The Sweetest Chill

[Cactus Jack]

Pierre Gustave hadn't written in three weeks.

She walked carefully, mindful of the cracks in the rain-slicked sidewalk underfoot, and did her best not to be pensive about it. But it was a pensive day—a blanket of clouds had smothered the sun and enveloped New York City in morose grey, and it had been drizzling all morning, too—and she found herself counting back the days since Pierre Gustave's last letter.

Marie knew it wasn't necessarily cause for disquiet. A soldier had little time for letter-writing. The war was straying further and further away across the sea, inching towards victory and taking Pierre Gustave with it. And if she couldn't help succumbing to the urge to worry, then at least she could take a kind of cruel comfort in knowing she wasn't alone—she could see the same distraction in each crestfallen, rain-streaked face she passed, as grave and grey as the sky above, dark with thoughts of brothers and fathers, sons and husbands a world away. Perhaps the man who emerged from the Society Library as she approached the door, hat pulled low over his face like a wraith, was too busy thinking about letters from his brother to hold the door for her.

She slipped in after him before the door closed like water through a fissure in the hull of a warship. War, she thought as she stepped from the rain into the dimly-lit corridor, was no place for a starry-eyed dreamer like her brother; it made cynics of men, brought them low, ruined their faith in one another. Oftentimes Marie thought they had taken the wrong LaSalle sibling, that it would have been better had she gone to the front instead, woman though she was—she who had been born a cynic, born low, she who had never had any faith in people to ruin. She wouldn't come home changed, a stranger, the way she sometimes feared Pierre Gustave would.

It was warm inside the library, and she shrugged off her coat, thoroughly soaked from the half-hour walk in the rain, hung it on the rack by the door to the lobby to dry. She raked her fingers through the short, sodden shocks of her hair, less in an effort to fashion them into something approaching presentable—she knew that was a battle she was doomed to lose at the best of times—and more to keep them from matting against her forehead. Still, the gesture earned her a knowing smile from Helena as she approached the front desk.

"I'm not sure I've ever seen your hair looking tame, Miss LaSalle," she said pleasantly, leaning forward in her chair. Helena was a young New York native, happily betrothed to a man whose severe stutter had disqualified him from military service. She seemed eternally delighted with Marie's accent, and insisted on referring to her as 'Miss LaSalle', as though Marie were a kindly Dixieland matron in her twilight years. Broadly speaking, Marie detested her. Helena had yet to notice.

"If only I had so much time for hair care each day as you must, Helena," Marie shot back coolly, choking down the urge to reach up and rub last night's sleeplessness from her black-ringed eyes. She glanced around the lobby, and was not surprised to see it largely barren of life—the Society Library's clients generally made a beeline for the private reading and research rooms, where they could ask any staff who happened to be roving around to pull items for them. "Head upstairs, Helena," she suggested, in a voice that made a cursory effort at sounding sincere and then stopped bothering halfway through. "I'll take care of things down here."

The younger woman perked up instantly. "That's a wonderful idea!" she effervesced. "I was just thinking somebody should be minding the reading rooms." She bounded up to her feet like a little puppy at the promise of a walk, and circumvented the front desk. She'd all but skipped her way across the lobby to the stairwell when she paused, one hand resting on the lacquered mahogany banister, and glanced back at Marie. Behind her, a trail of works by Audubon flowed up along the dark green wall of the stairwell. She stood directly in front of a portrait of a great blue heron, rendered in Audubon's familiar, precise brushstrokes; it leaned down, long neck extended, as if it were trying to peer into Helena's ear and check—as Marie was sometimes inclined to doubt—if she really had a brain. "Won't you be lonesome down here by yourself, though?" she ventured with a kind of childlike genuineness.

Marie hardly spared her a glance. "I shall have to find some way to endure," she said as she took Helena's place behind the front desk. She heard Helena go gamboling up the stairs, and set her bag on the desk beside a stack of books Helena had presumably pulled for an earlier client. She paid them no mind. She opened her bag and reached inside it—shuffled through notes and scraps of paper, pens and sketchpads, and then finally managed to extricate a weathered Virginia Woolf hardcover, clutched in her hand like a hard-won prize.

She settled back in her chair and opened the book, its old spine cracking, as if it were an old woman getting up out of her easy chair and groaning with the effort. The rain scuttled softly, lazily, against the walls and the windows, and but for the occasional hushed sound from upstairs—a chair shifting against the floor, a door opening and closing—she could almost imagine there was nothing in the world, nothing but herself, the book, and the rain.

It wasn't as comforting an illusion as it'd used to be. It felt too much like those days in Ville Platte, those sweltering, rainy summers after her father had passed away and her younger brother had gone off to school. It felt too much like those days that solitude had ceased to be a comfort, a sanctuary, had day by day become a cross-- one Marie, if only out of familiarity, couldn't find it in herself to part with. But Pierre Gustave hadn't written in three weeks, and the cross had borne down heavier and heavier for every minute of them.

 

[beanie]

Eve Clark was rushing, as she often was, to get her chores done while trying in vain to ignore the screaming cries of small children for just a few minutes more. She was in the process of dumping a pile of soiled clothing into the kitchen sink and turning the squeaky faucet on, letting warm water fill the basin before calling out, "Okay, okay. I'm coming." She stepped into the main room to attend to five red-faced toddlers, all trying to out-squeal each other.
She scooped one up at random, a plump boy covered in rolls, bouncing him on her hip to try and quell his cries and then reached for a dark, curly haired girl with snot dripping down her face along with tears. With her arms full, she softly tried to shush the other three howling babies still on the mat when a sudden gasp of realization fell from her lips. She ran back into the small kitchen to discover sudsy water spilling over the sink and cascading down the bottom cabinets. "No, no," she pleaded under her breath, struggling to shut off the faucet with her elbow.
In all the commotion, she failed to hear the front door open and close and her aunt stepped into the stream that was once the kitchen tile, releasing a gasp that finally captured Eve's attention.
"Genevieve!" was all Ida Burton could sputter as she splashed over to the sink to stop the ever-flowing water.
"I'm so sorry, Aunt Ida!" Eve said quickly, attempting to dump all her sincerity into that one 'sorry' as Ida grabbed one of the children clinging to Eve's neck. And if was sorry, most of it embarrassment as her face and ears were bright red, often the case after even the most minor of inconveniences.
"What on earth were you trying to accomplish?" Ida demanded but in a voice that didn't sound like she was looking for an answer as she surveyed the damage. "We can't afford water damage. I really believed I could leave you alone for a few hours. You're twenty six for Christ's sake!" It wasn't like her aunt to curse, so Eve knew she was angry, furious even.
"I was trying to get my work done so I'd have time to mail my letter to Terence and perhaps go to the library," Eve explained, the last bit mumbled under her breath.
"I could have mailed that letter when I was out today," Ida said, flustered. "And if you wanted to mail that letter yourself so badly, you have just told me. I would have tried to come back earlier."
"I know, Aunt Ida," Eve said, ever apologetic.
"Just put these down, would you? And hand Louise over," Ida ordered, gesturing at the curly haired baby still in Eve's arms. Eve traded her off for the towels Ida held, which were spread on the tiles, water eagerly seeping into the faded threads. Eve then hopped over the towels and hung in the doorway of the main room, waiting for Ida to offer her an olive branch. And she did, saying without facing her neice, "You may go mail your letter so long as the kitchen floor is mopped and the clothes in the sink hung out to dry."
Eve kept herself composed but inside, she was rejoicing. If she hurried, she could make it to the library before it closed. Ida must have heard Eve wrestling with the mop and bucket because she called out, "Slow down and do it right."
"Yes, Aunt Ida," Eve replied, careful to walk lightly and work quickly as she snapped up the sopping towels, ringing them into the bucket and slapping the mop across the floor, catching any drop of water left behind. Then she flung the kitchen window open, yanking on the clothes line, pulleying it towards herself and clipping the still-dripping onesies to it, the heaviness causing the line to sag. She readied to slam the window but she remembered her aunt's words and closed to gently.
She then raced to her small room, threw off her apron, buttoned her coat over her housedress, slipped into a pair of black pumps, and grabbed her book, purse, and letter off her dresser. "Bye, Aunt Ida!" she called as she reached the front door.
"Done already? Genevieve---," Ida's voice said from the main room but Eve interrupted her with another quick, "Bye!" before closing the door behind her.
Rain fell in heavy drops as Eve ran off the steps of the apartment and onto the sidewalk but the woman paid no mind. Rain was the least of her concerns as she shoved the letter and book under her coat to protect from water damage. Eve broke into a run, her feet pounding against the ground in a bid to reach the library in time.
And she reached the Society Library steps with deep pink cheeks and shallow breaths as she stumbled through the doors, shrugging off her coat and hanging it on the rack near the door.
She reddened to be standing in a housedress in public but she pushed it aside, marching up to the counter.
She was caught off-guard however to see a different girl behind the counter instead of the cheery girl she usually encountered. Eve set, not slammed, the book onto the counter. "Hello," she called to the woman, who seemed entranced by the book in her hands. She looked, for lack of a better word, exhausted with deep crescents under focused eyes. Eve figured everyone was just a bit tired these days. War seemed to have that effect, a dark and heavy cloud above them all, not until the clouds just outside the library.
"I just finished this book. It's the last novel by J.H. Smy on your shelves, at least that I've found. Do you know of something similar to their work? Sorry to bother you. I see you're into a book of your own," she added.

 

[Cactus Jack]

Marie didn't hear her at first. She didn't hear her at second, either—or, for that matter, at third. She sat hunched over the book on the desk in front of her, pale cheek resting against the palm of her hand, lost in words that had become familiar friends to her in the years she'd read them over and over again. She could have shut her eyes mid-sentence and recited them from memory-- not least of all this excerpt that she had returned to so many times over. Clarissa thinks longingly of her youthful indiscretions with Sally Seton. She reminisces about the day Sally picked a flower for her, the day they shared a kiss, the day the whole world vanished except for them. Thirty years later, disappointed with what the world has made of her and Sally Seton—disappointed with what they've allowed the world to make of them, maybe—she remembers that day as the happiest moment of her life.

Marie, for her part, remembered discussing the book, discussing this very excerpt, with John Rutherford back when he had been head librarian. She could distinctly remember the way the silver bush of his mustache would twitch with every movement of his lips, like jungle foliage shifting with the movements of an unseen predator. "Sally Seton," he had declared. "is emblematic of Clarissa's callow desire to defy social convention and challenge society. She exists solely as a personification of that trait, and as a symbol of Clarissa's decision to abandon reckless illusion for the realities of maturity." Were that all it was, she'd been tempted to ask, why in the world would the author have made that one moment of taboo intimacy with Sally Seton the happiest of Clarissa's life—not her marriage to Robert Dalloway, not her dalliance with Peter Walsh, but that?

She'd elected to keep her peace. Arguing with the old man had only ever succeeded in embittering the both of them. A month later, having received news that his grandson had been killed at Bataan, he'd retired, and vanished from Marie's life as quietly as he'd entered it. Likewise, the memory of his gray old face, of his gravelly voice rendering his thoughts on a particular text with all the conviction of judicial fiat, vanished from her thoughts—she shooed it away like some vagrant cat that—try though she might to keep it out of the house—always managed to find some open window to crawl through.

Only then—just as she had turned her thoughts back to the familiar words in front of her—did Marie realize she was no longer alone in the lobby. Hadn't been alone, she gathered from the other woman's patient gaze, for an embarrassing amount of time.

She straightened up in her chair and blinked. Everything about the other woman was small. Of course, Marie was no giant, she'd always been short as a stool and skinny as a reed, but this woman seemed small-- as if the Library in all its vastness could swallow her up the way the ocean might swallow up a grain of sand, dredged up from some distant shore. Still, something about her arrested Marie's attention, just long enough for her to stare wordlessly until it occurred to her that the woman had, very probably, asked her a question.

Marie cleared her throat, resting her hands on the pages of the book laid open in front of her. "Beg pardon?" she drawled, vowels drawn out and consonants softened in that way that seemed to so thrill Helena. As the woman spoke, Marie's eyes drifted down to the book she'd set on the desk—and the moment her gaze settled upon the name of the author, her heart went cold as a Brooklyn winter.

J.H. Smy.

J.H. Smy! Her literary nemesis! The White Whale to her Ahab, the tantalizing object of her enmity—no, the Rodion to her Cincinnatus, ignorant and absurd, pleasantly oblivious to her ill will—no, the Claudius to her Hamlet, an artistic pretender to the throne who must be brought down—she hit the brakes on that train of thought before it derailed altogether. She was no stranger to requests that offended her literary sensibilities. She'd helped dozens of clients—however grudgingly—find books she personally felt were fit only for the fireplace. All she had to do was do her job so she could see this woman off, sit back down, and go back to reading—

Which was all well and good, except that by the time she'd arrived at this conclusion, her mouth was already halfway to a very different conclusion.

"Listen," she only vaguely heard herself say. "There are thousands of books within these walls—works that have been enshrined in the canon of human creation. We have Virgil. We have the Bronte sisters. We have Twain. Why in the world," she finished with unveiled disgust. "Would you ask for J.H. Smy?"

 

[beanie]

It was clear to Eve that the woman behind the counter wasn't aware of her presence as she seemed incredibly invested in the book opened in her hands. Eve debated repeating herself but instead tapped the pads of her fingertips against the counter top in a bid to subtly capture the other woman's attention. However, she didn't have to wait long when the lady raised her head and fixed her blue eyes on Eve, who in turn, offered a polite smile back and straightened her shoulders in a bid to appear taller.
The woman spoke and her words were coated in an accent that Eve didn't recognize. She had expected the thick New York accent that she had grown accustomed to since moving to the city and had a hard time hiding her amusement as she said, "I'm here to return this book and see if there's any simular authors since this is the last Smy book on your shelves."
However, Eve's eyebrows shot up in surprise when the woman openly judged her choice of literature. Never before had Eve had any issues when checking out a Smy novel when the other librarian was behind the counter but this woman seemed to have a particular distaste for the author and Eve could sort of guess why. The novels couldn't exactly be considered high tiered literature but Eve enjoyed them. She enjoyed the love stories and how even the most complicated of problems would be solved within one hundred pages. The novels could allow her to leave her life behind for just a few hours at a time as she focused on the issues of fictional characters.
But now, Eve's face reddened, deeply embarrassed as she felt she was being called out on her guiltest of guilty pleasures. "Well," she stammered, quite flustered as she searched for a retort. "I-I've tried the Bronte sisters, a bit dull, and Mark Twain was too rural for my tastes. I haven't tried Virgil but I'm quite positive I won't enjoy it. I guess I just prefer a good love story where everything works out in the end! If you're such an expert on what can be acceptable literature for others to read, may I ask what you'd might suggest?"
Her cheeks grew more and more pink as she spoke and by the time she finished, her arms were crossed tightly against her chest. She felt rather protective over the novels that were one slice of sunshine in her otherwise bleak world. But Eve had to admit that she was curious to hear what the woman would suggest for her to read as she was curious over what she had been reading earlier.

 

[Cactus Jack]

Marie was no stranger to having her accent made the object of derision. She'd had the pleasure many times since coming to New York City. Pierre Gustave had never seemed to have that problem-- he'd gamboled along through every conversation with such verve and confidence that folks were too busy liking him to notice the accent. But Marie had never been so effortlessly likable. At first, in those early months after leaving home, she'd tried to affect an accent more in keeping with her new trappings, resulting in a Frankensteinian aberration of an accent that sounded like neither New York nor her native Acadiana and mostly resembled a severe speech impediment.

In the end, she'd resigned herself to the mockery-- had, if anything, clung defiantly to the accent as a relic of home-- but that didn't mean she didn't notice the amusement in the other woman's voice when she spoke to her, the same old thinly veiled ridicule. Marie decided instantly that she didn't like her.

Unfortunately, not liking a customer was not a valid reason to ignore them. Had it been so-- oh, if only it had been so-- Marie would have been perfectly happy to tell each and every buffoon who came traipsing up to her desk to get lost. Instead, she merely glared at the woman for a moment, black-ringed eyes narrowed to venomous slits, before grudgingly she shut the book in front of her and stood up.

"No, no," she said, in a polite tone that was veiled with frost. "If you want more Smy, then by all means, you can have more Smy. Please, follow me." She turned and walked around the desk without so much as a backward glance toward the woman. Stupid thing to say, she thought with a scowl as she led the woman down one of the hallways that snaked off into the library. She didn't even know why she'd said it, wasn't sure what she'd been hoping for-- that she'd go cavorting along the shelves, plucking out Sherwood Anderson and Edith Wharton as she went and piling them up in the woman's arms, extolling their virtues all the while? That the woman would go home, laden with books like loaves of bread in a baker's arms? That she would come back the next day, and they would wile the hours away talking about the chapters she'd read, chapters Marie had read time and time again over the years?

She frowned. No, that didn't seem right. Maybe she'd just seen it as a sterling opportunity to introduce a Smy devotee to something resembling actual literature.

In minutes-- silent, uncomfortable minutes-- the labyrinthine course of the library's hallways had brought her to the American fiction section. She'd glimpsed not so much as a soul between the shelves as she'd gone: with customers generally relegated to the reading rooms, the shelves themselves were the domain of the librarians, and with the war sapping their reserves of manpower, the halls had become a ghost town. She ran her fingertips along the spines of the books, following along the familiar numbers, until at last her fingertip came to rest on the embossed letters of Smy's name. "There," she grunted without looking at the woman. "I'm sure you'll find something you haven't seen yet. Now if you'll pardon me…" She turned on her heel and marched back down the way they'd come, intent on returning to her desk and reading the day away.

Still, some sense of unease-- new and unfamiliar, alien to the many kinds of unease she'd had to get used to since Pierre Gustave had left--followed after her. It followed her back to her desk, and when, that evening, she returned to her empty, silent house, it followed her there, too.

.

.

.

A week came and went without a word from the front, and Marie's unease lingered like a ghost clinging to familiar haunts. That morning, after a night of thunder and rain, the sullen grey clouds had parted to unveil the sun for the first time in what felt like years, but Marie was in no mood for sunshine. She walked along the concrete sidewalk, darkened by the rain, hands shifting pensively in the pockets of her pants. Earlier that morning, having forced herself to part ways with her bedsheets and dragged herself to the bathroom to wash up, she'd nearly recoiled from her own image in the mirror. The black rings beneath her eyes had become as deep and dark as gouges in the canvas of an old painting, stark against her pale skin, and the lines of worry and exhaustion in her face were more pronounced than ever. That sight, too, lingered in her mind.

When, she wondered as she walked, did I turn into such a wreck?

Blessedly, Helena was not manning the front desk when Marie arrived in the lobby of the library— she wasn't sure she could suffer that asinine woman for so much as a minute just now. She walked, almost drifted, listlessly over to the desk and set her bag down on it. She plunked down into the chair, and pulled out her copy of Mrs. Dalloway.

In the last week, she had managed to read and reread thousands of words without making it past the same handful of pages. She would find herself up at four in the morning, hunched over the book with her back against the headboard of the bed, reading by the bedside light, only to realize every few minutes that she couldn't remember anything she'd just read. Or she would find herself drifting off midsentence, reading at her desk or at home during the day, and she'd mindlessly flick through four or five pages before it struck her that she had been reading the words without understanding them. Each time, she flipped back to where she'd started, and the pattern would repeat, like a fever dream, dreary and endless.

That morning, sitting hunched over at the desk in the library lobby, she managed to get through four pages of words that vanished from her thoughts just as soon as she'd read them. Each word seemed only to deepen the exhaustion of several nights of sleeplessness as it came and went, each one taking just a sliver of Marie's waking consciousness with it. Four pages in, it occurred to her—in a muted voice, somewhere in the back of her mind—that she couldn't remember a single word, that she ought to turn the pages back and start over.

And then, so resolved, she keeled over, face buried in her arms over the book, and fell into something that could charitably be called sleep.

 

[beanie]

Eve watched with raised eyebrows as the disgruntled librarian stalked off Eve's choice of literature clearly displeasing to her. Never before had librarian ever shown any disapproval of her reading choice and yet, this particular librarian was very open with her feelings toward Eve's beloved Smy. Rolling her blue eyes a bit, Eve turned toward the shelves, spying a title she didn't recognize. Standing on her tip-toes, her fingers brushed against the spine before she pulled it down. After turning it over and over in her hand, she decided to take it home.

As she tucked it under her arm and marched back to the checkout counter, a strand of thoughts floated through her mind. The world was bleak, a truth clear to everyone with a radio or access to the morning paper. And if someone should find just one slice of happiness in some form of distraction, they should be allowed to enjoy it without facing any judgement from anyone else.

And that's what Eve resolved to do as she set the book on the counter between her and the grumpy librarian. The two of them were silent as the transaction happened between them.. Then Even took her book, her coast off the rack, and left, stepping out into the cool night air. Under her arm was her one piece of sunlight in her dark reality.

----

The book didn't last Eve long as she consumed it within two days. But her Aunt Ida refused to let her go back to the library for a new one, claiming she couldn't bare to be alone with the daycare children for even an hour. Until that Friday. "Genevieve!" Aunt Ida called from the kitchen. Eve was curled up on a chair, observing the children squirming around on the carpet.

"Yes?" Eve called back, her eyes still locked on the drooling children.

"I need you to go to the store," Aunt Ida replied, over the slamming cabinet doors. Eve leapt out of the chair, eager to get out of the apartment.

"Okay, I need to change!" Eve said as she bounded into her small room. She stepped out of her house dress and into a simple brown dress, complete with nylons and brown loafers. She threw on her overcoat and snatched up the Smy novel, stuffing it into her pocket when she discovered the crumpled letter addressed to Theodore. She had never sent it when she was last out and now made a mental note to add it to her errand list.

"Here," came Aunt Ida's voice from behind her. Eve turned to see her holding out a slip of paper. "This is the list. Don't forget anything and don't waste time. Come straight back."

"I will," Eve lied as she took the paper and added it to her treasures in her pocket. The last thing she grabbed was her purse as she practically raced out the door. Once outside in the fresh air, she mapped out all the spots she had to hit and now much time she needed to spend in each of them for her aunt not to be suspicious. It would have to be the library, then the store, dropping her letter off in the middle as there was a mailbox between the two destinations.

Walking at a brisk pace, she made her way to the library, seeing it at a distance. The wide steps and large pillars beckoned her closer, welcoming her into her favourite place in the world. But once inside, her smile faltered just a bit as she spied the same librarian from her last visit sitting behind the desk. She made a beeline for the Smy section, again choosing a title she hadn't yet read, and readied to walk back to the front desk when a display caught her eye at the end of the row. It was simply titled Unknown Classics and each book looked extremely ancient as they sat on their display stands. Eve picked one up to flip through when she heard the chiming of the clock, suddenly remembering that she didn't have time for perusing as she rushed back to the front desk.

Setting the two books down on the counter, she merely gave the librarian a smile as she returned the Smy novel from the previous visit and had her two new books checked out. Then she stuffed them both into her pockets as she half-jogged, half-walked out the large library doors. Quickly, her letter was dropped into the mailbox down the block and her groceries were purchased in record time. When she let herself back into the apartment, she set the paper bags on the counter and readied to hurry into her room to hide her contraband that were weighing down her pockets. But her aunt stopped her, asking that she put the food away before she could take a break, which Eve did so quickly that she nearly smashed the carton of eggs on the kitchen floor.

When she was finally free, she stripped off her overcoat and pulled out the first book. Ethan Frome by Edith Warton. She went to grab her Smy novel but she paused, opening the old book slowly, the pages crinkling. As soon as her eyes touched the first word, she never stopped reading until her aunt called her to help make dinner and greet parents who were there to pick up their children but when she was able to sneak back to her room for bedtime, she continued to read by candlelight until the flame died and her eyes could no longer stay open.

 

[Cactus Jack]

My dearest Marie--

Can you find it in your heart one way or another to forgive me for the many weeks this letter has been finding its way to you?

How could it be that the sun that had sulked behind the clouds yesterday now seemed to shine so warm-- that the world could exchange the sullen grays of the sky and the city for colors Marie felt she hadn't seen in years? How could it be that each droplet of rain that had once seemed only a vehicle for a deeper sorrow, a deeper loneliness, could now feel soft and refreshing when it touched her skin?

The letter sat burning a hole in the breast pocket of her overcoat, pleading to be read again, as if each word were a salve to a burn. It would have to stay there, safe from the light drizzle overhead, until she got to the library, and she walked with the urgency of a child on Christmas Eve, impatiently counting down the minutes until she could open her gifts. It wasn't enough to know that Pierre Gustave was alright, that the worst of the fears that had haunted her in those weeks of silence-- that he'd been hurt, or killed, that he'd changed, that he had forgotten the sister who worried over him day and night back home-- had not been realized. She wanted to read it again.

No sooner had the heavy glass door swung shut behind her than Marie was fishing into the pocket of her coat. She all but threw the coat at the rack by the door and unfurled the letter, reading over it again as she made for the front desk. The war, Pierre Gustave had written, was moving further and further from home-- he was writing now from the Philippines, where his unit had seized a beachhead at Leyte and then spent a week fighting off enemy counterattacks. He himself, he'd been quick to assure her, had emerged unscathed from the vicious fighting, and the situation had since calmed down some, just enough to trust that this letter would find its way back home.

He hadn't changed. She could even see that irrepressible smile of his, that indomitable twinkle in his eye, could hear the unsullied cheer in his voice when she read, I can only guess where they'll send us next-- although I certainly hope we're more pleasantly received once we get there. No, he hadn't changed at all.

Helena said something to her as she approached the desk-- some surely inane thing that went in one ear and out the other. Marie waved her off without a word, hardly even noticed her make for the stairs. She sat down behind the desk with the letter in her hands and began to think of what she'd write back, unable to help the stubborn hint of a smile that tugged at the corners of her thin lips.

 

[beanie]

Eve drank in Ethan Frome like it was the last piece of literature on earth. Her knuckles were white as she clutched the hard over, her eyes absorbing every word. She read and read. The story had everything: mystery, forbidden love, and tragedy. And by noon the next day, she had completely finished it. She set it down on her dresser and picked up her Smy novel. It was her day off, which meant her aunt would generally leave her alone unless there was an emergency. This meant Eve could read as long as she wanted with very little interruptions. The young woman didn't have much of a blossoming social life due to her introvertedness and her overprotective aunt. But Eve wasn't really looking for friendships in the big city. She had her fiance and her library card. Her books would be the only friends she would ever need until Theodore came home.

She opened the Smy novel and tried to immerse herself into the world but she found herself getting distracted. Her bedroom was cold so she got up and closed the window. There wasn't enough light to read by so she opened her curtains and lit a candle. She couldn't get comfortable on her bed so she sat at her desk. Finally, Eve was readying to give up, figuring Ethan Frome had used up all the attention she would need to read. Perhaps some fresh air would do me well, she thought to herself as she stood up and walked over to her closet. She changed out of her house dress and into a blue dress and her brown overcoat. She stepped into her brown shoes and grabbed her small purse and Ethan Frome, tucking it under her arm.

Eve headed down the stairs toward the front door when her aunt's voice called from the living room, over the cries of small children. "Where are you going?" came the voice.

"Just to the library. I'll be back before long!" Eve called back, her own voice assuring. There was a pause from the living room.

"Be back before dark!" her aunt requested.

"I will!" Eve promised, undoing the chain and stepping out onto the porch step. She breathed in the cool air as she buttoned her coat, filling her lungs as best she could. The walk to the library was shorter than usual as she skipped more than walked, her cheeks rosy from the chilled air and exertion. She bounded up the tall library steps and through the glass doors, heading straight to the countertop, only stopping in her tracks when she saw the librarian with the dark eyes and unfriendly manner. She regarded her for a moment, gripping the book in her hands.

But today seemed different. The other woman was sitting up a bit straighter and her face didn't seem to have the darkened cloud over it. In fact, it appeared that she was even smiling just a smidge!

Eve slowly approached the counter and laid the book on top of it. "Hello," she greeted the other woman with a friendly smile. "I was just curious if you had any other books like this one? I found it on a display here but was wondering if you knew of any similar books? I'm trying to branch out a bit with my literature tastes."