Book of the Month Club

"Del Tyler is that you?"

I stopped fast enough to trip up the guy behind me on the sidewalk. He mumbled under his breath and walked around me as I searched the crowd for the owner of that voice. Then I saw her, she looked even more beautiful than the last time I had seen her. It was late summer and still warm enough for the shorts and blouse combination she was wearing. She wore her blond almost platinum hair in a thick braid that ran half way down her back and looked more like she was headed to the beach instead of class.

"Leah Kavala. When did you enroll here?"

"I'm here to get my MFA in photography. I started a week ago."

She brushed a wisp of bang out of her face. Leah was tall for a woman coming in around five ten or eleven and statuesque, not mannish at all. Her family came from the upper peninsula of Michigan and her Finnish roots could be seen in her white blond poker straight hair and pale complexion. Slap a winged silver helmet on her and silver breast plate, and she was the ideal Valkyrie.

"What are you doing here?" she asked, "the last I heard you were at some college in the east."

"I graduated and enrolled here to get my PhD in Library Science. I've got my course work completed and I'm conducting research and gathering materials for my dissertation."

"Wow, you're doing better than me. I'm starting my masters," she replied looking a little rueful, "things didn't go the way I wanted."

I left that statement hanging in the air. There wasn't time for more than a quick hello nor was the diag during class change the place for an intimate conversation.

I looked at the time on my phone.

"I've got to be going or I'll be late for my job."

"Give me your phone," she demanded.

I handed it to her and she punched her phone number in.

"Call me, I'd love to get together and catch up.

I gave her a hug and sprinted across the diag. Another woman was waiting for me. Her name was Karen Willowby and her mission was to get me in trouble with my faculty advisor. She worked at the front desk of the university library where she could watch my comings and goings. If I was even thirty seconds late, she would let my advisor know. I made it through the door with seconds to spare and waved at the scowling face. When I was dating her, I thought she looked cute with her up turned nose and round face, now that she was trying to end my career before I even had one, she was looking more and more ugly. What she didn't realize was that she was destroying her own career. Everyone in the Library Science section avoided her. She had overplayed her hand and had spread such vile nasty rumors about me that people were afraid to get close to her fearing she might turn on them too. I'm sure she blamed her lack of friends on me too.

She also had the worst job in the library because no one else among the faculty or management wanted to work with her. I'm sure she thought that I was at fault for that too.

My first job as a library professional is working in the Rare Books section of the university. I know what you're thinking. No, I'm not the guy in the white gloves checking in and out rare books for qualified researchers. That would be way too cool, nor am I the guy that hunts down rare books to add to the collection. That would be way too Indiana Jones. I'm the troll in the basement who restores books that have begun to fall apart. I don't even work with the super rare books, those get sent to specialists. I'm the guy who restores the 'sort of' rare books. Right now I'm working on a Michigan Territory Gazetteer from 1828. I made the mistake of pointing out to the Head Librarian, my faculty advisor, that I was handy with tools during my interview, and here I am for the foreseeable future binding old books having apprenticed under the old codger who had retired once I was in place.

That's the bad news, the good news is that I have a full time job with time off for classes and seminars that pays well above what the university pays us grad school grunts. I can afford stuff and I get a discount on my tuition. The pay is good enough that I've been cautioned to never tell anyone how much I make, and I'm good enough that other universities have tried to poach me.

I do like trimming, and applying gold leaf to the edge of the pages. Working with hide glue and needle and thread assembling pages is fun, too, but I'm working on a PhD in Library Science specializing in electronic data retrieval. I should be managing the electronic library of the future that the university is building and refining its architecture, not reattaching the frontispiece to a nineteenth century missal.

I opened the door to my workroom, flipped on the switch and gazed at my kingdom. The royal blue block walls blended seamlessly with the gray tile floor. Overhead, naked pipes were painted white to blend with the rest of the ceiling. It was the kind of place where if I died, it would take weeks for anyone to find me, even longer if Karen Willowby was tasked with finding me.

On that cheery note, I set to work. Repairing books is fussy business. Things proceed at a stately pace, and there is no way to speed it up. As a result, I have plenty of time to drink coffee and think while I stitch together pages and wait of glue to set.

The subject for today was Leah Kavala. I knew her from high school where she was the most beautiful girl in my class of four hundred. Her charm cast a spell on everyone from fellow students to faculty to administration. She wore her long platinum hair pulled back with a clasp, and in my fantasies, that clasp was the last thing I removed from her firm, ripe body before sweeping her into my arms and carrying her to my bed.

When she wore her hair down, the way her ears parted her hair gave her an elfin look that totally went with her lithe figure on her tall frame. My fevered brain had spun fantasy after fantasy about meeting her in the woods, perhaps by a still pond. She had the pale, porcelain skin of someone who avoided the sun. It gave her an ethereal beauty, and I fell for her with a thud that must have registered on the seismographs in the Geology department. In fact, there must have been multiple thuds since every male within two miles fell for her as hard as I had. Alas, she was high school royalty and I was a bottom feeder, too poor to own a car, and too geeky to fit in even when I did own one my senior year.

I don't want you to think I lurched through the halls of high school looking like Quasimodo being shunned by most and pitied by a few. I had my admirers, and I enjoyed female companionship. I even went to both Homecoming and Prom with dates I wasn't even related to.

Leah and I had our moments, they weren't romantic moments though. I was her lab partner in Chemistry, and saved her grade point average. She had no feel for atoms, ions and covalent bonds, but through diligent study with me, and my assistance on her lab reports, she managed to pull an A. She didn't forget me after Chemistry class was done, she continued to smile at me and wave to me in the hall, and I was happy with the crumbs of appreciation she threw my way. My love for her was the courtly love of Arthurian romances, and that was enough then. Now she was at the university, and I wasn't feeling courtly.

The can of hide glue had heated up, I brushed a thin coat of glue down the inside spine of the book cover I was restoring, then reattached the leather cover to the thick acid free leaf in the face of the book and repeated the process on the back before setting the book to cure in a book press. Keeping the glue off my hands was the hard part, it's hot and it sets quickly. I wore an apron to protect my clothes. I was also supposed to wear gloves, but half of the time glue covered paper ended up sticking to gloves rather than to the book. If I didn't get the glue off your hands right away, I would wear it for a while.

The head librarian knocked on the door.

"Can I come in?" his voice a rich baritone.

I waved him in as I daubed an alcohol laden rag at the glue on my hands.

The head librarian stood in the center of the room well away from any equipment to assure himself that nothing got on his suit. Whatever you think a head librarian should look like was what he wasn't. There wasn't a bookish look about him, he didn't wear glasses, and I never once heard him tell a single person to quiet down. He looked more like a mid-level executive for a large corporation. The amazing thing was that he was friendly and approachable.

He handed me a key.

"What's this?" I asked.

"It's the key to my private entrance into the library off my office," he gave me a knowing smile, "I'm tired of Miss Karen Willowby giving me a daily update of when you arrive at the library. The door is unalarmed, so don't abuse it."

"Yes, sir."

He shook his head.

"Why is Karen Willowby so mad at you? Didn't you two go out for a while? Haven't you heard the axiom. 'Never get your honey where you get your money?'"

I nodded, "We dated for a year, but our relationship was going no where so I broke up with her."

He nodded knowingly, "No sex after dating for a year? No wonder you broke up with her."

"Sir, I never said that."

He patted my shoulder, "You don't have to. Men don't break up with women; women break up with men. I can only think of two reasons why a man would break up with a woman. The woman is cheating on the man which isn't the case because her rage suggests that she's the injured party; or the woman is refusing the man's sexual advances which has to be the case because she's miffed at you."

"Sir, I don't want to discuss the lady. Despite the venom she's spread about me, I won't stoop to her level."

He held up his hands, "What you've told me stops with me. There will be no tales spread. I am merely inquiring because what affects you affects your work. I would also like to add if these problems continue to develop, you might want to seek out the university counseling service."

"Been there, done that, sir. In fact, that's where I learned that sexual behaviors seldom changed for the better after marriage. That kind of sealed the deal. There was no way I was going to consign myself to a loveless marriage."

I shook my head. "I'm sorry that you have to devote any time at all to me. I'm sure that dealing with these personnel headaches must be the worst part of your day."

"Not even close to my worst headache," he chuckled, "I'll soon have a shouting match with half of the History Department who would like me to buy one of every history book written this year, their line item for new books won't cover a tenth of what they order. In addition, IT is demanding more shelf space in the over crowded technical library, Classics are not happy with the well thumbed tomes that we currently offer their students, and somehow I have to figure out a way to triple the wifi in the building without much budget for it at all."

"Maybe I should stay in book repair. The work is steady and no one bothers me."

"Nope, I see potential in you and you'll get your exposure soon enough," he frowned for a moment, "by the way, I want you to attend the Arts College Tea this Friday at 5 pm in the Union and bring someone good looking. It's always nice to have someone to look forward to at that dreary event. I'm tired of the Drama or the Fine Arts department having all the good looking women. Wear a suit while you're at it. I would like to give you some exposure. There's a very good chance that I'll be looking for someone to head up our On Line library about the time you're granted your doctorate."

Then he was gone. Perhaps Karen hadn't damaged me as much as I thought she might have. That was certainly good news. Getting a doctorate is pretty much useless unless you're recognized by your peers as a valuable addition to the field, but for right now there were more important things to think about.

There were a couple of women I could ask to the faculty tea. They owed me favors for being their plus one to various official functions, but it looked like an ideal way to spend time with Leah.

"What are you doing Friday after five pm?" I texted, "I have to go to a faculty tea, want to be my plus one?"

A few minutes later, my phone buzzed.

"I'd love to go," came her text, "busy now, talk later."

First week of a semester is busy and in the blink of an eye I found myself escorting Leah into the Arts College Faculty Tea at the union wearing the only suit I owned.

I'm no expert on architectural style, but Henry VIII would be comfortable wandering around our union. Leah looked radiant wearing a little black dress. It made her pale hair and skin glow. I introduced her around including to my advisor who gave me surreptitious thumbs up at my choice of date. With that done, we sat down and talked as I sipped coffee and Leah sipped tea to the smiling approval of the dean who wanted people to drink tea at the faculty tea.

"Thank you for inviting me," Leah said looking around, "the whole photography department is here. It's nice meeting them socially before I turn up in their class, but why are you here? Shouldn't you be in the Science department?"

"It's weird, we're called Library Science, but we fall into the Arts," I replied, "we're neither fish nor fowl in the college of Arts and Science. So tell me, what have you been doing for the last six years?"

"I graduated from Michigan State with a degree in Elementary Education, taught middle school for a year," she said recalling the experience with a shiver, "and discovered that it wasn't for me. In the meantime, I got married, and that turned out even worse. 2019 was not a good year for me."

"Was your husband abusive?" I asked.

She frowned at me.

"Yeah, how did you know?"

I pointed at her pinky finger on her left hand.

"Nothing big, I noticed that your pinkie finger had been broken. It looked like someone had grabbed your hand too hard."

She cradled her hand to her chest, "For a moment there I thought you were a stalker."

I shook my head.

"No, not a stalker, but probably a little too observant for my own good. I'm pretty sure that your husband was left handed as well."

She nodded that he was indeed a lefty.

"You were always the smartest person I knew. I see nothing has changed. Yes, the left handed bastard broke my finger. I remember cradling my swollen, crooked finger in my hand as I dialed my father's phone number to ask him to come and get me. My ex and I had been married about a year and I could see the abuse pattern developing. He began demanding that I only talk to certain people and that I only dress in clothing he approved of. My father hated him so much that he arrived twenty minutes later with a truck, trailer and my two snarling brothers. They cleaned out the apartment of all of my stuff while my husband threatened to call the police. Dad demanded that he call the police so they could see the bruises on my arms and my broken finger. That shut him up."

"Did he try to see you after that?"

"Only once. He forced his way into our house where Dad dropped him with one punch. He then told my ex that he was old and had lived the fun part of his life. If my ex ever tried to see me again, Dad would kill him and sit on his body waiting for the police to arrive. Prison would be a vacation with free medical."

"Wow," I said taking a sip of coffee, "I like your dad, but that is so old school it's practically Medieval."

"Don't mess with brick masons. They're incredibly strong, and they're used to pain all day every day. Anyway, my soon-to-be husband got the hint. The only other time I saw him was to sign the divorce papers."

"What about you? Are you okay emotionally?"

She thought about it for a moment. Her jaw clenched.

"I want to say I'm fine, but I'm not really. I have trouble trusting men, and I get panic attacks every once in a while when in new or emotionally charged situations."

"You trusted me," I gave her a smile, "that means one of two things, either you don't consider me a man, or you do trust some men."

She stifled a chuckle.

"Of course I trust you. I've known you for a long time, and you've only been kind to me. Of all the men I know, you're the only one who wants me as a friend. Everyone else wants me in bed with them."

Guilt surged through me. I did the only thing I could do, I vowed to be her friend and forget any impure thoughts that I might harbor. What else can you do when a woman in distress tells you she needs you as a friend and not a lover.

She placed her hand on my forearm.

"Besides, a faculty tea isn't very intimate and it's during daylight hours," she continued.

The faculty tea broke up as the dinner hour approached.

"What are you doing for dinner?" I asked as we walked out of the Union.

"Nothing."

"Why don't you let me make dinner for you?" I watched her carefully; if she acted like she was ready to bolt, I'd back off, "it'll be fairly simple. I'm having grilled pork steak with garlic mashed potatoes and mushroom gravy."

I got a sphinx like look from her.

"I'd be happy to join you for dinner," her shoulders lowered and she took a deep breath, "saying yes was harder than I thought it would be. Will you promise to get me back to my apartment early?"

"No problem."

My apartment was a third floor walk up in an old Victorian home. Leah walked in and looked around.

"This is a lot nicer than the slum housing where I'm living. I love how the gable windows fill the space with afternoon light, I could do still life photography right here, and you don't have neighbors who play music all day and night. This is too big for one person. Do you and your flatmate get along?"

"I don't have one. I'm advertising, but I think the two story climb to get to the apartment puts most people off," I said pouring charcoal briquettes into the grill out on the little walk out. When I came back inside to peel potatoes Leah pushed me out of the way.

"I can peel potatoes. Why don't you get started on your mushroom gravy?" she said grabbing the peeler.

I chopped onion and sliced mushrooms and began sauteing them in butter. When the onions were soft, I opened a can of mushroom soup and dumped it into the sauteed mushrooms and turned the gas down low.

"Give that a stir every few minutes while I toss the pork steaks on."

The meal came together and soon we were eating at the small wooden table.

"This is really good. When did you learn to cook?" Leah said between bites of mashed potatoes, "do the women around here know that you have domestic skills?"

"I think it was my junior year when I discovered that cooking for myself was cheaper than buying the prepackaged stuff, and home cooking tasted a whole lot better. I'm no gourmet chef, but I can roast a whole chicken, make a decent spaghetti Bolognese, and grill salmon. The thing I discovered is that I can wait forty minutes for a pot pie with too little meat and too much gravy to bake, or spend forty minutes cooking and eat something delicious."

"How much a month do you pay in rent if you don't mind my asking."

I told her.

Her eyebrows shot up.

"So if I moved in here, I'd be responsible for half of that?"

I nodded and that's how I got Leah for a roommate. We did have a couple conversations about if she would feel safe living with me, and she assured me she would feel safer there than where she was currently living. Even her dad preferred her living with me over living with strangers. On the last day in September, she moved in with me.

We fell into an easy relationship where I cooked two days a week, and she cooked the other two. Fridays were pizza night and the weekends were up for grabs. If I cooked, she cleaned up afterwards, and vice versa. Saturday mornings Leah cleaned the bathroom while I vacuumed and dusted the living room. We were each responsible for our own bedrooms.