The Department of Rare Books and Special Collections(73)

“You just looked like you needed a rescue,” said Francis.

“Oh, God bless you.” Liesl looked around the crowded room. President Garber had his back to her. Percy was waving his hands and proselytizing. If she was going to slither out, now was the time.

She grabbed a bottle of wine by the neck. “Fancy some fresh air?” she said. “It would do us both some good.”

“Fresh air,” said Francis, “is exactly what we need.”

They slipped out of the reading room. It was immediately cooler, but she kept leading him. In one of the private study carrels she saw a donor she recognized, a pharmaceutical executive in her forties, with her back pressed against the glass and her skirt pulled up around her stomach, some unseen suitor presumably under the desk. Funerals were a funny thing.

In the corridor that connected her old office with Christopher’s, she stuck a key into the lock of the emergency exit, deactivating the alarm. They stepped into evening and at the last moment, Liesl took off her shoe to leave the door propped open. The rain had stopped falling. They sat on the top step of the small staircase that led from the fire escape to the library’s loading dock. They could hear nothing of the roaring conversation inside. Liesl stretched her one bare foot out down the steps, hoping the rough cement wouldn’t ruin her pantyhose.

She handed Francis the bottle, and he yanked the cork out with his teeth. That made them both laugh, as did the realization that they hadn’t brought glasses and had no choice but to drink the chardonnay straight from the bottle. Francis handed it to Liesl to allow her the first swig. A gentleman. Her neck was rubber and her vision was blurry and the air was cool, but Francis’s shoulder against hers was warm. Somewhere, John and Hannah were eating noodles and talking about Hannah’s thesis.

“You don’t even like chardonnay,” Francis said.

“Just for tonight, I love chardonnay,” Liesl said.

“Did you see Max? Snogging with the fellow from the philosophy department in the stairway.”

“The philosophy department?” Liesl said. “Max was always a passionate supporter of the humanities.”

A gust of wind found its way into the loading dock, and she shivered.

“I’m going to more funerals these days. I’m sure you are too,” Francis said. “And I reckon there’s far more licentiousness at funerals then I ever saw at weddings.”

“Same amount of wine, twice the reminders of one’s impending doom,” Liesl said.

“Think Max’s husband will find out?” Francis said. “About the philosopher?”

“Maybe,” said Liesl. “Might not matter. People’s marital arrangements can surprise you.”

“John couldn’t stay tonight?” Francis said.

“Let’s not talk about John,” Liesl said.

The wind came in again, and again Liesl shivered. This time, Francis noticed. He kicked off his own shoe and placed his sock-clad foot over Liesl’s pantyhosed one.

“No one likes cold feet,” he said.

The chardonnay was half-spent, resting on the step to the right of Francis. Liesl wasn’t cold anymore. She was wearing a purple silk shirt tucked into a black skirt. Control-top pantyhose under the skirt. She had looped her arm through his. She didn’t remember doing it, but their arms were linked together. That was a fact.

“It’s raining again,” Francis said. At the end of the loading dock they could hear it, and they could see just enough of the pavement beyond it to see that the pavement was shining. The rain was falling. Their heads were swimming. Francis leaned in to kiss her.

“What are you doing?” Liesl said. She had leaned in to meet him but pulled up short. Well oiled though she was, she had the sense to stop from leaning all the way in.

“We’re both doing it.”

“I’ve had too much to drink,” Liesl said. “We both have. Let’s not get carried away and do something we regret. Not again.”

“It’s not just the wine, Liesl,” Francis said. “This got started before the chardonnay.”

“Maybe,” Liesl said. “But it was a mistake.”

“We’ve known each other a long time,” Francis said. “You know me, and you knew what was happening. What mistake?”

“I wasn’t thinking,” Liesl said, and she got to her feet to make sure that if she stopped thinking again, her lips were a safe distance from trouble.

“Tell me the truth,” Francis said, looking up at her. She stood, balancing with her one bare foot rested on her other shoe. “Is it that you suspect me?”

“Don’t do this now, Francis.”

“I thought I felt something thawing between us. After a long, long winter. Until Miriam, and all of a sudden I’m in a hailstorm. So tell me what’s happened.”

“Miriam, then,” Liesl said. “The awfulness with Miriam.”

“Is it?” Francis said. “Or is it what Max has been putting in your head since Miriam and the books disappeared? Go on and tell me, Liesl.”

Marie had never brought Liesl the manuscript pages that might have given her a definitive answer. Liesl was uneasy. He could feel her uneasiness. Had been feeling it all this time.

“I don’t know what you mean about Max,” she said.