Chapter 8 April 1995 Lily Jacobsen—Program Manager
Lily Jacobsen—program manager
Dearest Lily,
Congratulations on your new job! I hope that you will love it there as much as I did.
Have you gotten to know Book Head? What’s his favorite novel?
And did you hear back from any French editors?
I’m keeping my fingers crossed for you. Of course, I know exactly what you mean about squabbling patrons.
I used to joke that I needed a whistle to referee my favorite habitués, Mr. Pryce-Jones and M.
de Nerciat. And speaking of refereeing, your brothers and I are reading one of your old favorites, Bridge to Terabithia.
If they aren’t fighting over the last cookie, they’re kicking each other under the table.
No matter, I love discussing books with them the way I used to do with you.
Joe confided that he bawled at the end of the book; Brumby admitted that he found his own Terabithia, his own haven, in reading.
It’s been a while since you’ve written about Mary Louise.
Is everything all right? I miss hearing about your adventures together.
They remind me of the lovely times I had with my best friend—teas at the embassy, long talks in the Tuileries.
Please do write! Rereading your letters about your visits to the café with the stern waiter and your strolls along the Seine makes me feel like I’m with you.
I confess that the way you describe the city makes me long to visit.
Of course, I miss you, but with everything that happened during the war, I never thought I’d miss Paris—proof that you have a way with words.
Keep at it, and soon, you’ll be a Published Author with your own Dewey Decimal Number.
All my love,
Odile
At the mention of the boys, a pang of homesickness hit me as hard as a punch to the gut.
When I’d moved to France, I’d only considered what I would be getting, not what I would be giving up—time with Odile, my dad and Ellie, and my little brothers.
Living with Mary Louise had kept those thoughts at bay, partly because she was an important piece of home, and partly because we were so busy that I didn’t have time to think about loved ones we’d left behind.
Now, an uncomfortable quiet had set in. No more Friday night drinks with Mary Louise to celebrate the end of the week.
No more lazy Saturday mornings listening to her hum as she prepared the café au lait to accompany our croissants.
No one bounded in after a Saturday night date, giddy that she’d met the one.
No more tears after a breakup with Pierre or Edouard.
Now it was my turn to sob. She’d broken up with me, and I didn’t understand why.
I’d left messages on her machine. I waited for her to call me, but the telephone remained stubbornly silent.
I imagined Mary Louise sketching, so focused that she didn’t see the weeks pass.
Was she getting enough to eat? Sleeping enough?
I rang her at work—as a receptionist, her job was to take calls.
When she proposed a quick lunch, I couldn’t help but feel like a difficult patient she was placating.
At a bistro equidistant between our jobs, we asked for tap water and ordered the cheapest thing on the menu—omelets.
From our table near the kitchen door, we could hear the whisks whirling in the pots.
Now that I had to cover rent on my own, meals out were no longer things I could afford.
But I couldn’t refuse her invitation, afraid another wouldn’t be forthcoming.
Mary Louise started to speak, but I was bursting with stories about my job. “You wouldn’t believe my morning. Today, we had the W.E.s and E.W.E.s.”
“The wes and yous?” she echoed.
I explained that support groups like the Wives of Executives and Ex-Wives of Executives met weekly in the conference room.
“I accidentally double-booked it, and the W.E.s almost came to blows with E.W.E.s. Some are big donors, and when they feel slighted, they go straight to my boss. He’s not too happy with me.”
On the weekend, off the clock, instead of working on my novel, I spent hours perfecting our publicity materials.
During the week, before bed, I penned a list of everything I had to do the following day so I wouldn’t get bawled out.
At night, I lay wide awake, Mr. Hayes’s intro rattling in my head like an annoying jingle I couldn’t shake: The Entre Nous literary series is free and open to the public.
If you appreciate fine events like these, please consider supporting the ALP by purchasing a membership.
If you’re already a member, consider donating.
Now, in the hope that Mary Louise might attend a reading, I handed her the Hayes-approved events calendar. I waited for her to say something nice. Maybe Great use of negative space or Perfect description of the book. Instead, she shoved it in her purse.
When our omelets came, we scarfed them down in silence.
I wanted to prove that this distance between us wasn’t real, wanted her to care where I spent my days.
When she’d started at the dentist’s office, over a year ago now, she’d been glum, like the job was an admission she might not become an artiste.
Needing to know she was okay, I’d paid a visit.
At the sterile white counter, I claimed I had a toothache.
To make it appear real to the hygienist listening in, I rubbed my jaw and groaned.
Mary Louise swatted me away with a laugh.
Or what I’d thought was a laugh. Maybe I’d embarrassed her.
Anyway, I’d gone to see her, why wouldn’t she pop by the library?
“Come check out the cute guy I drool over. I call him Book Head.”
“I’m not getting sucked into ‘Lily-land,’ ” I thought I heard her mumble.
“What?”
“Nothing.” She rose from the table and grabbed the frayed strap of her pleather purse. “I should head back.”
“You barely said two words.”
“As usual, you didn’t let me talk.”
As usual? Had I been a bad friend? “Sorry. I was excited to share. Stay. What’s going on with you?”
She sank onto her seat. “I’ve met someone.”
I hoped he was better than her latest ex, Dave, the lead singer of a punk band who insisted that Picasso didn’t paint, he “drew weirdness.” In the same vein, I didn’t consider Dave’s profanity-laced shouting to be music.
When the three of us went out, he refused to pay for his drinks.
I jokingly asked Mary Louise if he picked up that trait from Picasso, expecting her to laugh, but she slugged me. Hard.
“Where?” I asked.
“At work. I squeezed him in when he showed up with a broken tooth. That was on a Monday. On Tuesday, he sent me a thank-you bouquet. On Wednesday, he invited me to la Belle époque.”
“Wow.” I’d never been to a Michelin-starred restaurant before. “What’s it like?”
“There was a wall of bloodred orchids. The ma?tre d’ hit a button, and the ceiling opened. Suddenly, we were eating by the light of the moon.”
Taking in the enormity of her experience, neither of us spoke.
By law, French restaurants had to display their menus outside, so I knew that two bites of salad at La Belle époque cost thirty bucks and that five shrimp cost fifty.
Much of Paris was off limits because it was impossibly expensive.
And Mary Louise had finally gotten to taste the forbidden.
“I’ll always remember every bite,” she said wistfully.
“Enough about the food! Tell me about the guy.”
She didn’t answer right away. Maybe I’d been judgmental in the past, but I was only looking out for her. This time, I promised myself I wouldn’t comment.
“His name is Antoine. He’s mature…”
Mature meant paunchy. And possibly married.
“He owns his own company.”
A fossil from the geriatris era.
I was trying to keep it together, but I must have made a face, because she became defensive.
“I’m sick of guys our age who want to split the bill or eat at a crepe stand. I want to be spoiled for a change.”
I put my foot over hers. “You deserve the best.”
“This could really go somewhere.”
We’d been through many tenuous beginnings together. I felt a rush of love for her. My best friend. I prayed things would work out.
“When do I get to meet him?” I asked.
“When you can keep your opinions to yourself.” She gestured for the bill. “You sound stressed. I hope you’re not upset that I left you in the lurch.”
I chugged my water to buy time to think up a decent answer.
The truth was, I couldn’t afford the heat bill.
When I complained about the cold during my weekly Sunday phone call home, my father sent me a pair of long johns.
I wore them even in bed and reminded myself that Simone de Beauvoir wrote in her ski outfit during the war because her Paris pad was freezing.
I’d added three more teens to my Saturday tutoring roster, which was an additional sixty bucks a week.
To save on food, I gobbled down Brie on baguettes during events.
“It’s all good,” I promised. “Like most starving artists, I’m paying my writing dues.”
After lunch, I entered the library through the front door, where Meg greeted me with an envelope with gold foil borders.
It was from Gallomart, France’s most prestigious publishing house.
Their logo and return address were printed in elegant embossed lettering.
My name was written in calligraphy. It seemed too fancy to be a form rejection.
I braced myself. Please, please, please.
Dear Mademoiselle Jacobsen,
Thank you for your interest in our illustrious author Richard Ford. We had no idea that there even was an American Library in Paris. It sounds quite quaint. Nonetheless, Gallomart already has an exclusive, long-standing partnership with the international, esteemed Piccadilly Books.
Sincerely,
The editorial department at Gallomart Publishers
“Well?” Meg asked.
I shook my head.
“Next time,” she said.