Chapter 14 August 1995 Lily Jacobsen—Program Manager #3
“This place is nearly bankrupt.”
He let that tidbit sink in. I knew money was tight, but didn’t realize things were that bad.
“What about the trustees?” I asked.
He let out a snort, the kind a bull makes before goring a matador. “For most of them, the library is a do-gooder line on their CV. They’ll move on.”
“And Hayes?”
“I peeked at his résumé. The guy never lasted more than two years in a job. Ever.” He took a deep breath. “If anyone is going to save our community, it’s us.”
“Us?” My salary barely covered rent. Even if I wanted to, I couldn’t contribute. “How?”
“The new volunteer has ideas. Have you met her? Felicity seems savvy.”
This scene was surreal. I smelled like a wino. Lorenzo had revealed that he was an idealist. He was the last person I thought would be vested in saving our community. Since when did he care about staff and patrons? Narrowing my eyes, I looked at him askance. “Don’t you hate people?”
His head shot back, as if he couldn’t believe the absurdity of my question.
“Of course, I hate people. People are the worst. But folks like David and Tolstoy and Meg need a place to call home. And I need the library—under French law, with my seniority, I’m practically ‘unfireable.’ Not to mention, everyone here is used to me. ”
“There you are!” Meg said as she and David squeezed into the kitchen. Arms akimbo, she turned to Lorenzo. “What on earth were you thinking?”
He pointed at me. “Lily was about to confess.”
“I should’ve known you had your reasons,” she told Lorenzo. “But you didn’t have to look like you were having so much fun!”
“Have you ever thrown your drink in someone’s face? It is fun.”
“You could’ve taken Lily aside, you lunatic,” David said.
“A lovable lunatic,” he replied with a goofy grin.
Weirdly, after hearing Lorenzo’s concern for the library, that’s how I began to see him—a lovable librarian invested in the patrons and staff. In his own flamboyant way, he’d done what he thought best.
“Lily, dear, go home and get out of that wet top,” Meg ordered.
The hum of voices emanating from the reading room reminded us that we had a full house.
“How can I? I need to lock up after the event.”
She glowered at Lorenzo. “This one will be happy to do that for you.” She sounded like a high school principal meting out punishment.
Back in the reading room, I glanced around, relieved to see Chris waiting in the newspaper section. We cut through the crowd and met near the entry.
His expression brimmed with concern. “What happened to your blouse?”
“My co-worker happened.”
“The time bomb in the sweater vest?”
“How’d you guess? Anyway, the good news is that I get to leave early.”
“Shall I accompany you home?”
I wanted to invite him over, wanted to be with him. But I had to think: what was the state of my studio? I hadn’t washed the dishes in a week, which meant my mugs, plates, and glasses were strewn all over the place. Which would win out—decorum or lust? I had the walk home to decide.
The night air was cool. I started to shiver in my damp blouse. Chris took off his sweater and wrapped it around my shoulders.
“It’ll get dirty,” I protested.
“Who cares? Let’s get you warm.”
He wrapped his arm around my waist. His heat seeped into my skin; suddenly, I was grateful to Lorenzo.
“I’m glad you could come,” I told Chris.
“Fortunately, a colleague was okay with swapping shifts—it’s not always the case.”
I gestured to the stain. “Believe me, I know about difficult co-workers.”
“Still, you must enjoy your job. Bringing in authors every week, watching people connect.”
Another reason I liked Chris so much—he understood what the library meant to me.
“Students gorged on the Brie,” he continued. “I had the impression that they didn’t eat regularly. David pushed the cheese plate toward them and encouraged them to finish it off.”
“It’s not easy being poor in Paris.” On event nights, that cheese was my dinner, too. Tonight, I’d been so busy, I hadn’t had a bite.
“You’re feeding the mind and the body.”
When we crossed the Seine, the wind picked up, and he pulled me closer.
The lampadaires of the bridge bathed his face in a soft, warm light.
For once, there was no traffic, and I liked to think I could hear the lap, lap, lap of the river coursing beneath us.
It had been a long time since I’d felt so happy.
Turning onto the boulevard, we caught a glimpse of the Sacré Coeur basilica, bright and silvery as the moon, before we turned onto a side street and ambled along—slowly, slowly—as if neither of us wanted the evening to end.
Upon arriving at my building, we stood inches apart. I stared at his chest. It had been ages since I’d brought a man home, ages since I’d felt this thrum of desire and trepidation. I wanted to be with him. I wanted him. But what did he want?
“My studio’s a mess,” I said, a little worried that he’d judge me.
His lips curled into a gentle smile. “No worse than mine.”
“Do you want to come up?”
He took my clammy hands in his. “More than anything.”
He followed me up the steep servants’ stairs. Knowing that he was watching, I swayed my hips. My heart pounded, in part from the six flights, in part from the anticipation of being alone with Chris.
I unlocked three dead bolts and ushered him inside. “Let me slip into something a little more comfortable,” I joked as I slid his sweater from my shoulders.
He turned away so I could change. Rummaging about, I found a mostly clean tee.
It would have to do. To salvage my bra and blouse, I doused them with seltzer and set them in the hamper.
Chris peered past the dirty dishes, straight to the painting on the wall.
In it, Mary Louise had extended le Champ de Mars, the stately lawn, to the base of la Tour Eiffel.
She’d planted poppies and let the grass grow wild. Her Eiffel Tower was awash in prairie.
“I’ve never seen it depicted like that,” he said. “It’s evocative, lyrical like a poem.”
On the upside, Chris wasn’t horrified by the mess. On the downside, he seemed to have lost interest in me. I couldn’t be upset about being upstaged by the painting, though; I so wanted people to appreciate Mary Louise’s art.
“There’s more where that came from.” I pointed to the canvases stacked against the wall.
“May I?” Squatting on his haunches, he thumbed through them. I could sense his admiration, and I liked him even more.
“These are incredible,” he said.
I knelt beside him. “If only we could convince the artist.”
“Where did you get them?”
“The garbage.”
He searched my face to see if I was joking.
“Je ne comprends pas.” He slipped into French, as if the situation would become clear if only we spoke his native language.
“I don’t understand, either.” I ran my finger along Mary Louise’s signature on the hyacinth-blue tableau. “The artist is my best friend. Well, former best friend. She threw out these paintings. Told me if I touched them, she’d never speak to me again.”
“Was she serious?”
I nodded. “And if she finds out…”
He stood and held out his hand to pull me up.
“You don’t know how she’ll react,” he finished.
“Exactly.”
“Did you ever read Metamorphosis?”
I nodded. Kafka, 833.912.
“Franz Kafka doubted his talent,” Chris said, “and he asked his friend Max Brod to burn his manuscripts after his death.”
I remembered the story. “If Kafka had wanted his manuscripts gone, he could have burned them himself.”
“Exactly. I don’t blame Brod for refusing.”
We contemplated the canvases. I told Chris that part of me was thrilled that they’d come home; the other part worried that Mary Louise would be irate.
How could I confess that I’d saved—or stolen—them without destroying our friendship?
And maybe more important: Could I let her give up?
Her paintings were powerful, her talent immense.
I’d assured her that the fact those gallery owners craved bland canvases didn’t mean her work wasn’t excellent.
Should I continue to push her, even if she ended up hating me?
“Do you think she really meant to throw them away?” he asked. “Or was it an impulse that she’ll regret? Perhaps in a few months or years, she’ll thank you.”
I couldn’t be sure.
“Do you know why she threw them out?” Chris asked.
“She said she couldn’t take the rejection.”
“These days, gallerists prefer blobs of paint to beautiful paintings. She shouldn’t take it personally.”
I winced, thinking of the rejections I’d accumulated. “It’s hard not to take personally.”
“Maybe it’s tough to go from art classes, where classmates praise your work, to the hard, cold world.”
I’d received plenty of rejections for my short stories. Maybe rejection was easier to take from faraway magazines than it was face-to-face from an art-world professional.
“Is she in a rut?” he asked.
“It’s more than that. She didn’t just quit painting. She moved out and quit talking to me.”
“Who would ever quit talking to you?” He gazed at my mouth. Self-conscious, I gnawed on my lip. Suddenly, paintings were the furthest things from my mind. All I could think of was Chris.
He closed the distance between us. Staring into his eyes, I ran my fingers through his hair.
Tentatively, his lips grazed mine. He held me tight; our tongues entwined.
He tasted of sweet white wine. I wanted him.
I wanted more. We moved to the futon, where he lay down and eased me on top of him.
Our legs became entangled. I reveled in the heat of his hands exploring my back.
My whole body came alive. Wanting more, I straddled him.
His hips rose to meet mine. Being with him felt so damn good.
I worked his shirt off and sank my teeth gently into his shoulder.
“Yes,” he groaned.
He tugged off the shirt I’d donned just minutes before. Our torsos met, and this time it was me who moaned. I ran my hands through his hair, over his back as he kissed my cheek, my neck, my chest.