Джанет Скеслин Чарльз - The Paris Library

“I’m a librarian. Well, I used to be.”

“I’d love to see your library. Maybe you could take me.”

I frowned.

“You’re right.” He rubbed his thigh. “With this bum leg, I should stay put. But I’d like to spend more time with you.”

The following afternoon, we picnicked on the stoop. He traded his cigarette rations for ham and a baguette. He told me that fields in Montana resembled a patchwork quilt. He told me there wasn’t a cloud in the big sky. He told me I needed to taste his mother’s beef stew. Two days later, he asked me to marry him.

I wanted to go away without seeing anyone I knew ever again. To start over and become someone else, someone better. I’d miss my parents, but they were better off without me. I’d miss my colleagues and my habitués, but in my absence, Margaret could remain. I loved the Library, but Margaret meant even more to me, and I would prove it to her.

“Little gal?” Buck gazed at me with such understanding, I felt I could tell him everything. Yet somehow, I sensed he already knew.

“Of course I’ll marry you.”

He pulled me close. I felt the warmth of his chest, the soft cotton of his shirt. I felt safe.

The day I’d come back from Brittany, I’d taken my suitcase to the Library. At dawn, when no one but the caretaker was about, I retrieved it along with the last batch of crow letters I had stolen. At Bitsi’s desk, which was covered with children’s drawings; sticky pens; and her favorite teacup, which no one else wanted because it was chipped, I wrote Dearest Bitsi, Please take tender care of Margaret. Tell Maman and Papa I’m fine, tell them I’m sorry. Look after the Professor’s manuscript. I love you like a sister, like a twin. Yours, Odile. I meandered through the Library to say goodbye. First to the periodical room, where it all began. To the reference room, where I’d learned as much as subscribers. To the Afterlife, where I ran my hand along the spines of the books to let them know they wouldn’t be forgotten. And I left the Library for the last time.

CHAPTER 46

Lily

FROID, MONTANA, FEBRUARY 1988

ON THE WAY home from Mary Louise’s, Odile asked what I’d almost said to Keith.

“Nothing.”

“Lily,” she chided.

“She cheated on him with a custom cutter.”

“That’s none of your business. Why would you tell?”

“I don’t know!”

“Well, think about it.”

“I wanted her to myself again.”

“Is it possible that you’re angry with her?” Odile asked.

“Maybe.”

“What’s her real crime?”

“I don’t want to talk about it.”

“Tough!”

I knew she wouldn’t let it go. “I don’t have a boyfriend, but she’s had two. These last months, she completely forgot me.”

“I understand,” Odile said.

It felt so good to hear those words. The sour bile dissipated.

“If Mary Louise has done something to hurt you, tell her,” she continued. “Don’t bottle it up, and don’t think her being unhappy will make you feel better. Mary Louise has a big heart—there’s room for you and Keith.”

As we walked up onto Odile’s driveway, she said, “You’ll have boyfriends, too.”

“Yeah, right.”

“Believe me.” Under the stars, I could see her solemn expression. “Love will come and go and come again. But if you’re lucky to have a true friend, treasure her. Don’t let her go.”

She was right, I needed to treasure Mary Louise. But if I was ever to confess to Mary Louise what I’d almost done, I was sure she’d never talk to me again.

Odile unlocked the front door and we sank onto her couch.

“I want to run away.”

“Don’t run,” Odile said.

“Why shouldn’t I?”

“I’ll tell you why. Because I ran away.”

“What?”

“Like you, I felt ashamed. I ran away from my parents. My job. And my husband.”

“You left Buck?”

“No, my first husband. My French husband.”

I was confused.

“You’re not the only one who was jealous of your dearest friend,” Odile admitted.

“You?”

“I betrayed her.” She touched her tarnished belt buckle. “Margaret said she never wanted to see me again. She and I shared the same social circle, and we both adored the Library. But for her, it was a labor of love—she’d volunteered selflessly, giving without getting a centime in return.”

“How could you leave?”

“If I’d stayed, she would have lost everything, most especially the place she called home. I loved the Library, but I loved Margaret more. Too ashamed to tell friends and family the truth, too afraid of the consequences, I married Buck and left France without saying farewell. I’ve never seen my brother’s grave and hope my parents were able to claim his body.” She took a deep breath. “I ran. And until you, I’ve never told anyone.”

I threw my arms around her, but she didn’t hug me back.

“I can never forgive myself,” she whispered.

“For what you did to Margaret?”

“For abandoning her.”

“She told you to go.”

“Sometimes that’s when you should stay.”

Stunned by what she’d said, I surveyed the ferns near the window, the tidy stack of records, the shelf of our favorite books. After the tornado of revelations, I almost expected to find that these things had crashed to the floor.

“But… you always know the right thing to say.”

“Because I’ve said so many wrong things.”

“Are you really a bigamist?”

“Buck’s dead. So not any longer.”

We chuckled, though it wasn’t funny. But it kind of was.

“What did you do? Was it so bad?”

When Odile finished telling the tale of Margaret and her lover, and how Paul and his cronies had attacked her, the missing pieces snapped into place and I could see the whole picture.

“Even if what you say is true—”

“It’s true,” she said sharply. “They shattered her wrist.”

“It wasn’t your fault. You didn’t break any bones.”

“I might as well have. I told.”

“Each person is responsible for their actions.”

“Generally, I’d agree,” she said, “but not in this case. The stakes were too high. I put Margaret in danger. I never breathed a word of this to anyone, not even Buck.” She looked me straight in the eye. “But I’m telling you because I don’t want you to make the same mistake. Control your jealousy, or it will control you.”

I wished I could convince Odile of what I felt to be true, that she would never hurt anyone.

“Do you ever wonder what happened to Margaret? Do you think she went to England for her daughter? Did you ever try to contact her, to see if she’s okay?”

Odile opened a drawer and took out a newspaper clipping from June 1980 of the Herald , and I scanned the profile of Margaret Saint James:

We’d lost lovers, family, friends, our livelihoods. Many of us were picking up the pieces of our lives, though some pieces were lost forever. We had to re-create ourselves.

I had an acquaintance who dealt with this loss by destroying things. The crashing of plates hitting the floor was her solace. Perhaps she wanted to break things before they broke her, but the destruction bothered me. Those were lean years in Paris; rationing continued well after the war. We were hungry and tired.

I asked her maid to give me the shards, thinking that I could mend them, but they were beyond repair. I put fragments together to brighten my daughter’s worn clothing. Library subscribers admired the brooches. I started selling them, and Parisiennes wore my work. What is fashionable in Paris is soon worn the world over.

I was thrilled to glimpse Margaret, alive and well, and a real artiste. “Are you sure she lost custody of her daughter?”