Chapter 18 October 1995 Lily Jacobsen—Program Manager #2
After a dozen rejections from editors, at last I’d accomplished what I’d been hired to do. “Mon Dieu!”
“If the evening goes well, who knows? Perhaps we could make it a regular occurrence…”
Oui! Oui! Oui! Meeting a real editor. Hosting top-notch events at the library—if I didn’t screw it up.
“That would be great,” I said, trying not to hyperventilate with excitement.
Since she’d been out of the office, I asked if she was okay. She explained that a beloved author had suffered a bout of writer’s block and fled France. “I had to track him down. He flew to Las Vegas, of all places! Together, we talked through the plot. Not a moment of respite!”
She and I confirmed the run of show for Pat’s event.
I clapped my hands, eager to share the news with my boss. Finally, Hayes would be impressed. I went to his office, where he hunched over his desk. I rapped on his open door.
“Yes?” He glanced up, saw it was me, and returned to his paperwork.
I remained in the doorjamb, waiting for him to invite me in.
“What is it?” he demanded.
“Pat O’Malley will be speaking here!”
I expected him to be as excited as I was and maybe even say, Good job! But all Hayes did was raise his eyes to the water-stained ceiling. “I needed this win,” he said, sounding defeated.
Two weeks later, we were thrilled to welcome our first “big name.” Lorenzo closed the reading room fifteen minutes early so David and Tolstoy had time to put out extra folding chairs.
At the circ desk, the bookseller had outdone herself with the promised display of novels in English and French.
I’d quadrupled the orders of cheese, bread, and wine to ensure I wouldn’t run out and embarrass the ALP.
Hayes had even rented real wineglasses for the masses.
Usually, the only trustees to attend events were Jennifer de Narp and Pam de Laney, but tonight all hands were on deck to glad-hand Pat O’Malley.
I couldn’t wait to thank Colette Levy and imagined that she would greet me with a kiss on each cheek.
We’d commiserate about the book life over a glass of wine.
At the refreshment table, over Brie and baguette, the talk was still of Roth.
Have you heard? He’s gone.
No. Really?
The director booted him.
Good for Hayes. I didn’t know he had it in him.
The Yearlings, the bookseller, and the Faithful all related their unsettling encounters with him and expressed relief that the director had kicked him out.
But there were at least fifty new faces, too, surely drawn by the siren call of a National Book Award winner.
These visitors glanced around in wonder.
Perhaps the scent of musty books was a reminder of warm childhood memories in their hometown libraries.
Hayes had been spot-on—a big name had brought in prospective members and donors.
Maybe a weekly diet of famous authors would raise our profile and bring in more donations to help save the library.
As always, the wine flowed quickly, so I went to grab a few more bottles. The kitchen door was cracked open; Hayes and Jennifer de Narp were inside.
“What’s your problem?” I heard him demand. “Since day one, you’ve been out to get me.”
“Senior year of college, semifinals. You really don’t remember me?” Her voice was savage, as if whatever had happened between them was yesterday, not two decades ago.
“Semifinals?” He squinted at her, clearly trying to place her.
“Yes. You cheated!”
“I’m supposed to recall every time I cheat?”
What a thing to say. Yet I was not at all surprised.
“Impromptu Debate,” she hissed. “Thanks to your prep school pals, you finagled the topic ahead of time. That’s the only reason you beat me.”
I saw the dawning in his eyes. “Boston. You had brown hair, and a different last name. You’d won every tournament that season. Our team called you the Terminator. How else was I supposed to beat you?”
“Well, you’re not going to win here.”
He smirked. “I already did. I’m the director, aren’t I?”
Lorenzo had said that de Narp was gunning for Hayes. I hoped she would succeed, now more than ever.
Entranced by the quarrel, I’d lost track of time and was now late in greeting tonight’s guests.
I sped to the front door, where I spied Pat O’Malley.
At his temples, silver strands threaded through his dark hair.
In his denim shirt and jeans, he resembled a Ralph Lauren model.
Beside him, his wife and Colette were chatting with Pam de Laney, her lapdog peeking out of her Birkin.
I stopped to compose myself, straightening my blouse and sweeping my fingers under my eyes in case my mascara had run.
This moment had been nine months in the making. I would be meeting literary royalty.
Colette glanced from the sooty ceiling to the worn carpet. With her stiletto, she tapped my favorite ink splotch. “So this is the American Library. Apparently, grunge is all the rage here, too,” she said in a crisp French accent.
When I approached, Pam de Laney’s arthritic shih tzu barked at me. So did she. “We’re out of wine. Please tell me there’s more. At least you thought to order the author’s books this time. And where were you? Thank God I was here to greet our esteemed guests.”
I moved to introduce myself, but she cut me off. “The library is thrilled to finally have an illustrious author!” she cooed, scowling in my direction. “That will be all.”
Colette shot me a sympathetic glance. “We’ll talk later,” she mouthed.
Though Pam had all but shooed me away, I stood frozen, my brain whirling with all I’d dreamed of saying to Colette, a real-life editor.
Thrilled to finally meet you, I blinked in her direction, hoping she’d decipher my Morse code.
And to Pat O’Malley. It’s been a nonstop day of promotion for you. Thank you for coming to the library.
Luckily, Lorenzo swooped in to whisk me away. “What’s wrong with you?” he demanded. “Didn’t you notice damn Pam about to butcher you?”
We watched her usher the trio to Hayes’s office.
“Fun fact,” he whispered to me. “Our acerbic trustee is married to a salt-of-the-earth guy named Bill Delaney, an American with Irish roots. She changed Delaney to de Laney so people would assume they’re French aristocracy.
” It was so outrageous, I accused him of making it up.
He replied, “I’m not that creative.” I stifled a chuckle.
Lorenzo made me feel a little better about the botched introduction.
I moved to the refreshment table and was heartened to find Chris alongside David, serving wine. I loved how at home he was here.
He poured us each a glass. “To you,” he toasted. When the rims of our glasses touched, so did our fingers. I felt a spark of happiness.
At the podium, pride radiated from Hayes’s pores as he introduced Pat O’Malley.
His hands shook slightly. Perhaps he was nervous.
I could feel the frenzy of having a famous author in the house.
It was standing room only, with at least seventy people packed tight along the walls of books and spilling into the foyer.
Two hundred people total—my statistics for the month would be excellent.
I was excited to see so many new faces and could barely wait for O’Malley to share his hard-gained wisdom.
I wasn’t the only writer to open a notebook to jot down every word he said.
Around me, attendees readied their pens.
He grinned. “I’m glad to be here tonight. And for once I’m telling the truth. You can’t say you’re happy to be in Detroit and mean it.”
The Select Few chuckled. O’Malley looked gratified.
“Bah-dum-bah,” the bookseller muttered. “Novelists are like stand-up comedians—they all have their shtick. I’ve heard that line ten times from other authors.”
O’Malley read from his latest novel. Hayes nodded with gravitas at every line.
Mrs. Coolidge, one of the Faithful, held her hands to her cheeks as she listened to his calm nasal tenor.
I loved watching attendees—sated and happy—stare at O’Malley in wonder.
It made all the stress worth it, the same way a sunny spring weekend wipes away the memory of winter’s gloom.
Still, in the short excerpt, I noticed he described his female characters with the words “bovine,” “cow,” and “bitch,” and couldn’t help but be disappointed—it was 1995, yet men were winning literary prizes for describing women this way.
After the reading, Hayes invited audience members to ask questions. For the first time, he’d stayed for an entire event.
“Pat, I’ve been a fan since your debut novel,” Mrs. Coolidge gushed. “Who is your ideal reader?”
O’Malley explained that he wrote for blue-collar workers.
Young men. Men who struggle. He recounted that he gave a reading in a mall bookstore where the audience was affluent, middle-aged women.
Then, near the tail end, a guy in Wranglers and work boots strode in.
Here was the man he described in his books, here was the man for whom he wrote.
But then the guy zeroed in on the beverage bar, downed the jug of wine, and hightailed it back into the mall.
“Stupid wino,” O’Malley muttered as an afterthought.
He pondered tonight’s attendees, predominantly women. Despite the money, prizes, and status, what the novelist craved most was missing—his dream demographic. In his head-to-toe denim he saw himself as a rough-and-tumble man writing for ranch hands and mechanics. I could see he was disappointed.
He wasn’t the only one. I slipped my empty notebook into my pocket. What was the lesson here? That we all had blind spots in our writing and in life? That no matter your career level, there were frustrations and a desire for more? Nothing is ever enough?
As O’Malley began to sign books, a line of attendees wrapped around the stacks to get their copies. Colette congratulated me. “Success! What a wonderful, warm atmosphere. We must collaborate on more events.”
Oui!!!!!
“I’m publishing translations of Julia Alvarez and Isabel Allende next year.”
“J’adore!” I told her How the Garcia Girls Lost Their Accents was my second favorite book, after The Library Card by Wendy Peterson.
“I do not believe Peterson’s novel has been translated into French. Yet.”
I recounted a bit of Jessie Carson’s story of creating France’s first children’s libraries, which Wendy told so beautifully.
“You work in a library, so you are clearly biased!” Colette teased.
I stared at my favorite ink splotch, my starting block. Though writing was my life, aside from Mary Louise, Odile, and Wendy, I never discussed it. Maybe I needed to. “Actually, this isn’t my real job. My real job is writing.”
“The best American books are actually ‘Made in France.’ The best quality. When you’re ready, show me your pages.”
“Fantastique!”
Most attendees stayed for another drink. People from all walks of life came together here to celebrate the written word. Reading is a singular pleasure, but sharing a love of books at events big and small had brought me such joy.
“I didn’t know this place existed,” one attendee said to himself as he ran his finger along the spines of the nonfiction on the New Arrivals shelf.
“Incredible talk tonight,” another told David as she wrote out a check for a family membership.
“Grab an events schedule for me, too,” a woman told her friend.
I thanked attendees for coming and encouraged them to return; Meg pressed our newsletter into their hands.
After the signing, Hayes whisked the author, his wife (plump, affluent, middle-aged), and his editor (plump, affluent, middle-aged) off to dinner with select patrons (plump, affluent, middle-aged).
At 10:00 p.m., as the crowd ambled out into the night, the library seemed to heave a sigh of relief that it was just us again. Meg carried the empty cheese platters to the kitchen. Tolstoy stowed the podium. David stacked the folding chairs. I helped the bookseller box up the few remaining novels.
“So, Ahab.” She clapped me on the back. “You finally harpooned your elusive white male.”
“I did. Have you read his novels?”
“He has a rich vocabulary, except when it comes to describing women. To him, we’re all the same.”
I felt closer to her; it felt like we were the only two to notice.
“I couldn’t agree more,” I said as we tied the box on the rack of her bicycle. “Let’s grab a drink sometime.”
“It’s a date,” she replied as she pedaled off.
Back inside, Chris and I worked as quickly as we could to close, both wanting to be alone, wanting each other.
“My place or yours?” I asked as we stepped onto the boulevard. Clouds filled the sky. There had been a shower; the light of the streetlamps shimmered in the puddles. The air was cool and smelled of rain.
“Yours is closest.”
Chris’s hand on my waist felt like heaven. It felt like the future. I couldn’t wait.
We hurried up the stairs. Once inside, we kissed.
And kissed. I tugged off his shirt, he eased off my blouse.
I ran my hands over his chest, he caressed my back, grazing my skin tenderly.
It felt right. It felt like love. When we fell onto the bed, our legs tangled, my thoughts tangled.
What if he didn’t love me back? It didn’t matter. I had to say the words.
“I…”
“I love you.” He kissed the palm of my hand.
“I love you, too. I want to be with you.”
We shed the rest of our clothes, stripped ourselves of inhibitions.
I pulled him on top of me. His tongue met mine, my hips met his.
You feel so good, he said. I licked the salt of his skin.
You taste so good, I replied. I breathed in the sandalwood scent of his aftershave, ran my nails down his back, listened to him groan my name.
You’re beautiful, he said. I closed my eyes.
He kissed my temple, my breasts, my belly.
Yes, I said. Yes, he said. Then words weren’t enough.