The Light of Paris(48)

Margie, who was more and more certain she was failing this interview—was it an interview?—miserably, shook her head. “I was an English major,” she said, and then, with genuine enthusiasm, “I really love books!” as though that might make up for her failings.

Miss Parsons only smiled kindly at her. “That’s a good start. In any case, we’ve now got hundreds of members, and while it looks quiet at the moment, it rarely is. We’re open twelve hours a day on weekdays and eight hours on Sundays, and just taking care of the people who come in to use the facilities can be a full-time job, let alone cataloging and managing the collection. Your position”—she said this so casually, as though Margie’s hiring were a sure thing, and Margie’s heart rose a little bit—“is a temporary one, funded by a grant from one of our more generous patrons. It’s meant to be focused on some projects we have in the archives, but we’re always short-handed, so you’d be doing all kinds of work. The archives, certainly, and working the circulation and reference desk”—she paused her stamping again to pat the desk at which she sat—“and doing whatever needs to be done. We’re rather all hands on deck here.”

In her mind, Margie was already sitting behind that desk, stamping papers with the same practiced, efficient hand as Miss Parsons, offering the same confident, gentle smile to patrons, helping the man at the table in the one room locate some reference materials and recommending new novels to the two women reading in the other. She was discovering treasures in the archives, presenting them proudly to Miss Parsons, “Look, a first edition of Twain,” she might say, or “Do you suppose this is a letter from Emily Dickinson?” She was walking confidently down the street toward the library in her new hat, and her clothes looked much more flattering in her mind than they ever had in reality.

“Is that all right, Margie?”

Margie blinked, pulling herself out of the fantasy in her mind. “I’m sorry, Miss Parsons, could you repeat the question?” she asked.

“Might I ask what you are doing in Paris?” Miss Parsons asked.

“Well, I was supposed to be over here with a cousin of mine, but she has decided to travel alone. And I couldn’t bear to leave Paris after only a few days.” It sounded more than plausible, and Margie was half tempted to believe it herself. It had the unfortunate side effect of making Evelyn look better, but it also made Margie look less tragic. Miss Parsons put down her stamp and shuffled the papers into an orderly pile. Then she crossed her arms on the desk and leaned forward, looking at Margie more carefully now, taking in her old-fashioned hair underneath the new hat, her wide eyes and too-round cheeks, her dress, which had been sewn for her but, like all Margie’s clothes, had turned out ill-fitting anyway. Finally, as though she had seen something that she approved of, Miss Parsons clapped her hands together lightly.

“And how does your family feel about your being here alone?” she asked.

Margie hesitated, only for a moment, yet long enough for Miss Parsons to nod slightly, as though confirming something in her mind. “They’d prefer I come home, but I just couldn’t leave, Miss Parsons. I just got here! And there is so much to explore.”

“Well, please tell your parents when you write that I will anoint myself your official chaperone and make sure no harm comes to you.” She folded her hands as though her pronouncement had settled the matter. “Now, the salary is only five hundred francs a month, I know that’s not much, but I presume your family will help support you?”

Margie swallowed hard. Five hundred francs would cover her room and board at the Club, but she would have to be so very careful. Still, it was worth it. It might be romantic, even, living so close to the bone. “I’ll get by,” she said.

“Fantastic,” Miss Parsons said. “Working here is an opportunity to be part of something great. You said you like to read, don’t you? You’ll meet all the great American writers in Paris—Edith Wharton is one of our founding trustees, you know, and there are writers in and out of here all the time.”

Margie, who had read all of Edith Wharton’s books with an eye both sympathetic and deeply envious, could have broken out into applause. “That’s fine, Miss Parsons. When can I start?”

“How about tomorrow?” she asked. “Oh, here’s Dorothy. You’ll be working together.” A young woman, a few years older than Margie, had come down the stairs, and Miss Parsons waved her over. As frumpy as Margie had felt next to Miss Parsons, it was nothing compared to how she felt next to Dorothy, who was not only tall and slender and chicly dressed, but even more beautiful than Evelyn, though hopefully far less self-involved.

Miss Parsons introduced them and excused herself, hurrying up the stairs, and Dorothy sat down in Miss Parsons’ place, leaning forward and resting her head gracefully on her hand. “So what brings you to the Libe?”

“I need a job,” Margie said, and then added hurriedly, in case she sounded too desperate, “and I love to read.”

“Me too!” Dorothy said, with a level of excitement usually reserved for discovering that what you had in common was an amusingly drinky relation, or a rare allergy, instead of a passion for books. “You’ll love working here. We’re run off our feet, but being able to get your mitts on any book you like is fabulous. Have you read anything good lately?”