Bookshelves tell a Story

At least it was a beautiful town, Jack thought to himself as he sat behind the wheel of his car, summoning the energy to get out and go in. Another day wasted at town hall, trying to figure out how to get the permits necessary to dredge a channel to his dock, who to talk to about said permits, and, perhaps, why this place needed to live up to the reputation of small towns of being more byzantine than any city ever could be. Buying the house had been easy enough, but everything to do with the property since then had been steeped in the sort of petty, Kafkaesque frustrations that would have garnered sympathy and a nod of fellowship from Sisyphus.

But it was beautiful, transcendent with peace. As he stepped out of the car, the gravel crunched underfoot, he caught the scents of fall on the air, of leaves and wind and water, woodsmoke on the breeze--here, then gone again. The sun was setting behind the hills over the river, red shafts of light lancing down and scattering across the rippled surface as ducks, black in silhouette, cruised sedately. As he walked up the drive to his house, the wind gusted, and the tall grasses shuddered and swayed, infinite variation in motion. He paused, leaning on the fence, and saw another aspect of beauty that he hadn't yet encountered.

As far as he'd known, the property next to him was owned by an elderly couple--he'd met them the first time he'd looked at buying the house. But tonight, lounging in a chaise deck chair a couple hundred yards away, was a young woman, reading. She was barefoot, with one leg pulled up, the other outthrust, and was wearing a black dress and a sweeping sunhat. The dress left her long legs exposed, and clung to her body, showing an instantly-alluring arc of hip and waist. He stood watching in a rapt moment before the spell was broken by her turning the page, her hat bobbing as she raised her head, and he released the fence with a start. In the twilight, there was no chance of seeing an expression on her face, but she gave a wave, and he responded in kind, and then turned and walked on.

The image stayed with him through his nightly routine, as he worked for a while sanding down and refinishing one of the chairs he'd found up in the echoing attic of the house, watering his plants, and then reading, looking out at the still waters of the lake from inside his warm, comfortable living room. She fit well into his thoughts, her peaceful indolence, the conscious and self-pleasing choice to wear that dress--the autumn was still warm enough, but just barely, for such attire--and the absorption she'd had in the book before catching sight of him over the top of it as she'd turned the page. He wondered what her relation to the old couple he'd met before was.

The next morning he woke to urgent emails from work and spent some time responding to them and laying out a plan of action for the week. When he finally was able to break away, as he walked to his car he looked at the property next door but the chaise lounge was empty--of course. He drove into town, slow enough to admire the stands of trees, the green fields of head-heavy corn decorated with scarecrows and hay wains, the slope-shouldered barns. Once in town, he found as usual that his cell-phone had only fitful signals, but managed to half-remember, half-discover the location of the library.

It was a graceful building, strangely slim and tall, with a copper plate discreetly announcing that it had been founded in 1824. It had a Victorian aesthetic, including a cupola which delighted him--ever since he'd been a kid, he'd loved them, loved the whimsical shape and the idea of just holing up in one with nothing to do but write. Walking up the stone steps, he saw that the modern century had its mark too--a pride flag fluttered above the lead-glass door, and a sign in letters both friendly and defiant, that said "ALL are welcome here. Books belong to everyone." Damn right, he thought, as he passed over the threshold.

There was a desk and office area at the front, apparently empty at the moment. Set in a low railing, an old wooden turnstile, the spokes polished to a gleam by ages of use, separated the interior of the library from the outside world. Behind it were tall stacks filled with books, standing almost to the ceiling. He passed through the turnstile, pleased by the small ticking sound it made as it rotated. Feeling like an intruder, he called out, "Hello?" and heard a sound from upstairs, and then footsteps descending stairs. A feeling of familiarity came over him as a young woman emerged from behind the library stacks, and he opened his mouth in greeting and then realized he had no idea who she was--though he instantly wanted to. Dressed very librarian-style, but in a demure rather than forbidding fashion in a fawn skirt and flowered blouse with a very comfortable-looking cardigan over it, her smile was welcoming and her eyes frank.

"Hello," she said, beating him to it, "Welcome. I don't recognize you; if you need a restroom, they're right through there," she said, waving generously towards a staircase that headed down.

"Ah, no," he responded, "I'm actually looking for a book."

"Oh!" she said, "Sorry, I'm used to knowing everyone in town. Are you the new man on Brosman road, then?" Seeing his surprise, she gave a little laugh, "You'd be literally the only new person in town, and I've never had a tourist want a book."

"Yes," he said, "Good guess. Well, not a guess," he fumbled for composure, and found it, or at least a simulacrum thereof, "I'm actually looking to get to know the town a bit better. I was wondering if--I know many towns like this have enthusiasts who write a history of the town, and I was wondering if you had any of those. Or old newspapers, that sort of thing."

She cocked her head to the side, and then nodded, "We actually have exactly that, and written by the man who used to run the town newspaper. It's about ten years vintage, but it should acquaint you with much of the town's history." She spent another moment looking at him, thoughts clearly at work behind her eyes, but she only said, "Shall I get it for you?"

"If it wouldn't be too much trouble," he said.

"It is literally my job," she said, with that light laugh again, and disappeared into the stacks for a few moments. She returned with the book, but kept it in her hand, "I will need you to get a library card before I give it to you, though. I'm very strict about my books." There was her gaze again, direct--not challenging, not inviting. Or maybe both. He was aware that he was taking a second to respond every time she spoke, and hoped he was giving an impression of being thoughtful and not just flatfooted. He felt flatfooted. He took refuge in the truth.

"A library card is a pretty essential part of life for me. Even with Kindles, I still always make a lot of use of them."

"Now that's a perfect thing to say to a librarian," she said. Was that flirtation? Or was he simply reading that into a pleasant interaction with a woman? She went into her office and returned with a paper form and a pen, and he sat down at one of the reading desks and filled out the information. She took it to a machine on the desk that resembled some old typewriter, set a few things in place, and then ker-chunked a handle, and presented him with his newly-minted library card. He felt deeply pleased with the little piece of card-stock, recalling his joy at the day he'd gotten his first 'unlimited' library card as a kid, the feeling of endless opportunity.

She stamped a due date on the card in front and handed over the book. "We haven't quite caught up to this century, so don't expect any email reminders about bringing it in. Though please feel free to keep it late; the fees are very helpful." He could have listened to her badinage all day. In an effort to keep the conversation going, he said, "Are you--have you been a librarian here long? I always expect the librarian in an old town to be, well, old. At least older than me." That sounded a lot less smooth out loud than it had in his head.

She smiled, though, and said, "It has literally always been my life plan to be the librarian of this library in particular. I grew up visiting my grandparents here, and fell in love with it. I've been the librarian for six years." She cocked her head at him again, and said, "I'm afraid I haven't had time to write my autobiography quite yet. If you want to know more, perhaps you could just pop over in the evening?"

He stared at her blankly, as she continued to smile, and then his brain finally made the connection--why she'd seemed familiar. "You were next door! In the chair." And the dress, he said silently to himself.

"That's right," she said, "We're neighbors. I'm Evie. My grandparents are gone for an indeterminate time, and I'll be looking after their place for them while they are. Before, I stayed in an apartment up on the top floor of the library--charming but drafty."

"But with a cupola," he said, and was gratified to see her nod.

"The cupola was the best part--but the draftiest part, too."

The phone rang, and he was inordinately pleased that she looked a little irritated by that. She walked to the office to answer. So as not to be an eavesdropper, he wandered back into the stacks, brushing his fingers against the spines of the books, and soon lost himself in book-browsing. He found that the stairs up were marked with a sign that said, "More volumes on the second floor," and ascended there. It was an hour before he came back down, arms clasping a mix of books new to him and old favorites. She was back in the office, but came out to stamp his books again, making comments on each one--whether she'd read it, which authors she'd read before, which were new to her.

"So will you?" She asked, after she stamped the last of them.

"Will I...?" he responded.

"Will you drop by in the evening? The view from my place is even better than from yours. You should bring something."

"Yes," he said, simply, "I'd love to."

"Good," she said, handing his stack of books to him.

He spent the rest of the day in a slight daze; he hadn't expected much in the way of a social life from this town, and had figured he'd be wanting to return to the city often. Now he was feeling that ice-fragile hope that--but he didn't want to voice anything, even internally. Not yet. Give things their own time.

He returned home before evening, did chores, and caught up with more work. He heard the sound of her car turning into her drive, and suddenly remembered she'd said to bring something. Luckily, one of his chores had been to set out some sourdough to prove, now ready for baking. He put it in the oven, showered, dressed, and then wrapped the loaf in a tea-towel and made his way to her house.

He'd barely knocked before she opened the door. She was wearing a loose sundress with extra material that both looked lovely but still demure, concealing the shape of her more than most would. "Baked goods are an excellent first impression," she said, taking the loaf off of him. She put a kettle on the hob for tea, then brought out butter and jam, and they sawed off slices of it and sat at her dark-wood kitchen table.

There was an easiness between them, and by the time the tea was brewed and they were sipping it, they'd passed through the simple questions of provenance, college, and work, and were talking about books. And talking about books. And talking more about books. But not just about books--she had an art of relating books to life, of musing on the lessons she'd drawn from each one, of how a book had seemed apt for her life or interesting precisely because it was strange. She told him about herself that way, drawing a picture of fierce independence but a woman both kind and drawn to kindness. He didn't know what he was communicating to her, but he spoke of the books he loved too, and of how they'd been refuge, inspiration, how revered authors were to him.

Along the way of the discussion, he mentioned that he looked young for his age, and discovered the gap between them was more than a decade, less than two. He watched carefully for signs that this discomfited her, and it did not appear to in the least.

Finally, the loaf was half-eaten, three cups of tea had been drunk. She stood up, and gently said that it was time for her to go to bed. She thanked him for coming, almost formally, but then embraced him briefly, and the touch of her warm body against his lingered in him all the walk home.

The next night, as he finished up work, she knocked on the door, and turned out to be bearing gifts, plants for his front garden. She was adorably dressed in overalls--and the same big hat as she'd had on before. Together, they planted hyacinth and jasmine, and then she returned to her house.

The night after that, her car did not return to the house, and he felt foolish with worry. He dropped by the library the next day, ostensibly to return a book he'd already finished and get another, and she told him that she'd slept there the last night, as she did sometimes when she was writing. But she thanked him for coming, and put her hand on his as she looked straight into his eyes and smiled. He was oddly pleased with the distance she was keeping--no, not distance, just independence. That she was still in her routines of herself, that he was not disrupting them, but sometimes invited to join.

For several weeks it went like this; she showed him around town on a few walks, she helped him garden more. The outfits she wore continued to be concealing rather than revealing, but that didn't do much to stem the increasing attraction he felt for her, day after day--and that he hoped he wasn't showing overly. She'd explained her grandparents were moved semi-permanently to the city; to be closer to a doctor for ailment for one of them that she didn't elaborate on, and didn't seem to need sympathy over. She hadn't invited him inside again, but they'd sat in her chaise lounges and looked at the sunset. That night, she said that someone's bookshelves, and where they had them, and what was on them, were three very important pieces of information about them.

"I only got as far as your kitchen, and I didn't see a bookshelf there," he said, lightly, "But you're free to inspect mine."

"Tomorrow night," she said, "Why don't you inspect mine."

That next day couldn't pass fast enough. That night, he showered, shaved, and dressed with more care and deliberation than he had in a long time. He brought over another sourdough loaf, this one plaited and formed, showing off. She noticed, her fingers traced the carved braid of it. She welcomed him in, and brought him to the living room. "The bookshelves are my grandparents, but I'd have chosen them too. They took their books with them, so all the books here are mine."

The living room bookshelves were built into one wall of the room, nearly covering it. "Why don't you look at the titles while I go and change," she said--she had greeted him wearing garden overalls and a plaid shirt. He started on the lower shelves, and saw books of childhood--Nancy Drew, Oz, Mrs. Piggle-wiggle. Knee high were young-adult books, a mix of fantasy, coming-of-age novels, and classics, and at eye-level, Camus and Ballard, Le Guin and Didion, clever, adult books.

There was a cunning set of little steps to reach the higher levels. He climbed them, and found Anais Nin, The Joy of Sex, Sylvia Day, Andre Ackerman, Emanuele Arsan, Tia Williams. Books of sex, about sex.

It was just then that she reappeared. In the dress, the one she'd worn the first day he'd seen her. And here, in the clear light of her living room, he could see the dress was sheer, see-through, he could see the relative darkness of her nipples beneath, her breasts pushing against the fabric. She wore some graceful lingerie that fit high around her hips and dove down to her sex. And that her body was every arc and slope and grace of feminine sexuality that he could ever desire.

Up on the stairs, he was just entranced, and nearly stepped back off them before he caught himself, and descended slowly. "Evie," he said, voice suddenly thick in his throat, "You look beautiful."

She said nothing, but walked towards him, her footsteps light, heels clicking on the wooden floor. They were inches apart. Her eyes were on his again, as they'd been so many times, warm eyes, open eyes, and tonight, inviting eyes.

He put his hands out and they found her hips; his fingers whispered over the fabric as he pulled her just a little closer. They could hear each other's breathing, he could hear his own heart in his ears. "So," she said, "What did my books in the living room tell you about me?"

He rallied rationality, and responded, "They told a story of a girl who loved books. Who grew with them. Who grew into a woman. Who is unafraid to say that she is that woman, a woman of desires." He felt her move under his fingers, just shifting herself from side to side as she nodded "I gave up shame long ago," she said, "And any who would call me to it."

He leaned forwards, slowly, and she inclined her head upwards, and they kissed for the first time. Heat was exchanged, became mutual, softness on softness, her body melting against him, clinging, one hand behind his back, feeling and appreciating the broad muscles there. There was a surge of need in him, a jolting throughout his body that summoned an erection with thunderous heartbeats. Her hands came up to tangle in his hair, and he bit her lip and felt her quiver in strong response. When the kiss was broken, their eyes opened again, tied in that connection.

"I have another bookshelf upstairs," she said slowly, and turned--my god, he thought to himself, her ass is so perfect, not just the shape of it but the swing as she walked. She took his hand and led the way up the stairs. She had a girlish moment of instability as she climbed them in her stilettos, and he moved to catch her but she recovered, laughing that sweet laugh still. She led him to her bedroom, and the bookshelves therein.

There were two; only one had books on them. They stood on either side of her bed--a big four-poster. On the shelf with books, there was a combination: half of them clearly much-loved volumes of favorite authors, some of which he'd seen below. The others had titles such as "A Practical Guide to Shibari" "Anal Sex for You and Your Lover", and "The Sacred Pain". His head swam, but there was no surprise in him; it was as if something became clear. He turned to the other bookshelf, and on it was arrayed such a variety of sex toys that he was honestly impressed. Dildos in various colors, shapes, and materials. Buttplugs in a row like matryoshka dolls. A ball gag. Lubricants. Cuffs and chains and ropes. Clamps, ranging from light ones to things that really seemed to be torture devices. A Hitachi magic wand. A paddle, a switch. Boxes that might contain anything. Even what seemed like an electrical prod. Collars, and a leash coiled like a promise.

"Anything that you see that you like?" she asked, standing at the foot of the bed, watching him search the room with his eyes.

"Everything I see, I like," he said, looking at her, at this gorgeous, unafraid woman, feeling such pride in himself that he had been invited here, that she had tested his company and found that she wanted him in this space.

"Then pick something," she said, "or many things."

The permission in her voice made him feel total confidence. He walked to the bookshelf of toys, and took down a buttplug, lube, and a blindfold. Her eyes widened, and she smiled. She stood still as he approached her, as he tied the binding around her eyes. In that dress, those heels, and with the soft silk around her head she could have been the cover art for any of the erotic novels down below.

He turned her body until she faced the bed, pushed her so that she fell forward, putting her hands out to catch herself. He lifted the flap of her dress to expose that amazing ass, the thong barely covering anything at all. "Reach back and pull it to the side," he said, "Show yourself to me." He felt confident, with no doubt, and she responded instantly, her hand moving back, but then teasing him with a moment's hesitation as her fingers curled around the fabric, and then drew it to the side, completely exposing herself to him.