his face was anything to go by. "Phoebe?" Tomas asked, attempting to regain his composure.
"Yeah, she's the librarian. It's not every day she gets to meet a real live writer." Donovan grinned when Tomas groaned. "Be nice," he warned. "She's good people, and you don't want to get that wicked sense of humor aimed at you. Trust me on that." Donovan opened the doors in front of them. "I only did it once," he muttered.
"What happened?" Tomas gave the tapestry one more glance. He would look at it again before they left and attempt to decipher those initials.
Donovan shrugged. "That would be telling." He grinned. "Buy me a beer and I might think about it. Maybe."
"Maybe," Tomas replied. The translucent glass inserts in the heavy wooden doors made it difficult to get more than a glimpse of the room they were entering; it was like seeing an image that wasn't quite real or was slightly out of focus. "I'll think about it." Pushing past Donovan, Tomas opened them, curious as to what lay beyond.
"Mr. Kemp, it's very nice to meet you." A woman walked out from behind the counter and held out her hand. She was tall, although still an inch or so shorter than Tomas, very slim, with long brown hair pulled back off her face into a bun and glasses perched on the end of her nose. Tomas shook her hand politely. Her grip was firm, her smile friendly.
"It's nice to meet you too, ma'am." His eyes darted around the room. Bookcases lined the walls, with more shelves in rows filling up the interior. The walls were painted rather than wallpapered, although it looked as though they might have been papered once; hints of a pattern showed through the paintwork in between some of the shelves where the book sizes differed. The counter behind Phoebe was a heavy, dark wood; the computer looked out of place, an anachronism, almost, with the sense of the old being what was meant to be.
To the left of the counter was a sandwich board, but instead of a modern whiteboard, it was made of wood, a blackboard that would have not been out of place in a classroom at the turn of the century. The words "quote for today" were written in block letters along the top with what were presumably the pearls of wisdom for this particular day in neat handwriting underneath. To his amusement Tomas noticed that all that t 's were crossed and the i 's dotted. "'The past is but the beginning of a beginning, and all that is and has been is but the twilight of the dawn,'" he read aloud before he'd realized what he'd done.
"An interesting idea from an interesting man," Phoebe commented, watching him carefully. "And there's no need to call me ma'am. Phoebe or Miss Gordon will do nicely. The other makes me sound so much older than I am." She lowered her voice. "If you were to ask, I'd admit I am over the age of twenty-one, but a lady has to have some secrets."
Donovan snorted. "Yeah, more like twenty-nine a few dozen times over and then some." She peered at him over her glasses. He shrugged. "Phoebe's one of the town's mysteries; we've tried to guess her age for years. The local pub takes wagers each birthday, but she won't even tell us if we're close."
"H. G. Wells is very interesting," Tomas agreed with Phoebe's earlier comment, "but the past is gone, and the future hasn't happened yet. I prefer to think about the here and now."
"It, at least, is something you can do something about," Phoebe said, nodding slowly. As Donovan had said, it was difficult to gauge her age. Definitely over twenty-one as she had said, although Tomas's guess would be more in line with mid-forties, but then he wasn't very good at working out ages. Besides, it wasn't age that mattered; it was what kind of person someone was. He much preferred what was on the inside, although he did have an appreciative eye for certain things. Blond hair, blue eyes, and.... No, it was what lay beneath that counted. Looks changed with time; people aged and grew old, but truly connecting with someone and loving them... compared
"Yeah, she's the librarian. It's not every day she gets to meet a real live writer." Donovan grinned when Tomas groaned. "Be nice," he warned. "She's good people, and you don't want to get that wicked sense of humor aimed at you. Trust me on that." Donovan opened the doors in front of them. "I only did it once," he muttered.
"What happened?" Tomas gave the tapestry one more glance. He would look at it again before they left and attempt to decipher those initials.
Donovan shrugged. "That would be telling." He grinned. "Buy me a beer and I might think about it. Maybe."
"Maybe," Tomas replied. The translucent glass inserts in the heavy wooden doors made it difficult to get more than a glimpse of the room they were entering; it was like seeing an image that wasn't quite real or was slightly out of focus. "I'll think about it." Pushing past Donovan, Tomas opened them, curious as to what lay beyond.
"Mr. Kemp, it's very nice to meet you." A woman walked out from behind the counter and held out her hand. She was tall, although still an inch or so shorter than Tomas, very slim, with long brown hair pulled back off her face into a bun and glasses perched on the end of her nose. Tomas shook her hand politely. Her grip was firm, her smile friendly.
"It's nice to meet you too, ma'am." His eyes darted around the room. Bookcases lined the walls, with more shelves in rows filling up the interior. The walls were painted rather than wallpapered, although it looked as though they might have been papered once; hints of a pattern showed through the paintwork in between some of the shelves where the book sizes differed. The counter behind Phoebe was a heavy, dark wood; the computer looked out of place, an anachronism, almost, with the sense of the old being what was meant to be.
To the left of the counter was a sandwich board, but instead of a modern whiteboard, it was made of wood, a blackboard that would have not been out of place in a classroom at the turn of the century. The words "quote for today" were written in block letters along the top with what were presumably the pearls of wisdom for this particular day in neat handwriting underneath. To his amusement Tomas noticed that all that t 's were crossed and the i 's dotted. "'The past is but the beginning of a beginning, and all that is and has been is but the twilight of the dawn,'" he read aloud before he'd realized what he'd done.
"An interesting idea from an interesting man," Phoebe commented, watching him carefully. "And there's no need to call me ma'am. Phoebe or Miss Gordon will do nicely. The other makes me sound so much older than I am." She lowered her voice. "If you were to ask, I'd admit I am over the age of twenty-one, but a lady has to have some secrets."
Donovan snorted. "Yeah, more like twenty-nine a few dozen times over and then some." She peered at him over her glasses. He shrugged. "Phoebe's one of the town's mysteries; we've tried to guess her age for years. The local pub takes wagers each birthday, but she won't even tell us if we're close."
"H. G. Wells is very interesting," Tomas agreed with Phoebe's earlier comment, "but the past is gone, and the future hasn't happened yet. I prefer to think about the here and now."
"It, at least, is something you can do something about," Phoebe said, nodding slowly. As Donovan had said, it was difficult to gauge her age. Definitely over twenty-one as she had said, although Tomas's guess would be more in line with mid-forties, but then he wasn't very good at working out ages. Besides, it wasn't age that mattered; it was what kind of person someone was. He much preferred what was on the inside, although he did have an appreciative eye for certain things. Blond hair, blue eyes, and.... No, it was what lay beneath that counted. Looks changed with time; people aged and grew old, but truly connecting with someone and loving them... compared
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