The Book of Lost Friends(42)
I pause—I have to in order to catch a breath—but I receive no input other than a slight tilt of his head, which I can’t yet interpret. And so I continue the frenetic, impassioned sales pitch. “Kids need the opportunity to try different things and get interested, be drawn in by a story. Every success starts with reading, even the scores on those hideous new state standardized tests. If you can’t read, you can’t understand the story problems in the math section or the science section, so it doesn’t matter how talented you really might be at math or science. You’ll get held back a grade. You’ll think you’re stupid. And that’s not even mentioning things like the PSATs and SATs and ACTs. How are kids supposed to have a chance at college or scholarships without good reading skills?”
It registers that he’s ducking his head, disappearing under the ball cap. I’m coming on too strong.
I wipe sweaty palms on the straight skirt I carefully washed and ironed and combined with heels for a professional appearance and a little more height. I’ve raked my wavy Italian hair into a slick French twist, added my favorite jewelry…done everything I could think of to make a good first impression. But my nerves are getting the best of me.
I take a breath. “I didn’t mean to run on. I was really hoping that, since the books are just sitting on the shelves—looking rather lonely, I might add—that you might consider donating them, some of them at least, to a great cause? I’d probably incorporate as many as possible into my classroom and perhaps exchange others with a book dealer I worked for in college. I’d be happy to do the sorting and consult you on everything as much as you’d like, either in person or over the phone. I understand that you don’t live here in town?”
His shoulders stiffen. Biceps tighten under suntanned skin. “I don’t.”
Mental note: Make no further mention of that.
“I know it’s not the best approach to catch you off guard like this. I couldn’t figure out another way. I did try.”
“So…you’re after a donation for the library?” He tips his head up as if he’s anticipating a right cross to the chin. I am momentarily distracted. He has the most interesting eyes, sort of a seawater color that could be green or hazel or gray-blue. Right now, they reflect the Louisiana morning sky. Murky. Slightly cloudy. Gray and troubled. “Donations from the family trust are handled through community relations over at the company. Books for classrooms seem like a valid cause. That’s the kind of thing my grandfather intended the trust to support.”
“I’m so glad to hear you say that.” I sense two things. First, despite the town’s latent resentment toward the Gossetts, the youngest grandson comes across as a decent guy. Second, this conversation has darkened what was otherwise a perfectly good day for him. His demeanor has gone from cordial to cautious and somewhat broody. “But…I’ve tried to get a response from Gossett Industries. I’ve left messages until the receptionists know my voice. No response, other than ‘Fill out a form,’ which I did. But I can’t wait weeks or months. I have to figure out some way to teach these kids now. I’d buy books out of my own pocket if I could, but I’ve just paid for my move here, and I’m a first-year teacher, and I…well…I don’t have the extra cash.”
A blush starts around my ears and travels into my cheeks, then slowly paints the rest of my body sticky and hot. This is humiliating. I shouldn’t have to resort to begging in order to do my job. “And that’s why I thought, since all those books are just sitting there in the library at Goswood Grove, why not put some of them to use?”
He blinks, surprised, clenches his jaw at the mention of Goswood Grove. I realize he’s only now cueing in to what I’m asking. He’s probably wondering why I know about those books.
How much should I confess? I have been trespassing, after all. “One of my students told me about your grandfather’s library. Since I’m living basically next door, I did walk over and take a peek through the window. I didn’t mean to be invasive, but I’m a hopeless bibliophile.”
“You’re living next door?”
“I’m your renter.” He’s more detached from his holdings than I thought. “In the little house by the graveyard? Where Miss Retta used to live? I should have said that at the outset. I assumed you’d recognize my name. I’m the one Aunt Sa…I mean Donna took care of the roof emergency for.”
He nods, as if I’m finally starting to make sense to him, but not in a good way. “Sorry. Yes. The place sat for quite a while after Miss Retta had her stroke. Her family must’ve finally gotten around to cleaning it out. I’m sure the agent thought she was doing me a favor by finding a renter, but the house wasn’t in any shape for someone to move in at this point.”
“Oh, wait. I’m not complaining. I love it there. It’s perfect for me. I like being out of town a bit, and the neighbors are so quiet I never hear them at all.”
He misses the graveyard joke at first, then his cheek twitches upward. “True.” But he’s fairly flat about it. “I want to make sure you’re aware it’s a short-term thing, though. The plans aren’t public knowledge yet, so I’d appreciate your not sharing the information, but you should know, since it affects you directly. The cemetery board wants to annex that piece of property. The sale won’t happen before Christmas, but after that, you’ll need to find a new place.”