CHAPTER 58
After not finding anything relating to her favorite book,Pride and Prejudice, in the room, we headed to the library. Not that I had any idea what we were looking for there. We both agreed there was no way her letters would be stashed inside a copy of the book, just sitting on a shelf, waiting to be found. I held the painting in my hands as we drove; I hadn’t been able to look away from it since finding it.
“Does he look how you imagined?” It was the first thing Mike had said to me since climbing into the car.
“No, not at all. I imagined him differently.”
“Different how?” he asked.
“Less smiley, more smoldery, I guess.”
“Smoldery?” He turned and half-looked at me.
“He has laughing eyes, in this picture. I don’t know. I was imagining someone with more piercing, bedroomy, look-into-your-soul eyes.”
“Seriously, who has eyes like that?” he asked, a faint hint of amusement in his tone. Ever so faint, though.
“You do,” I said impulsively, without thinking.
Suddenly, with just those words, the atmosphere between us changed; it became prickly and awkward. I regretted saying it, since he’d made his feelings for me so clear. What had he said, exactly? Maybe I needed to remind myself.Nothing had been real, because I had been lying to him.
“Sorry,” I muttered. “I didn’t mean to say that. I know we’re trying not to say things like that to each other—well, at least, you’re trying not to say things like that to me . . . Not that you are, I guess. But . . .” I stopped rambling. “I don’t know what I’m saying,” I blurted, and then shrugged.
There was a pause, a lull in the conversation, as if there was a giant gaping hole in front of us and we were both standing on the edge, looking into it, trying to figure out how to fill it. I kept my mouth closed. I wasn’t going to fill it with another mindless stream of words.
“You’re making this so hard, Becca,” he finally said, tossing at least one thing into the hole. But it was still completely empty; those words hadn’t even made a dent in the abyss.
“What am I making hard?” I asked.
“This. Us.”
“I thought there wasn’t anus,” I said snappily, before I could stop myself.
“There isn’t,” he said softly, “but, down in the room, when we lay there, I don’t know, I felt . . .” He trailed off.
“Me too,” I said.
Another pause. I could hear my heart beating and I wondered if he could, too, it was so loud. That’s how loud it felt, anyway.
“Let’s just drop this, shall we?” His voice also had a snap in it.
“Fine.” I gently put the painting on the back seat and crossed my arms over my body. “Let’s drop it,” I agreed, as we pulled into a parking place in front of the library. It was painfully clear to me that, whatever we had once shared, no matter how fleeting, it was so over. I should just pack away any feelings and any hope I was holding on to at this point.
The library was just as you would imagine a little town library to be. It was a small room, crammed with shelves full of well-used books. The shelves were overflowing, in parts, and little towers of books had sprung up all over the floor. The smell was distinct, too—musky and old. To be honest, I hadn’t set foot in a library in years—a fact I should probably have been ashamed of, as a writer. In the middle of the floor stood an old, rickety-looking table and chairs, and, in the far corner, the counter, where an older woman was sitting. She looked up and I recognized her immediately.
“Mrs. Devereux,” I said, smiling at the old woman.
She looked over at us and immediately stood up. “My, my! And what brings you here?” She walked over to the two of us and put her hands on her hips.
“Mrs. Devereux,” Mike said, sounding formal.
“I didn’t know you worked . . . here?” I said, without thinking.
“Why, just because I’m over ninety, I shouldn’t be useful?” she asked.
“Sorry, I didn’t mean that,” I said quickly.
“I brought Becca here; she was looking for a book. Maybe you can help?” Mike jumped right into it, no small talk, and he said it defensively, as if he was making sure that she knew he had brought me here for business, nothing else.
