Chapter 15 September 1995 Meg Bauer—Volunteer
Meg Bauer—volunteer
Jennifer and Pam treated me to high tea for what would have been my fiftieth wedding anniversary.
On rue Royale, in the pastel pasture of Ladurée, we sipped Earl Grey from gold-rimmed cups and savored finger sandwiches.
Each girl wore a brooch I’d designed; Jennifer sported a mosaic on the lapel of her ivory Chanel blazer, Pam affixed a tree-of-life square to her mandarin collar. It gave me great satisfaction.
We three unwound in plush velvet chairs; beside each was a matching stool for a handbag and/or a lapdog.
Pam had fed her shih tzu Melvin a sliver of rosbif, and now he snored contentedly in her Birkin.
I’d encouraged her to volunteer at the animal shelter, and he was one of the first dogs she worked with.
She adopted him after just three days. At first, he cowered in her handbag, refusing to peek his head out.
He soon became the star of story hour and pranced from lap to lap, cheering up any child having a down day.
Pam was brittle, but when she petted Melvin, there was tenderness in her touch.
She was terrible with most people, but good to animals and books.
I’d met Jennifer on her first week in Paris, when she was as sweet as Lily—still at uni, ready to right wrongs as a lawyer.
Her parents wanted her to marry French nobility and had even found her a suitor; Frédéric’s parents, le baron and la baronne, wanted him to marry money.
During the short courtship, he did the predictable, the stereotypical—weekend getaways to Nice, red roses, flowery poems he probably plagiarized, and flattery.
Tu es belle. Tu es magnifique. Compared to staid Texans, he seemed dashing.
Frenchmen are masters of staging. Now, a flurry of waiters in starched suits brought a chocolate cake and champagne.
One set the dessert before me with a flourish.
Another opened the bottle. The cork popped.
I loved the sound, which promised celebration.
Even after all these years, I recalled the way the bubbles tickled my nose on my wedding day.
Or maybe I was just tickled to marry Felix.
I took his surname and shortened my name to Meg, hoping to leave everything that happened during the war behind, to become another person.
It wasn’t possible—we are our experiences and choices.
Thus, professionally, I remained Margaret Saint James.
After Felix died, I went to Johannesburg to spend time with my daughter.
I’d intended to move there, but after only a month, Paris called me back.
The city wasn’t done with me. So I made my peace with the past.
“You girls are spoiling me!” I took a sip of champagne. Ah, those lovely bubbles. “This is too much.”
“Nonsense!” Pam replied. “You deserve the best.”
“She and I rarely see eye to eye,” Jennifer added, “but on this we do agree.”
She squeezed my hand. I knew this splurge was her idea, and it meant a lot that she’d made a fuss. As Felix used to say, spending a special occasion alone was “heartacheful.”
He’d been devoted. One couldn’t say the same for Jennifer’s husband.
She’d thought marriage meant fidelity. Frédéric thought it meant free financing to restore the family chateau and vineyard.
Jennifer could seem harsh to others. She was harsh.
But I’d known her when she was green. I’d seen her heart break, seen how his callousness changed her. Not just changed her. Warped her.
Jennifer raised her glass. “To Meg!”
We three clinked rims.
What a relief to see these two move from hatred, to uneasy truce, to actually getting along.
I suspected that they could be the best of friends, if only they could overcome the past. Wasn’t it odd how people who were so similar could rub each other the wrong way?
Of course, the girls did have one thing too many in common—Jennifer’s husband.
I didn’t blame Pam for sleeping with him.
Frédéric was a suave liar, and when he began romancing Pam, he’d neglected to mention that he was married.
Suspecting him of cheating, Jennifer returned home early from a law conference and found them in bed.
She confided that his infidelity hadn’t been the most painful shock.
No, it was the way he’d erased any sign of her: their wedding portrait above the mantel, a photo from their honeymoon on her nightstand, the collection of perfume bottles on her vanity, the beloved childhood classics she’d hoped to read to their children—all in a heap in her walk-in closet.
To her credit, Pam ended the relationship immediately. She blackened his name in every social circle, from wine enthusiasts to the Franco-American Chamber of Commerce. He retreated to his chateau.
She apologized to Jennifer, which I thought showed character.
After all, it had hurt Pam’s pride to be conned by that “Don Jean.” Unfortunately, the damage had been done.
Jennifer was unable to forgive or forget.
It was why I didn’t tell her that Lily was the one who’d kicked her—even after all these years, I never knew how Jennifer might react.
Lily had a good head on her shoulders and smart instincts—she was right to avoid Jennifer.
For someone else, the encounter on the street could be a quirky story to chuckle over, but not for Jennifer.
I closed my eyes as I tasted the cake. “Delicious!”
“Love like yours and Felix’s deserves to be honored.” Pam hugged me. “And you deserve to be feted. What would we do without you? What would the ALP do without you?”
“I can’t tell you how many mothers have confided that they maintain their memberships because of you,” Jennifer added. “They’re touched that you remember their children’s names and the books their little ones have read.”
“We do have lovely members and staff,” I said.
“We must do something about the program manager, though,” Jennifer said. “At a recent event, she was sloshed, her blouse was drenched with red wine.”
“Lily only had one cup,” I said sternly. “It wasn’t her fault someone spilled a drink on her.”
“You always give people the benefit of the doubt,” Jennifer chided. “She was glassy-eyed and could barely finish a sentence.”
Pam’s eyes widened. “Do you think she’s on drugs?”
“Most certainly not!” I said. “You two make her nervous. What’s my rule?”
“If you don’t have anything nice to say—” Jennifer began.
“Shut the hell up,” Pam finished.
“I wish you’d be kinder to staff. The younger ones make minimum wage. I’ll remind you that Lily worked for free so Hayes wouldn’t cancel Wendy Peterson’s event. That shows dedication.”
“Sorry, Meg,” they said in sync.
That was more like it.
Talk moved to fundraising.
“Felicity suggested hosting a gala,” Jennifer said.
“A gala?” I asked. “Are you sure the library can afford a venue?”
“We absolutely can’t,” Jennifer said.
“The ALP will host a cheese-and-wine evening in the reading room,” Pam explained. “And not the same swill we serve on event nights.”
“My in-laws are donating their winery’s very best bottles,” Jennifer said.
I’m sure Jennifer gave them no choice, probably by threatening to turn them in for tax evasion.
“It will be a lot of hard work,” I cautioned. “Creating a guest list, designing and sending out invitations, tracking down addresses for the mailing list, creating budget-friendly centerpieces and decorations.”
“Deciding how to style my hair,” Jennifer said dreamily.
“A chignon, definitely a chignon. And that little Dior number you wore to the Musée d’Orsay fundraiser would be perfect,” Pam told her.
“J’adore,” Jennifer answered with a grin.
Despite myself, I gave thought to which outfit to wear and the friends I would treat to tickets.
“We’re also hosting a silent auction,” Pam said, giving Jennifer a nudge.
“A literary evening with select items to bid on.” Jennifer leaned closer to me. “We know there’s something every Parisienne wants.” She pointed to her lapel. “An original Margaret Saint James brooch.”
Fifteen years ago, I’d closed my atelier, in part to retire, in part to care for my husband, who had Alzheimer’s.
But every so often—on the street, in line at the bakery—I spied a woman wearing my colorful porcelain and felt a jolt of joy.
In recent years, jewelers rang to inquire if I had pieces that I’d be willing to sell—the brooches were now vintage.
In fact, I’d created three pieces specifically for Odile—covers of her favorite books, Jane Eyre, Their Eyes Were Watching God, and The Priory—intending to give them to her when she came back.
Though she never returned, I didn’t have the heart to sell them.
“Would you consider coming out of retirement, Meg?” Pam asked.
“Oh, you girls.” I could feel my cheeks flush with pleasure. “It’s kind of you to ask.”
Jennifer insisted kindness had nothing to do with it. Pam added that my pieces were “all the rage” and would go for “beaucoup bucks.”
I knew how much my jewelry was worth. Over the years, burglars had broken into my atelier and flat.
But I’d made sure there was nothing to steal.
In order to protect my remaining brooches, I stole into the library, opened the safe in the director’s office, laid my porcelain pieces on Professor Cohen’s manuscript, and locked the door.
I’m the only one left with a key. Years ago, Boris, the Franco-Russian head librarian, had entrusted it to me.
We didn’t share it with any of the directors, suspecting they’d be tempted to sell the “long-lost” Irène Cohen manuscript to fund the ALP.
In accordance with Irène’s last will and testament, that novel belonged to Odile.
When Hayes first arrived, I offered my assistance—decades of institutional knowledge and familiarity with each patron.
For example, I could have informed him that though he courted her as if she were a wealthy debutante, the woman he referred to as “Crazy Mazie” had no money—the only inheritance from her husband was his gambling debt.
Aside from my daughter and husband, the library was my greatest happiness—staff and volunteers had become my family.
However, for me, the ALP was also a source of pain.
With each successive year, I became more disillusioned.
The worst was two years ago, when the outgoing director promised me the program manager position.
For decades, I’d done the work for free, and now my dedication would finally be recognized with a job title.
The money would come in handy, and the acknowledgment meant everything to me.
Then Hayes arrived and hired a voluptuous undergrad.
When pressed on why he didn’t follow through, he joked, “Why hire the old cow when we get the crème de la crème for free?” That girl didn’t even last six months.
Neither did the next. He was smitten by pretty girls, then became enraged because they didn’t have the experience to do the job.
Behind my back, he referred to me as Nutmeg.
I’d begged Hayes to highlight the ALP’s illustrious literary past—a peek in the archives would tell you that the Lost Generation found themselves at the library; Ernest Hemingway and Gertrude Stein published their articles in our newsletter—but my suggestions fell on deaf ears.
Yet when Felicity, an attractive young woman, suggested underlining ALP history, he decided it was a brilliant idea.
“What do you think?” Jennifer grasped my hand. “A silent auction featuring an original brooch by the Margaret Saint James.”
The girls regarded me with pleading puppy eyes. I didn’t want to tell them no, but I couldn’t say yes. Most of me would do anything to help the library. But a small part said, Not while Hayes is in charge.