“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 rate 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.”