Chapter 22 December 1995 Lily Jacobsen—Program Manager
Lily Jacobsen—program manager
The night of the gala, the library was transformed into a winter palace.
Trustees, potential donors, journalists, and book lovers entered through an arch of holly to find the circ desk decorated with branches of mistletoe.
In the reading room, all the books on the shelves were turned around, so the white edges of pages set off the pine trees decked with braids of soft lights.
The windows were thrown open, and fresh air wafted in, rustling the red leaves of the poinsettias that lined the ledge.
There was an aura of anticipation and industrial-strength disinfectant.
To remove the rest of Roth’s blood, Hayes had hired a cleaning company; the carpet was still damp.
Even so, the atmosphere was enchanting. Two hundred guests smiled and exchanged business cards, ate and drank, made small talk and large donations.
Perched on an easel, the painting that Mary Louise had given me was the first item attendees viewed.
Next, they perused the selection of books to bid on, which included signed copies of Wendy’s novel.
Off to the side, more auction items were laid out with clipboards to record bids.
Interestingly, it was mostly experiences, not stuff, for auction, from a weekend getaway at the Sour Grapes vineyard to cooking classes to sailing lessons.
Attendees gushed over the items and jotted down bids.
Round tables were covered by crisp white linens and decorated with charming centerpieces made of antique books, date stamps, library cards, and touches of mistletoe.
This was the most glamorous event I’d ever attended.
Lorenzo, David, Tolstoy, and I had signed up to “help out.” Of course, we noted that somehow the ALP had enough money to purchase ten cases of champagne but not enough to pay the waitstaff.
But this observation seemed insignificant compared to the seismic shift at the ALP—for the first time in fifty years, Meg would not take her place at the welcome table or refreshment stand.
She had been invited as a guest. To celebrate her retirement from volunteering, the four of us had pooled our money to buy her a corsage.
As I pinned it onto her silky blue dress, which matched her eyes perfectly, I told her that she looked lovely.
“I’m feeling my age,” she confided. “But I tell myself that books have lines, and if we’re lucky, our faces have lines with stories to tell.”
“Exactly.” I thought of my mother, who’d died too young to acquire those beautiful wrinkles and white hair. “You’ve been volunteering a long time. I think you’re right to turn the page.”
“Thank you. But, Lily dear, you sound exhausted,” Meg said.
“I am, a little.”
“You work too hard. Institutions are not people. They don’t love you back.”
“I’ve learned that.”
“When I first met you, I wanted to give you my key to the palace. But now I don’t want you to make the mistake of giving too much of yourself to this place. Save your energy for your writing.”
I hugged her. “I’m honored that you wanted to entrust it to me.”
We both regarded Tolstoy, who circulated among the guests serving appetizers.
“He’s thrived here,” Meg said.
In life, you could take things easy or take them hard. At the ALP, I took them too hard. With his combat experience, little setbacks wouldn’t affect Tolstoy the way they did me.
“He loves this place,” I said. “He’d make a great program manager.”
Meg nodded. “I’ll give him the key tomorrow.” She moved to join me behind the refreshment table before saying, “Force of habit,” with a chuckle.
I encouraged her to mingle. She was soon swept away by a debonaire book club leader.
I glanced at the clock above the door—Mary Louise and Antoine hadn’t arrived yet.
Maybe they weren’t coming. She was certainly angry with me for keeping the paintings.
And anyway, there was no guarantee that Antoine would like me.
I imagined him with gray hair, not much taller than her, five-seven at most. Divorced with kids her age.
Mary Louise was his clean slate, his blank canvas.
Someone new to laugh at jokes he’d repeated a thousand times.
He wouldn’t stop touching the skin of her upper arm, a curl of her hair, the curve of her cheek.
I blamed him for her giving up her art, and only hoped that I could hold in my resentment when we met.
If we met.
I took a deep breath and told myself that either way, I’d be okay. I’d reached out, the rest was up to Mary Louise. I respected her feelings and choices.
Writing Odile’s story gave me a sense of purpose and made me steadier somehow.
It felt important to write about the courageous Frenchwomen who crossed an ocean for love, most knowing that if it didn’t work out, they would not be able to afford to return home.
Because I’d thought about their plight for so long, I found the words flowed.
After reading a few chapters of The War Bride, Wendy had urged me to submit them.
I liked Colette Levy so much that I sent them to her first. She said she adored Odile’s story and wanted to publish it.
The advance was enough that I could finally write full-time, which meant my time at the library was coming to an end.
I was another one of those girls who didn’t even last a year.
I felt a little embarrassed about that. At least I’d forged some relationships with French editors that the next program manager could build on.
At Chris’s apartment, curled up on his couch, he and I had celebrated my book deal with bubbly.
He’d read Paul’s chapter and asked about the character, a policeman who frequented the library during the war.
We were both stunned to realize that Chris’s grandfather had been Odile’s beau.
Then again, maybe it made sense: he’d brought Chris to the ALP each Saturday not just to check out books but to glean what had happened to Odile.
“What do you think Paul would say if he knew that you were dating Odile’s adopted granddaughter?” I asked.
As he mulled over the question, Chris ran his hand through his hair.
“Grandpa deeply regretted his actions during the war. So seeing us in love, he’d probably say, ‘Even though I did wrong, things still turned out right.’ ”
I liked to think that was true. Tufts of Chris’s hair stood up straight. He was my book head, now and always. I loved how we talked about everything, or nothing at all. I loved him. His quiet encouragement. His hands on my hips. His lips on mine. I closed my eyes.
“Thinking about Book Head?” Lorenzo asked, bringing me back to the present. “You have that nauseating he’s-ever-so-dreamy expression on your face.”
He looked dapper in a blue suit set off by his paisley bow tie. I wore a dress I’d found on sale—an indestructible black sheath, all the better for serving red wine and my favorite gooey cheeses—Maroilles from the North and Munster from Alsace.
Before I could answer, Hayes strode up and inspected the charcuterie board. “No cheddar?”
“I ordered French cheeses for the special occasion.”
“So it’s your fault that it stinks to high heaven in here.”
At this accusation, the old me would have been gripped with guilt.
The new me just chuckled to myself as I recalled Lorenzo’s mantra: Always do what makes you happy; if people don’t like it, well, that’s just a bonus.
I’d learned not to care so much about what Hayes thought.
From booking excellent speakers to “helping out” this last time, I knew I’d done my best.
“Jennifer de Narp is headed this way,” Lorenzo told him.
Dread filled Hayes’s eyes, and he skulked off.
She was a vision in a pink Chanel gown. The matching clutch was only big enough for a lipstick, a credit card, and a condom.
She used it as a pointer while giving a tour to a potential donor.
She bragged about our lineup of speakers and statistics, specifically the strong attendance.
Appreciative of her praise, I wished I could confess that I’d kicked her to be done with my feelings of guilt and embarrassment, but the gala wasn’t the time.
After she handed off the gray-haired gentleman to Pam de Laney, she migrated to me. “You look like you have something on your mind.”
Lorenzo gestured for me to zip it.
I didn’t want to upset her, and I really didn’t want booze thrown in my face. “It can wait.”
“I’d rather know now.” Her lips pinched together.
“For a while, I’ve wanted to tell you how we know each other—or rather, how we first bumped into each other.”
“Well?”
“It was on the street, when I kicked you.” Casting my gaze downward, I waited for her to shout, What a horrible thing to do! or You’re fired! but she remained silent.
“I’m very sorry,” I continued, relieved to have the secret out. “I was working through some stuff, but that’s no excuse for taking it out on you.”
“I knew it was you,” she replied in a breezy tone.
My head shot up. “You knew?”
“I figured it out the third time I saw you.”
“Why didn’t you say anything?”
A smile twisted her lips. “It’s fun to watch you squirm.”
David passed with a tray of champagne. Ms. de Narp grabbed us each a flute.
She raised her glass to me. “You deserve to enjoy this moment. Cheers.”