Chapter 41 Curator
Curator
Kate Shaw
Today comes a new contributor to Birdie’s puzzle: Doctor Theresa Cotton, the expert in Gaelic and the curator from the Rare Book School.
“Why did she volunteer?” I ask again, worried.
“She wants to be part of this discovery.”
“But she understands Birdie’s things belong to Baines Creek.”
“Of course. The joy of assessing rare books isn’t to possess them. It’s to bear witness to history and to understand it.”
But I worry that this expert will exert pressure to steal Birdie’s legacy.
That she will manipulate me into a decision I’ll regret.
But she has to get here first, and on this first Monday in July, Mother Nature has thrown a wrench in Dr. Cotton’s coming.
It’s not a good omen when an epic thunderstorm builds in protest and wind wails and trees lash like rag dolls.
The air outside turns an eerie green, and Lydia and I are hypnotized by the fury.
The bookstore closed early, but this is our meeting place with Theresa, so we can’t leave.
We worry she’s had an accident or slid into a ditch blinded by the downpour.
But a clap of thunder explodes overhead as an orange Volkswagen wheels into the parking place in front and the brakes squeal; Dr. Cotton is here.
Miraculously, the rain lets up as though a spigot has been tightened, and we open the front door as a flamboyant woman steps out.
Her chartreuse trousers flutter in the wind like a pinned butterfly.
An oversize turquoise tunic swings to her knees and billows on her five-foot frame.
Her ginger hair is frizzy, and the frames of her round glasses are ruby red.
She is a parrot, a circus clown, and when her silk scarf comes undone and flies into the churning clouds, she lets loose a belly laugh.
I whisper, “Not what I expected.”
Lydia shouts from the open doorway, “Doctor Cotton,” and the curator rushes inside seconds before a second round of rain lets loose and we close the door.
“I’m here, I’m here!” She’s flushed with excitement. “Please call me Theresa.”
We gawk at this pint-size character who smells of gingerbread and cinnamon. She vibrates with energy. Next to her, I am mud and moss.
Lydia introduces us and we shake hands; the curator’s grip is firm.
“Oh, my word.” Theresa is mesmerized. “Mother Nature is having a tizzy fit, isn’t she? It’s deliciously dangerous, isn’t it? How I love a riveting storm especially from this side of the window.”
Clearly, Theresa is prone to excessive adjectives.
She accompanies those adjectives with the wave of her arms and widening of her eyes.
Outside the fury whips through the village, and lightning sparks garish-green.
Ripped leaves swirl like riotous confetti.
The light inside the bookstore darkens to an old varnish, and the wind forced through cracks around the window frames is a pained brass instrument. We are spellbound.
Theresa Cotton stands between Lydia and me and gawks. She isn’t the stiff and imposing person I feared would want these treasures for personal gain, nor is she a mousy soul who spends her days in a library’s dark inner sanctum. She is something more. But what exactly?
“Is that coffee I smell?”
Lydia says, “It usually is, but Nancy left thirty minutes ago, and I’m sure she turned off the pot but not sure she emptied and washed it. Let me check.”
“Cold coffee will do. I need a pick-me-up quick.” She checks the pastry shelves in the cooler. “And that lonely powdered doughnut looks good. I missed lunch and think I’m having a sugar drop.” She holds out her hand for us to see it tremble.
“I can put on the kettle upstairs and make tea if you’d like. And I have shortbread,” Lydia offers.
“No, coffee and a doughnut, but first, I’ve got to tinkle something fierce. Where’s the loo?”
“Come with me,” I say. “It’s around the corner, up the steps, and in back,” and we hurry and she locks the door and I come back to Lydia, who found cold coffee in the pot.
She plugs in the microwave and heats a cup for Theresa.
The seconds tick down on the timer, and I whisper, “Maybe she’s having a sugar drop, but five whole days with this wild woman?
That’s a long time to be around such high energy. ”
Lydia whispers back, “We need her, Kate. We need her expertise. And she’s helping us for free. We’re not even paying for her hotel. Don’t forget that.” She holds up a finger. “Before she comes back, let me give Gus a quick call.”
Her niece answers with a shriek I can hear through the receiver. “Wasn’t that awesome?”
“You and the animals all right?” Lydia listens then nods and gives me the thumbs-up.
“And the house? Everybody safe and everything intact?” The timer on the microwave dings and I put the lonely doughnut on a plate beside the steaming cup.
Lydia concludes her call saying, “I’m at the bookstore then at the inn for dinner.
Call if you need me. There’s wild mushroom soup or leftover pizza in the fridge when you get hungry. ”
Theresa rounds the corner adjusting her layers of clothing. She spies the sugar fix and grins.