they dispersed. Some headed for the door, others ducked between nearby shelves, and another one scuttled out the back door, marked Exit.
The closer Mike got to the desk, the stiffer Mrs. Devereux became. She met Mike’s eyes and smiled, pushing a book across the counter, as if hoping Mike wouldn’t see it. He had. He reached out and placed his hand over hers, stopping her. Her smile faltered as Mike picked the book up. He looked at her and raised his eyebrow, as if asking her a question. At that, her demeanor changed again. Her shoulders slumped and she raised her hands in the air in resignation.
“Oh, well. What can I say? You’ve caught us,” she said, and sat back down on the chair behind the counter.
“Caught you?” I asked, peering at the book in Mike’s hands. On the surface, it was Black Beauty, but when Mike slipped the cover off . . .
“Claimed Under the Full Moon: A Werewolf Erotica Collection,” Mike read, slowly.
“A what?” I gasped and reached for the book. Turning it over in my hands, I read the back out loud. “When Sasha goes for a jog in the park, late at night, the last thing she expects is to have all her wildest fantasies fulfilled by a sexy, shape-shifting werewolf . . . A what?!” I burst out laughing and turned the book back over in my hands, looking at the male torso on the front cover. I glanced up at Mrs. Devereux and she shrugged again.
I picked up another book from the counter and slipped its fake cover off. I immediately laughed when I saw it: Merman Ménage: Get Slippery. On the cover was a sexy merman, draped over a rock, holding what looked like a nubile virgin in his arms.
Mike shook his head and then turned back to Mrs. Devereux.
“You know, just because we’re old, doesn’t mean we stop liking sex!” she said, and it looked like Mike’s jaw was about to fall open.
I laughed even louder. “I get that,” I said, “but can’t you be into normal things? Not . . .” I turned the book over in my hands and read again. “Six steamy paranormal romances, featuring a merman ménage and a sexy, underwater, reverse harem!” I shook my head. “What the hell is a reverse harem?”
Mrs. Devereux blushed. “I guess, after that Fifty Shades, we were all looking for something a little . . . wilder.”
“So Fifty Shades was the gateway drug to this !” I looked at Mike and he face-palmed.
“I’ve discovered an underground porn ring being run by my ex elementary-school teacher.” He sounded amused. “And to think I was embarrassed to buy a box of condoms in front of you!”
Mrs. Devereux smiled. “Do you really think I didn’t know what you two were doing, red lipstick smeared all over your necks like scarlet letters?” she said.
“Oh,” I mumbled.
She gave us both a knowing look and then casually took the other books out from behind the counter and started putting them into their fake covers, ready for collection.
Mike turned and looked at the women who were starting to emerge from behind the shelves. He waved at one of them. “Mrs. Christianson . . .” He waved at another one. “Mrs. Edwards. Hope you’re having a nice day.”
They smiled back at him and then both of them darted for the door.
“So, does everyone in town read these books?” Mike asked.
“Well, none of us know how to use the bloody Google, so we can’t do those Kindle things. Besides, those are terrible for your eyes, especially if you wear bifocals.”
And now I was in stitches. This was possibly the greatest thing I’d heard in ages, and Willow Bay was probably the strangest town I’d ever set foot in.
“So, if none of you know how to use ‘the bloody Google,’ how are you getting all these?” he asked.
She averted her gaze, looking sheepish. “You’ll have to ask Emelia about that.”
“Emelia? My Emelia? As in, Ash’s Emelia?” Mike asked.
“My lips are sealed.” Mrs. Devereux put her finger over her lips.
Suddenly, the door tinkled again. We all turned and an older woman walked in. She looked at Mike and then quickly closed the door and hurried off again.
“That’s Violet Masters. She likes Mafia,” Mrs. Devereux commented.
“Mafia?” Mike asked.
At that, she pushed over what had once been a Jodi Picoult, in its past life. Mike removed the cover and we both looked down at the book.
“Captured and Bound by the Bad Mafia Boss,” Mike read out, and then paused. “Wow. Just . . . wow. I’m not sure I have words for this.”
“It’s an acquired taste,” Mrs. Devereux said.
“And who around here is into law enforcement? Like, Cuffed by the Cute Cop ?” I teased, playfully.
Mrs. Devereux leaned across the table and smiled conspiratorially. “I think you’ll find that, around here, they’re all into that, dear.”
“Okay! Enough! Enough!” Mike threw his hands in the air. “Here, take your . . . your . . . uh . . .” He struggled to find the words.
“Erotic literature?” she offered up.
“I was going to say ‘porn,’ but, sure, erotic literature it is, then.” He handed her the book and she took it from him.
“And you?” Mrs. Devereux turned her attention to me. “What are you into, dear?”
“Oh God,” Mike mumbled, under his breath.
“Uh . . . Well, I don’t know, actually,” I said. “What would you recommend?”
She looked me up and down for a few moments and then clicked her fingers together. “I think I have an idea.” She bent down and disappeared behind the counter, only to emerge with a book. “What about this, dear?”
She passed it to me and I took its fake cover off. I suspected that Donna Tartt would be utterly appalled if she could see what secret this Secret History was hiding.
“Bedded by my Handsome Brontosaurus,” I read, and, had I had coffee in my mouth, I would have spat it out. I turned the book over in my hands and gaped at the copy on the back: Tiffany is a time-traveling paleontologist, but, when she goes back to the Cretaceous period, she gets more than just a crush when she falls for a handsome Brontosaurus.
“Dinosaur erotica is very popular here. It must be the sea air,” Mrs. Devereux said.
“Okay, I’ve heard enough for one day.” Mike took me by the arm and pulled me towards the exit. “In fact, I think I’ve heard enough for an entire lifetime; I’m just going to pretend that none of this happened. Thanks, Mrs. Devereux. Bye!”
“Wait!” she called after us, and we stopped. “Did you find Pride and Prejudice ?” she asked.
We both turned and then shook our heads.
“I was sure there was a copy, here; it was your grandmother’s favorite book, you know.”
At that, Mike and I clocked each other, as if both coming up with the same idea at the exact same time. We headed back to the counter.
CHAPTER 59
“How long were you and my grandmother friends for?” Mike asked Mrs. Devereux.
“About as long as I can remember,” she replied. “We used to play together as children and teenagers—our parents were long-time friends—and then we got very close again a little later in life, just after she got married.”
I could see Mike’s mind ticking away, as if he’d heard something in that statement that I hadn’t.
“So, you were friends when you were kids and teenagers, and then only after she got married. What about just before she got married? Say, around age twenty, twenty-one? Were you not friends then?”
Damn! He’d asked the right question, because Mrs. Devereux looked like she was squirming.
“Well, I guess you change in your early twenties, and then . . . I guess, after marriage, our interests sort of aligned again, you could say.” Her voice sounded shaky.
“So, what interests of hers didn’t align with yours when you were both in your early twenties?” he asked.
God, he was good. If I were a real criminal, I’d be scared of him.
She looked at us for the longest time, from me to Mike and then back again, as if she was trying to decide whether to tell us something or not. She exhaled slowly and then spoke again. “How much do you know about your grandmother’s life?” she asked quietly, not making eye contact this time, but looking away, as if ashamed of something.
“We know enough to know she was in love with someone that ‘she shouldn’t have been in love with.’ ” He used air quotes—usually, not my favorite things—but, with his tone, his stance, the way he was using them all firmly and sarcastically . . . God, he was hot.
Mrs. Devereux cleared her throat and looked around the library, as if this was a great secret. “She was,” she said softly.
“And you didn’t approve?” Mike asked. God, that was a loaded question, and I doubted the answer to it was going to be good.
I leaned in a little and waited for her response; it took her a long time to talk again.
“I’m ashamed to admit it, now, but, at the time . . .” She paused, rubbed her finger and thumb together nervously, her eyes flicking from side to side. “I . . . I didn’t approve of her relationship. But, back then, you must understand, it was a totally different world, a totally different country—and it was the law. There is no good excuse, I guess, but we were taught to believe certain things, back then—terrible things, which today I don’t believe in. But I suppose I was influenced by other people’s feelings and ideas. I was y
oung. But, when I was older and made up my own mind . . . Well, it was too late then, I guess.” She sighed loudly and looked somewhat defeated as she tapped her fingers on the counter, as if she didn’t know what to do with her nervous hands. “It’s something I still deeply regret.” Her shoulders slumped, as if a lifetime of guilt and shame and remorse were pushing down on them. “I wasn’t very supportive of her when she needed me the most, and I regret that.”
I reached out and grabbed the old lady’s hand; I could see the tears welling up in her eyes now.
She shook her head. “Thinking back, now, on how things used to be in this country, thinking back to how we all let it happen, when we should have known better, I feel quite sick about it.”
“We all do,” I said. “It was unforgivable. It left such deep scars and I don’t think those wounds have healed yet. I don’t know that they ever really will. Perhaps some injuries are too severe to recover from fully.”
“Did she ever talk to you about her relationship?” Mike asked.
She shook her head. “No. I never even saw him,” she said.
At that, a thought entered my head. “Come,” I said to her.
“Where?” she asked.
“Can you come outside for one minute? I’m sure the amorous ladies can take care of themselves for a moment. I’d like you to meet him,” I said to her, moving towards the door.
“He’s . . . he’s . . .” she stuttered, holding the picture in her hands. We were all standing in the parking lot, looking at it. The moment was so hard to describe, emotionally. “He’s very handsome,” Mrs. Devereux finally managed.
“He is,” I said.
“He looks happy.” She stroked the canvas.
“I think they were very happy together,” Mike said, towering behind us, looking over our shoulders. “For a short while, anyway.”
She turned and looked at us. “That’s more than most people can say.”
“Is there anything you can tell us about the relationship? We’re trying to learn as much as possible about it.”
