Лори Касс: Booking The Crook

The architects had taken advantage of the building’s Arts and Crafts style and had revitalized its miles of interior wood trim. They’d added large square tile flooring to the lobby and wide hallways. The reading room had a fireplace and window seats. Colored metallic tiles highlighted everything from drinking fountains to directional signs. What had been the school gymnasium now housed the bulk of the library’s books, with custom-made oak tables and lamps that invited people to sit and stay. Every time I walked into the building, its beauty almost took my breath away.

Even now, the view from the second-floor boardroom of picturesque downtown Chilson and Janay Lake was gorgeous. Sure, everything was covered with a fresh layer of snow and the lake was frozen, but if you lived in northwest lower Michigan year-round, your mental health depended on finding beauty in winter.

“Looking forward to working with you,” Trent Ross said politely.

“Likewise,” Graydon said. The only person I’d ever heard use that word in conversation was a long-ago college professor who had tried to teach me statistics, and hearing it from my new boss did not summon happy memories. “And I’m looking forward to having more meetings,” he said, nodding.

Otis gazed at him. “My boy, don’t make the board regret hiring you.”

Graydon laughed. “I was being a bit facetious. It’s this room.” He nodded at the wood-paneled walls, the long corporate-looking table, and the blotters placed in front of every chair. “It makes me feel that important things are being discussed. It makes me feel dignified.”

I smiled, because I felt the same way about the boardroom. Rather, I’d come to feel that way once I’d recovered from being intimidated by its atmosphere. Now that I was a mature thirty-four years old, I was over being intimidated by pretty much anyone or anything. My knee-jerk reaction regarding Graydon started to ease.

“So. Tell me about the bookmobile,” Trent said, sitting back and steepling his fingers.

“Do I have a time limit?” I asked, smiling.

Otis laughed. “Minnie Hamilton can talk about the bookmobile for hours. I’ve heard her.”

“That won’t be necessary.” Trent glanced at a band of electronics strapped to his wrist. “Ten minutes should be plenty.”

The man was delusional. That wasn’t anywhere near enough to tell the story of the bookmobile. How it got started, why it got started, its many successes, its few failures, and how we were using it to bring more outreach into the county’s many rural communities, none of which had a bricks-and-mortar library.

And what was his hurry, exactly? We’d been told Mr. Trent Ross was a retired attorney, recently moved up from the Chicago area. What could possibly be more important to him than learning about the bookmobile?

I tried to hitch my thoughts together into a cohesive heap. “Well, the bookmobile came about because—”

“Sorry,” Trent interrupted, looking again at his wrist. “My ten o’clock appointment is early.” He stood. “Minnie, it was nice meeting you. Graydon, Otis.” He nodded at the men and left.

As Otis drifted into regaling Graydon with tales about past library boards and off-color stories about past board members, my thoughts drifted into worry, in spite of my recent commitment to stop doing so. The bookmobile was my pride and joy, and keeping it funded was a constant preoccupation. If the new board president was anti-bookmobile, how long would it take for the full board to start thinking like that? How long would it take them to vote it away?

• • •

I wasn’t all the way into the break room when my coworkers pounced.

“What’s he like?”

“Is he going to be a jerk?”

“Did he say anything about the IT budget? We really need a new server.”

“How did it go?”

Ignoring the questions, I pushed through the group to get to the coffeepot. Once I had a mug full of caffeine, I started answering their questions. To Holly Terpening, a full-time clerk a few years older than myself, I said, “Graydon likes the building, so that’s a good sign.” To Kelsey, a part-time clerk a couple of years younger than me, I said, “He doesn’t come across as a jerk,” then buried my face in coffee.

Josh, our full-time IT guy, shifted from foot to foot until I came up for air. He looked so anxious that I felt a little guilty that I was about to give him the facts of life. Which at thirty-something he should have known, especially since he was now a homeowner, but perhaps he wasn’t raised properly. “We didn’t talk about budgets or major purchases. They weren’t even mentioned.”

I shut my ears to his moan of pain and turned to Donna. I still couldn’t decide who I wanted to be most like when I grew up; right now it was a tie between Aunt Frances and Donna, who at seventy-two was working part-time at the library to support her habits of running marathons all over the country and snowshoeing in faraway mountain lands after being dropped off by a helicopter. “You asked how it went. Well . . .” I took a sip of coffee. Then another one.

The previous library director, Jennifer Walker, had been universally disliked. Though I’d tried valiantly to refrain from criticizing her during her short stay, I hadn’t always been successful. I wasn’t proud of that behavior, and since I was always trying to learn from my mistakes, I framed my response to Donna carefully.

I wasn’t about to lie—not only did I think lying was unethical, immoral, and just plain wrong, but quality fibbing required a prodigious memory, a trait that had not yet emerged in my character—so the truth was my only option. However, there was no reason to tell the whole truth.

“Graydon,” I said, “seems to be an all-around decent guy. He’s from Grand Rapids, and he’s spent a lot of time Up North over the years. Not just in the summer,” I said, forestalling a typical comment from locals regarding downstaters, “because he and his family like to ski.”

Chilson was one of those small towns that was full to bursting from Memorial Day to Labor Day with tourists and summer people up to their lakefront cottages. Old money had come up the Lake Michigan shore on steamers to escape the Chicago heat, and new money was still building houses everywhere else. Tourists included everyone imaginable, and in summer you could see just about anyone on the street, from your third grade teacher to the owner of the biggest tech company in the world.

In winter, though, things were different. Winter was when some restaurants and retail stores closed down completely, because there was no reason to stay open for the two people who might wander in.

On the plus side, winter in Chilson was when you never had to wait in line anywhere for anything. It was when there was never any problem finding a parking space. And when, if your car happened to slide in a ditch, the next car going past would stop and help you get out. Yes, winter was snowy and cold, but it was also full of friends. It was almost a pity that Jennifer hadn’t stayed long enough to understand that.

“Good,” Donna said. “So Graydon has potential to not be a total disaster. How about Trent?”

I’d felt the question coming, so I’d buried my face in my coffee mug to give me more time. Two swallows later, I was ready. “It seemed like Trent and Graydon have a lot in common.” Their commonality might be surficial, but if I kept talking, odds were good that no one would ask for details. “Trent is an Up North newbie, and it seems like he wants to get involved and help make us even better.”

Holly and Josh grinned and bumped knuckles, but Donna gave me a searching look, and I remembered that she had years of experience working with boards of various shapes and sizes.