mid-stamp, and rested her weapon on the desk. She peered up at Bean for a moment, considering, and then gave a little nod, as though she’d decided something for herself. “Then you’ll need a library card, won’t you?” she said finally, as though that solved everything (which, in our family, it nearly did). She opened a drawer with one vein-knotted hand and flicked out a stack of cards. She wrote Bean’s name down on one of them in her precise, schoolroom script and handed it over with a flourish. “It’s nice to have you back, dear,” she said, and smiled, and Bean suddenly felt like crying.
She blinked hard and turned her gaze away from Mrs. Landrige, lest the urge to cry, or worse, to hug her, returned. The man in the study carrel gathered his things and strode toward the desk. He wore jeans and a Superman T-shirt, and his boots were battered and faded in spots. No wedding ring, about the right age. Worth a hair flip, at least.
“All ready, Father?” Mrs. Landrige asked, taking the books from the man.
“As I’ll ever be,” he said.
“Have you met Father Aidan?” the librarian asked Bean, who was busy blushing a little at her idea of flirting with a priest.
“No,” Bean said, and thrust out her hand, a little too quickly. “I’m Bianca Andreas. My father’s a professor here. At Barnwell,” she added, as though the town were an academic Gotham, teeming with institutions of higher learning.
He smiled, revealing teeth that were bright white, and slightly crooked, as though his mouth were off-balance in some way. “Charmed,” he said. “I’m Aidan.”
“Father Aidan is the new priest at Saint Mark’s,” Mrs. Landrige advised Bean, neatly closing the last book and pushing the stack across the desk to him.
Well, at least he wasn’t Catholic. St. Mark’s was our church—Episcopalian, not so progressive that it would have let our Bean actually bed the man standing in front of her (at least not with any expediency), but she wasn’t going to go to hell just for thinking of it. Episcopalian priests could date, could fall in love, could marry. Maybe they could even engage in some heavy premarital petting. Bean had never really had the opportunity to consider this before.
“That’s great!” Bean answered, too cheerfully. She felt stymied by her inability to engage her powers of flirtation, Puck without his love spell flowers. It was great, actually, that the church had a new Father; the last one had passed his sell-by date years ago, but had hung stubbornly on, boring the populace with his creaky Christmas services long after Bean had departed for less green pastures. But she didn’t want to say that. “My parents go there. To Saint Mark’s.”
Aidan nodded. “You’re Dr. Andreas’s daughter, right? Your father read for us a few Sundays ago. He’s an excellent speaker.”
This is true. Years of lecturing has created a monster of a presenter—his voice dips and swoops like a roller coaster, flashing forward at important moments like fireworks, and then retreating back, pulling his audience with him. His overgrown eyebrows wiggle, Marx-like, and he spreads his broad hands across the podium, as if he has to struggle to hold the papers down, lest his high-minded thoughts spirit them away.
“Thanks,” Bean said, though none of this is to her, or our, credit.
“How’s your mother? She’s got chemotherapy in a few days, doesn’t she?”
Bean took a step back, surprised at the question. She’d forgotten how involved our parents were in the church—how they’d raised us to be involved in the church, too, not that it had stuck, particularly. She didn’t think about God a lot. None of us did. He was just there if we needed him. Kind of like an extra tube of toothpaste under the sink.
“She’s okay. She says she’s tired. But that’s to be expected. And, you know, now I’m here to help.” Bean was fairly pleased at putting forth this idea of herself as a latter-day (if
She blinked hard and turned her gaze away from Mrs. Landrige, lest the urge to cry, or worse, to hug her, returned. The man in the study carrel gathered his things and strode toward the desk. He wore jeans and a Superman T-shirt, and his boots were battered and faded in spots. No wedding ring, about the right age. Worth a hair flip, at least.
“All ready, Father?” Mrs. Landrige asked, taking the books from the man.
“As I’ll ever be,” he said.
“Have you met Father Aidan?” the librarian asked Bean, who was busy blushing a little at her idea of flirting with a priest.
“No,” Bean said, and thrust out her hand, a little too quickly. “I’m Bianca Andreas. My father’s a professor here. At Barnwell,” she added, as though the town were an academic Gotham, teeming with institutions of higher learning.
He smiled, revealing teeth that were bright white, and slightly crooked, as though his mouth were off-balance in some way. “Charmed,” he said. “I’m Aidan.”
“Father Aidan is the new priest at Saint Mark’s,” Mrs. Landrige advised Bean, neatly closing the last book and pushing the stack across the desk to him.
Well, at least he wasn’t Catholic. St. Mark’s was our church—Episcopalian, not so progressive that it would have let our Bean actually bed the man standing in front of her (at least not with any expediency), but she wasn’t going to go to hell just for thinking of it. Episcopalian priests could date, could fall in love, could marry. Maybe they could even engage in some heavy premarital petting. Bean had never really had the opportunity to consider this before.
“That’s great!” Bean answered, too cheerfully. She felt stymied by her inability to engage her powers of flirtation, Puck without his love spell flowers. It was great, actually, that the church had a new Father; the last one had passed his sell-by date years ago, but had hung stubbornly on, boring the populace with his creaky Christmas services long after Bean had departed for less green pastures. But she didn’t want to say that. “My parents go there. To Saint Mark’s.”
Aidan nodded. “You’re Dr. Andreas’s daughter, right? Your father read for us a few Sundays ago. He’s an excellent speaker.”
This is true. Years of lecturing has created a monster of a presenter—his voice dips and swoops like a roller coaster, flashing forward at important moments like fireworks, and then retreating back, pulling his audience with him. His overgrown eyebrows wiggle, Marx-like, and he spreads his broad hands across the podium, as if he has to struggle to hold the papers down, lest his high-minded thoughts spirit them away.
“Thanks,” Bean said, though none of this is to her, or our, credit.
“How’s your mother? She’s got chemotherapy in a few days, doesn’t she?”
Bean took a step back, surprised at the question. She’d forgotten how involved our parents were in the church—how they’d raised us to be involved in the church, too, not that it had stuck, particularly. She didn’t think about God a lot. None of us did. He was just there if we needed him. Kind of like an extra tube of toothpaste under the sink.
“She’s okay. She says she’s tired. But that’s to be expected. And, you know, now I’m here to help.” Bean was fairly pleased at putting forth this idea of herself as a latter-day (if
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