Chapter 22 December 1995 Lily Jacobsen—Program Manager #2
Twenty minutes later, the couple I was waiting for arrived.
Mary Louise! Merveilleux! My heart sang.
His eyes fixed on her, Antoine escorted her under the arch covered with holly.
I had to admit that they looked good together.
He was dashing in his tux, and her simple pastel Cacharel dress suited her.
As they got their bearings, they took in the pine trees, the champagne pyramid, her Eiffel Tower tableau.
While he gazed at her painting, she gave a quick wave.
I dove through the crowd, elbowing patrons out of the way.
I wanted to hug her but contented myself by saying, “You came!”
“Sorry it took so long to finally get here.”
I knew she was talking about not just the library but a place where we could be together.
“You must be Lily. A pleasure to meet you.” Antoine shook my hand.
His gaze returned to Mary Louise’s painting. “I sensed it was yours immediately,” he told her. “Many Parisians are blasé. I love your perception of the city, your love for Paris. I must bid on it.” He strode to the table and picked up the clipboard.
I’d been prepared to hate Antoine, but his admiration for Mary Louise’s work melted my jaded heart.
Mary Louise asked if readings were always so swanky, and I explained that tonight was a fundraiser with a bigger budget than our usual events.
From afar, I heard Hayes’s intake of breath. “Christ!” he hissed. “That’s Antoine de Pouvrey. How did I not know he would be here?”
“Lily put him on the list,” Felicity replied.
“She wrote ‘Mary Louise and Antoine.’ How was I supposed to know that she was friends with the CEO of Techtron?” He gathered the trustee posse and prepared to pounce.
“Thanks for not making a fuss over Antoine,” Mary Louise told me, perhaps overhearing the conversation herself. “He hates being fawned over.”
Suddenly, I understood what he saw in her—the same thing I did, a good-hearted person who was not swayed by money or power. He loved her for the right reasons.
“Sorry about my boss,” I told Mary Louise with a remorseful shrug. “I’m sure he means well, but he’s the worst.”
“He gave you a hard time?” She whipped out a small pad from her purse and drew a quick sketch. “He’ll be sorry. Give me a sec.”
“You’re working on a new series?”
“No, but I might. We could call it bastard bosses.” She held up her caricature of Hayes. If anyone deserved to have an exaggerated chin and dollar signs for eyes, it was him.
“That’s one hundred percent accurate. You’re an excellent judge of character. Have I ever told you that?”
“No.”
“Well, I should have. It’s one of the things that makes you a great painter. It’s as if you see into someone’s soul.”
“Tonight’s the first time I’ve wanted to draw in ages.
Maybe the library inspired me.” She regarded me with her doe eyes, and I felt her fragility but also her strength.
“I always painted for me. I don’t know why I let that snobby gallerist we pitched discourage me.
Many people have said they loved my work.
Why do I only hear his voice? I’ll figure out a way to drown it out. ”
“I’m glad.” I couldn’t help it—I hugged her. “I’m sorry. For everything. I’m ready to listen if you ever want to talk.”
I’d been so certain. Certain about what Mary Louise should do, who she should date, that we should be artists in Paris. I needed to remember that she had her own strengths and to give her credit for all she was and all she’d accomplished.
“I appreciate your saying that. Thank you for believing in me.” She gestured to her painting. “My best work on display at a black-tie event. Thank you for making my dream come true.”
She’d forgiven me. I promised myself that I would do better. In the future, Mary Louise and I would probably make more missteps, but hopefully we’d find a way to talk through hurt feelings.
“I’m really happy for you,” I told her. “Antoine seems like a great guy.”
“Thank you. And I’m happy for you, too—tonight seems like a big success. Let’s debrief over coffee tomorrow. I must hear more about this place!”
I grinned as I considered my end-of-year statistics.
Times I was yelled at: 5
Times I wanted to give up: 8
Times I was glad I stuck it out: 8
Events hosted: 72
Times I was proud of our literary fellowship: 72
Total number of attendees (excluding Pam de Laney, who refused to sign in): 3635
Events Mary Louise attended: 1
How certain I was that all would be well between Mary Louise and me: 100%
Number of friends made at the ALP: countless
An hour later, the bids were tallied, and Hayes gathered us in the reading room. At the podium, he announced, “Thanks to my efforts, we’ve raised over ten thousand dollars tonight and secured five million from our sponsors.”
This was how it ended? Jennifer de Narp did years of unpaid work as a trustee, Felicity Jenner used her contacts to find funding, and Hayes got the credit? No, he took the credit.
Through the din of lukewarm applause, I told Lorenzo, “I can’t believe that Hayes didn’t at least thank the trustees and staff.”
“I can,” he replied. “Jerks like him always get ahead.”
Thanks to the hard work of others. “How do you put up with it?”
“I’m considering moving on,” he confessed. “I applied for a job in the French library system. I took their exam and aced it. Soon, I’ll be a fonctionnaire.”
A state employee. France’s holy grail. “Truly unfireable. Plus, you could torture a whole new set of co-workers.”
“And a new set of readers. Expand my reach. I’ll miss you, though. You’re one of my favorite people to torture.”
I elbowed him in thanks. “I’ll miss you, too. The gala is starting to feel like a going-away party.”
“What do you mean?”
“I just put in my resignation.” It was time.
He nodded. “That makes sense. You can concentrate on your writing.”
“How?” How was he always a step ahead of everyone?
He gave a little shrug. “My awesome little author, I know everything.”
Jennifer de Narp took the podium. Applause broke out.
“Thank you all for coming out tonight. Un grand merci to our donors for your bids. I have an announcement to make. As of the fifteenth of next month, I will be taking over as director.”
Pam de Laney and the other board members moved to stand behind Jennifer. They were the period at the end of her sentence.
“It took time,” Meg told Lorenzo and me. “But she got the trustees to vote him out. Her palace coups are brutal, but at least there’s no bloodshed.”
“The director is dead,” I said.
“Long live the director,” Lorenzo replied.
“We thank Quentin Hayes for the time and energy he has given, and wish him well in his future endeavors,” Jennifer said.
Strangely, Hayes appeared relieved, like a bank robber who’d been in hiding for years, finally busted and able to drop the act. “Another job eulogy,” he muttered.
“I’d like to thank Felicity Jenner for her work tonight,” Jennifer continued. “And am thrilled that she’ll be joining the staff as our full-time fundraiser.”
More hearty applause.
“We’d also like to recognize Meg Bauer, a.k.a.
Margaret Saint James, for her fifty years of service.
” Jennifer gestured for Meg to join her and handed her a bouquet.
“She is the epitome of kindness, generosity, and warmth. Many of us would not be here without her. I often came to the library more for Meg than for the books. She means the world to me and to the ALP community. I know this isn’t a goodbye. ”
The two women embraced, and patrons advanced to offer thanks and congratulations to Meg.
Wendy strode toward me. “Thanks for the invite. What an amazing shindig. This is my husband, Roberto, who’s helping me produce the documentary.” She gestured behind her to a man carrying a movie camera.
Pam de Laney had waylaid him and suggested he “help out” by filming our gala for the ALP archives.
“You’re so lucky to live in Paris,” Wendy continued.
“Roberto and I fantasize about staying here for good. We even applied for one of those compétences et talents visas. I also put in to be the next writer in residence here. The library is incredible. Just look at the display of patrons’ favorite books.
The camaraderie makes it so inviting, I could totally write my next book here. ”
Behind us, Jennifer told Pam, Time to upgrade.
We’ll paint these blah beige walls a stark white.
She tapped her stiletto. We’ll pull up this puke-green monstrosity and put down charcoal-gray carpet.
We’ll only invite heavy hitters who’ve won the Pulitzer or teach at Harvard.
Pam nodded approvingly and replied, Instead of the wonky welcome table, we’ll install a plexiglass gate that members can open with their card.
We’re bringing the ALP into the next century. It’s exciting to think about.
The library had a history, and thanks to the dedicated book lovers and money raised at the gala, that story would go on, no matter who worked here, no matter who called the ALP home.
Meg had become a dear friend. She’d been taken for granted by ALP directors, yet the library gave her the greatest friendships and a place she felt at home.
The library had stripped me of my confidence, but had helped me find my path to publication and introduced me to Chris as well as to amazing colleagues.
We didn’t have to work together to remain friends.
Life was a book, and I couldn’t wait to start my next chapter.