moss, sound asleep. Juneau Jane and me look at each other, both thinking the same thing.
What’re we gonna do about her?
CHAPTER 16
BENNY SILVA—AUGUSTINE, LOUISIANA, 1987
I have a sense of déjà vu as I stand in the farmers market parking lot, watching Nathan Gossett’s truck pull in. Except I am exponentially more nervous this time. After a long confab with Sarge last night at my house and a few phone calls, incredible plans are falling into place, but most of them depend on Nathan’s cooperation.
Was it only a week ago that I ambushed him, seeking permission to enter Goswood Grove House? He couldn’t possibly know what that key has led to. I hope I can do a coherent job of sharing the vision with him.
In hindsight, a good night’s sleep might have been a wise idea, but nerves and caffeine will have to do. Sarge and I were up late, scheming and arranging for a few volunteers.
I clench and unclench my fingers, then shake out my hands like a sprinter about to run the hundred-yard dash. This is for all the marbles. I’m ready to put forth a sound argument, and, if necessary, grovel. Although I must be quick about it. I need to have my act together at school this morning. A very special guest speaker has been arranged for my freshmen, sophomore, and combination junior/senior classes today, courtesy of my new friend Sarge.
If all that goes well, we’ll have the speaker come back another day to talk with my first and second period seventh and eighth graders. With some luck, my students are about to embark on a journey that none of us could’ve imagined two weeks ago. One that the dreamer in me truly believes has the potential to plant seeds. Sarge is not nearly so optimistic about it, but she is at least willing to come along for the ride.
Nathan stiffens defensively when he spots me crossing the parking lot on an intercept course. His lips circle around an exhale of air and sound. The muscles in his cheek tighten, momentarily obliterating the little cleft in his chin. He’s sporting a five o’clock shadow, which, I am suddenly aware, does not look bad on him.
The observation hits me by surprise, and I find myself blushing when first we speak.
“If you’re here to give me a report, I don’t need one. I don’t want one.” He lifts both hands, palms facing outward, a gesture that says, I have no further involvement in this. “I told you, I don’t care what comes out of the library. Take what you can use.”
“It’s more complicated than I thought. With the library, I mean.”
He winces in a way that says he regrets having given me that key.
At this point, full steam ahead is my only option. “I’ve already stocked some shelves in my classroom. Your grandfather was quite a book lover.” I stop short of saying that the judge was a book hoarder—I’ve met a few in my bookstore years. I’d be surprised if there weren’t more books in other rooms of the house, but I haven’t snooped. “I have multiples of things like encyclopedia sets and Reader’s Digest Classics. Is it okay if I donate some of those to the city library just down from the school? I hear their collection is pretty outdated. They don’t even have a full-time librarian. Just volunteers.”
He nods, loosening up a little. “Yeah, my sister was…” He shakes off whatever he was about to say. “She liked that old building.”
“She had good taste. Those Carnegie grant libraries are amazing. There aren’t very many in Louisiana.” I could talk at length about why that is, and about the reasons this particular Carnegie library is special—I learned a ton last night with Sarge—but I’m conscious of time ticking by. “It’s sad to see one in danger of shutting its doors for good.”
“If some of my grandfather’s collection can help, then great. The man was compulsive about some things. He was famous for letting kids come give sales pitches in his court chambers between cases. He ended up with a lot of encyclopedia sets and Book of the Month subscriptions that way.