She clinked glasses with me. “Me too.”
The other girls gathered around, wanting to get in on the toast. “Yeah, this place is going to be fantastic,” Geraldine said.
“Thanks. That means a lot to me coming from the two coolest librarians I know.”
Everyone burst out laughing.
“What?” I asked.
“I’ve never seen anyone smile so big!” Kendra giggled.
“Just wait until the opening!”
—FOUR—
December 2007
The lending library was my new crush. I thought about it when I was at school and when I was driving home. I basked in its presence. I kept imagining ways to make it happy or, rather, to make its visitors happy. I couldn’t wait to tell my older sister, Maddie, about it. But first, I was looking forward to a dose of vicarious dating.
Maddie made a bigger effort to meet new people than anyone I knew. She seemed to have some kind of male magnet that I wasn’t blessed with, so her efforts were always rewarded with attention. Unfortunately, her own attention span lasted about as long as a fruit fly’s.
She answered on the second ring. “Hey, princesspants.”
I grinned. “Hi, hot stuff.”
“What are you doing right now? I hear something going into the oven.”
“Are you a dog? What’s with the supersonic hearing?” I asked. “I’m making Yorkshire pudding.”
“What the hell is Yorkshire pudding?”
“It’s kind of like a popover—”
“Love those,” Maddie interrupted.
“—usually baked in the drippings of roast beef.”
“Ew, roast beast! But you don’t eat roast beast.”
“I know.”
“Um, Dodie, doesn’t that mean you’re making popovers?”
“Okay, yes, fine,” I harrumphed. “But I was reading Dickens, and he doesn’t call them that. He calls them Yorkshire puddings.” I wasn’t about to tell her that he also described them as blisterous. They really weren’t. Okay, well, maybe in shape they were, but as anyone who had ever eaten one knew, they were basically the perfect kind of bread. All crisp brown crust, just the tiniest hint of eggyness inside. When they came out of the oven, I would either butter them or use some Macon Farms cherry preserves or the last dregs of my Fauchon peach-vanilla jam. Or the almond cream Maddie had gotten me on sale at Dean & Deluca. Snapping back to it, I asked, “Where are you?”
“I’m at the gym working off my popovers of a different kind.”
“What are you doing?”
“On the treadmill.”
“Wow, you sound great,” I marveled.
“Thanks, Do. But don’t be impressed. I started three minutes ago, so I’m only going one and a half miles an hour at this point.”
“How’s your Dionysus?”
“Gorge. I sat and stared at his marvelous, endless eyes and dark, full lashes for two hours last night,” she said dreamily. “It distracted me from the blather coming out of his mouth.”
I snickered. “That’s a little creepy of you, though. I mean, is it obvious to him you just think he’s pretty? Wasn’t he weirded out by all that staring?”
“Nope. He kept saying, ‘My eyelashes are beautiful, no? Keep looking at me; I think that makes them grow.’”
I rolled my eyes and laughed. “I can see why you wanted to tune him out then.”
“Yeah. That’s why he’s Mr. Right Now. Enough about him. Mom told me you’re starting a library?”
“I’m really excited about it. You know that little corner in our attic with the squishy chair where I always used to read? I set up a corner like that in the library here. And I’ve been cutting up the art from old calendars and turning them into bookmarks so I can write a little note telling people why I chose that book for them. Remember the back sunroom? That’s where I put it. It’s such a great, sunny space, and the trees all around make it feel homey and cozy too.”
“It sounds awesome. I can’t wait to see it when I’m there. Listen, I’d better kick it up a notch. Blasting up to three miles an hour! Enjoy the dickens out of those popovers.” She laughed.
I rolled my eyes again. “Thanks. Enjoy the workout.”
“If you say so. And hey, I’ll see you next weekend.”
“I know! Excited to celebrate your birthday!”
“It’s really coming along, isn’t it?” I said to Geraldine.
The smell of books was already filling the air. They neatly lined the shelves except for the decorated bins I’d put out with picture books for the kids to rifle through, one low corner bookcase that had a squishy chair shoved in next to it, and a stack of random books on top of it meant to entice people who didn’t know what they were looking for. I would keep refreshing it with totally unrelated books—some delicious beach reads by Sophie Kinsella or Hester Browne or Zane, some Nicholas Sparks tearjerkers, some award-winning new literary fiction, some scandalous memoirs. The rest of the books in the library were divided into fiction, narrative nonfiction, and illustrated books arranged in alphabetical order. People could find their way to the books they loved, and the hunt would be fun.
“Definitely getting there. But it still needs something,” Geraldine said, her hand on her hip, her head cocked as she scrutinized one side of the room.
“Well, I want to leave the bulletin board blank for now so the kids can fill it up with requests and drawings and stuff.” The thought made me smile. A wooden credenza I’d gotten at an auction and moved around my house aimlessly for the past three months had finally found its true home beneath the bulletin board. On top of it, I’d placed a little basket labeled COMMENT CARDS with a stack of them to write on and slip into the envelope, inviting COMMENTS, THOUGHTS, BOOK WISH LISTS for the bulletin board. A handful of pencils sat in a colorful Italian tomato can. There were also a pad of construction paper and two boxes of crayons.
“No, that’s not it.” Geraldine was shaking her head. She was trying not to smile or to glance at the door into my house, which, I now realized, Kendra had disappeared through a while ago.
A moment later, she returned, gingerly carrying something in her arms.
Oh no. Was that . . . had she . . . ?
“This is what’s missing!” Kendra announced, as though she was continuing the conversation Geraldine and I were having.
Even seeing the wood frame on the back of the canvas made the corners of my mouth pull down. Then Kendra turned the canvas around. I clenched my fists hard.
“Yes!” Geraldine clapped. “It’s perfect!”
There, staring me in the face, was one of my paintings—two mermaid sisters holding hands, one with red-gold hair, one with honey-gold hair, their tresses trailing, their eyes starry as though lit from within. I sat down heavily in a child-size chair, feeling it creak under me. My knees were shaking; I crossed my arms over them so Geraldine and Kendra wouldn’t notice.
But of course they did. Kendra had seen my artwork previously—by accident when we went up to my attic to pull down a box of books and she remarked upon the row after row of canvases turned away to face the rafters—and I had shared the story of my spectacular failure as an artist with her.