Chapter 14 August 1995 Lily Jacobsen—Program Manager #2
“Heiress Anne Morgan, founder of the American Committee for Devastated France, hired this destitute children’s librarian to head up the library section.
In French, this aid organization was called Le Comité Américain pour les Régions Dévastées, and known by its acronym CARD.
The women called themselves Cards, which is apropos because there is a calling card, a recipe card, a report card, and of course, my library card.
She brought something to France that French people did not yet have, yet desperately needed.
In sharing the Cards’ story, I hope to shed light on the incredible women who left behind the comforts of home to care for French civilians who’d lost everything during World War One. ”
Wendy reminded us that France was the United States’s oldest ally, beginning with their support of the American Revolution.
Lafayette lobbied his government to support the American cause.
He joined the Continental Army led by George Washington.
Later, when France was in need, the Cards answered the call.
Most accounts of war featured men, but it was important to remember women were there, too.
She then read from her book, the one I’d loved so dearly when I first discovered it.
“In times of difficulty,” she finished, “it’s heartening to remember the way total strangers rallied around folks who’d lost everything, heartening to see what one stubborn librarian can achieve. I don’t need to tell you that books change lives, inform, comfort, and bring us together.”
Wendy had us remembering these incredible women forgotten by history as well as the power of the written word. A rousing round of applause ensued.
“Any questions?” I asked the audience, and felt a jolt of happiness when I spied Chris near the entrance with his hand raised.
“Jessie Carson sounds amazing,” he said. “Did any of her letters survive?”
“I’ve only found one letter, from Jessie to her mother.
It underlined how broke Jessie was. She wanted to visit her mother before leaving for France but couldn’t afford the ticket from New York to Pennsylvania.
It was heart wrenching to read that. In the same correspondence, Jessie wrote ‘I never knew Miss Morgan could be such a fairy godmother.’ ”
After a few more questions and another round of applause, I escorted Wendy and her father to the circ desk. While she signed copies of The Library Card, her father beamed with pride.
“Now I understand why you write,” he told her. “And why you came to Paris.”
As she hugged him, Wendy’s eyes met mine. “Thank you,” she mouthed.
Surrounded by her fans, she sparkled as if a light had been switched on inside her, such a change from the first time we’d met. I had a feeling that tonight would give her the energy to keep writing and finish her documentary.
At the refreshment table, where David and I served drinks and nibbles, Chris was first in line. “Great choice of speaker,” he said.
It was the best compliment I could have received. We grinned at each other like idiots until the Faithful elbowed him out of the way as they grabbed slices of Camembert.
“Catch up with you later,” he said ruefully.
“Your young man asked a good question,” Mrs. Coolidge told me.
Was it obvious how much I liked him? Could people tell just by observing us that Chris and I were together? I blushed. Your young man. I liked that. Yes, he was mine.
“Lovely to see so many students.”
“Another wonderful event!”
I basked in the Faithfuls’ praise, certain that this was how Odile felt with her habitués, M. de Nerciat, Mr. Pryce-Jones, and Professor Cohen. I loved how this job made me feel close to her.
Ms. de Narp sidled up to me. In one hand, she clutched her Louis Vuitton purse; in the other, a wineglass wanting a refill. Since she never acknowledged me at events, I steeled myself for a critical remark à la “The cheese is chalky.”
Instead, she merely gestured to the line of attendees in front of Wendy. “We do good work. You do good work.”
I teared up at the acknowledgment. Until now, neither she nor Hayes had ever said a kind word to me. Most of the time, she looked right through me, while he picked at my flyers, my choice of speakers, my self-worth.
“We want to focus on library history,” Ms. de Narp continued. “Maybe you could write a column in the newsletter.”
Still stunned by her unexpected compliment, I looked closer and noticed the faint crow’s-feet.
I couldn’t know if the lines came from afternoons spent suntanning in Nice or from worrying about faraway family members.
She was fifteen, maybe twenty years older than me.
At my age, she already had a law degree, a husband, an apartment, and a vacation house.
And me? I rented a room with a bathroom down the hall.
I had a manuscript that had gone nowhere.
I realized that I was jealous; she seemed so together, while I was falling apart.
On the street, the day of my job interview, I’d kicked her because of my insecurities—Mary Louise moving out, my not making headway as a writer.
My belligerence had more to do with my feeling that I was a failure than with one more smoker tossing a cigarette butt on the sidewalk.
Mary Louise was right. I was selfish. I needed to start thinking about others, needed to stop lashing out and be accountable for my actions.
Plastic cup of wine in hand, I took one last glance around.
Wendy continued to sign books. Chris waited in line to buy one from the bookseller, and when his gray eyes met mine, I felt my heart flutter.
His “book head” was mostly tamed tonight, but a tuft still stood up straight.
It reassured me somehow. Thanks to the library, I’d gotten to know my favorite author in the whole world; as well as the bookseller, who shone a light on books and women forgotten by history; and Chris, the first decent guy I’d dated.
The wide-eyed Yearlings chatted with the grunge poets in ripped jeans, while the on-a-budget Faithful mingled with the wealthy Select Few—the ALP was the only place I knew of that could bring together such disparate groups.
In his sweater vest and checkered pants, Lorenzo took a swig of Burgundy as he debated with David about whether Cairo Now or London Then was Professor Cohen’s best novel.
Tolstoy chimed in, asking what had become of her lost Paris novel.
Since I’d been here, both David and Tolstoy had opened up—the library had given us all the confidence to talk to people from all walks of life.
I relished the cozy camaraderie of Entre Nous events.
A dozen empty bottles were tucked under the refreshment table.
On the cheese tray, only a few crumbles of Roquefort remained.
Bellies were full, the laughter warm. The evening was a success.
Man, I loved this community. I wasn’t ready to say goodbye, but I had to make things right.
I owed Jennifer de Narp an apology. I would give her one, even if it meant she fired me.
While she rambled on about the newsletter, I worked up the courage to confess.
After I’d kicked her, maybe she’d felt shaken.
Because of the late-night encounter with that creep Mike Roth, I now knew how she felt.
I opened my mouth, and was finding the words, when she snapped her fingers in front of my face.
“Are you listening?” she demanded. “Honestly, girl!”
“Sorry. I need to tell you something. You see, that day on the street, I was the one who—”
A splash of liquid hit my chin and cheeks. “What the—?” I gasped as I breathed in the pungent bouquet of bargain Burgundy. Rivulets of red flowed down my neck and soaked my blouse, my bra, my skin. Stunned by the attack, I scanned the vicinity to find the culprit. Lorenzo held up an empty cup.
“Oops,” he said with a beurre-wouldn’t-melt-in-my-mouth smile, certainly for the benefit of Ms. de Narp. “How clumsy of me to trip.”
“Accidents happen,” I replied in a measured tone, refusing to make a stink on Wendy’s big night. I shot Lorenzo a look to let him know there would be retribution.
“We better get you cleaned up.” Grabbing my elbow, he shoved me past the stacks, into the kitchen.
I yanked my arm free. “I wish you’d go back to the 001.9 section, where you belong!”
He grinned. “You see me as an unexplained phenomenon?”
“In the same league as Bigfoot,” I confirmed.
“I’m flattered.” Lorenzo dabbed at my neck with a tea towel.
I pulled it from his grasp and ran it over my chest. Then I closed the door so patrons wouldn’t hear me hiss, “What were you thinking?”
“What were you thinking? Do you want to get yourself fired?”
“I need to be honest.”
“You need to keep your job. To the trustees, staff are replaceable. Don’t give her an excuse to get rid of you.”
“I’m taking responsibility for my actions.”
He threw his hands up. “In public? With a vindictive trustee who’s had too much to drink?
My slow-witted snickerdoodle, you need to watch your step.
The previous library director dared to disagree with her.
Once. De Narp had him fired. Now she’s gunning for Hayes.
It’s a good thing you’re dating a cop. If you cross de Narp, you’ll need police protection. ”
“You’re joking.”
“She’s been known to go off the rails. And the last thing any of us wants is for her to steamroll you.”
What was he saying? It sounded like… “So does that mean you’re fond of me?”
He crossed his arms. “I don’t hate you.”
“You like me!”
“Breaking in yet another program manager would just be a hassle.”
It was as close as I’d get to an admission that he was partial to me, so I didn’t press for more. I lifted the damp polyester from my skin. I only had three evening event blouses. “You ruined my best shirt.”
“I saved your job.”
“I want to tell her.”
“And you will. On your last day here. Which might be sooner than you think.”
“What?”