Leaving L.a.. Rexanne Becnel
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good associations with; the library was one of them.
I parked in front of the newspaper office next door to the library. Through the paper’s front window I saw an old woman staring at a computer screen. So the Northshore News had gone high tech. With only a few keystrokes they could more easily report on this weekend’s softball tournament or the Jones’s fiftieth anniversary celebration. Woo hoo. Big news.
At least there weren’t any parking meters to feed. I jumped down from Jenny, locked the door and slammed it.
“You must be from out of town.”
Startled, I looked up. “Why do you say that?” I replied to this guy who had stopped in front of the newspaper office, his hand on the doorknob.
“You locked your car. People around here don’t do that.”
His comment shouldn’t have made me feel so defensive, but I guess I was feeling extra touchy today. Added to that I wasn’t in the mood to be hit on, especially by a guy who had to know how good-looking he was. “They don’t? Well, I’ve been mugged in a small town like this.” A drunk coming out of one of the Dirt Bags’ concerts, who got frustrated when I wouldn’t go home with him. “And had my car broken into.” Amps stolen out of the band’s bus.
I hiked my purse onto my shoulder and tossed my hair back. “So you see, I’ve learned not to be too trusting. Even in a nice little town like this.”
He tilted his head to one side. “Sorry to hear that.” He stared at me. At me, not my chest, for one long, steady moment, the kind of look that forced me to really look at him in return. If I were looking for a guy, he would have fit the bill just fine. If I were looking. Several inches taller than me, even in my heels. Wide shoulders, trim build. Not cocaine skinny like too many of the men I’ve known. Not self-indulgent fat like too many others. Which left the equally unappealing other third of men: probably a narcissistic health nut trying to stave off middle age.
“I’m Joe Reeves.” He stuck out his hand.
I didn’t want to know his name or to know him. But I had no real reason to blow him off. So I took his hand—big, strong and warm—and shook it. “Zoe Vidrine.”
“You visiting here, Zoe? A tourist?” he asked, once I’d pulled my hand free of his.
“Oracle gets tourists?”
“You’d be surprised. Oak trees dripping with Spanish moss. Natural spring waters. We have our own winery now and a railroad museum. Not to mention all the water sports on Lake Pontchartain.”
“That cesspool?”
“It’s clean now. Regularly passes all state requirements for swimming.”
“Gee, it all sounds so exciting.” But I softened my sarcasm by laughing.
He grinned. “That’s the point. It’s quiet and relaxing here. The perfect escape from the rat race.”
“Yeah? Well, we’ll see.”
“So you’re not a tourist. That means you’re visiting someone.”
I glanced away from his lean, smiling face. He was too smooth, too easy to talk to. Then I realized he’d been going into the newspaper office, and all my senses went into red alert mode. “You work here?” I gestured to the office.
“Sure do. Editor-in-chief.”
Editor-in-chief? Shit!
“Plus beat reporter, features reporter, obituary writer and head of advertising. We’re a small outfit, Wednesday and Sunday editions only.”
“Cool,” I said. But I meant just the opposite. The last thing I needed was for some local-yokel reporter to figure out that Zoe Vidrine was actually G. G. Givens’s ex-girlfriend Red Vidrine and try to make a big deal about it.
I shifted my purse to my other shoulder. As I did so, his gaze fell to my body. Just one swift, all-encompassing glance. But it was enough to remind me that he was a man like every other man in the world. To them I was just a hot babe who looked as if all she wanted was his leering, drooling attention. “Well. See you around,” I said. Then I turned and made for the library, my sanctuary when I was a kid, and hopefully my sanctuary now. I willed myself not to look back at him, but I knew he was watching. I felt it.
Inside, the library was cool and dim and so much like when I was a kid that a wave of relief shuddered through me. Same big wide desk; same art deco hanging lamps; same oriel window where I used to sit for hours reading everything from Seventeen Magazine to Alexandre Dumas to Shere Hite. I learned a lot about sex from Shere Hite. Too bad more men hadn’t read her.
Anyway, my oriel was just like I remembered except for new, dark green upholstery on the cushions.
I looked around. Mr. Pinchon couldn’t still be the head librarian. I approached the woman at the front desk.
“Can I help you?” She smiled like she really meant it.
“I was wondering, does Mr. Pinchon still work here? When I was a kid he used to suggest a lot of books for me to read.”
“Mr. Pinchon? I don’t know him. Oh, wait. He retired a couple of years ago before I started working here.”
“Oh.” I looked away. I shouldn’t feel disappointed, but I did. The one person who’d understood me, who’d cared enough to make sure I read across the spectrum. He’d made me a lifelong reader—and a sometimes writer. But of course he was gone. He was old back then. By now he was probably dead.
“Can I help you with anything else?” the librarian asked. “Do you have a current library card?”
“No.”
“Well, we can easily remedy that.” She handed me a pen and a registration form, and I started to fill it out. Until I caught myself. I didn’t need to advertise that I was in town. I’d planned all along to keep a low profile, to just swoop down, collect my inheritance and split.
Then why’d you tell that newspaper guy your name?
I slid the pen and paper back across the desk. “I’m just in town for a week or two. Um…could you direct me to the microfilm records, the ones for the Northshore News?”
“Sure. You know, their office is right next door if you need to talk to Joe or Myra. She’s worked there forever.”
“Thanks.” I gave her a bland smile. “How long has he been there?”
“Joe? Let’s see now. I think three—no, four years. He used to be a big-time reporter in New Orleans. For the Times-Picayune. But when he and his son moved here, he decided celebrity news wasn’t as exciting as it used to be.”
I stiffened in alarm. Celebrity news? That’s what he’d written about? Great.
“Well, I can see why he left it behind,” I said. “Most of it’s a lot of PR hype. But what I’m looking for…” I went on, wanting to change the subject “…is local news from the mid-eighties on.” I’d left town in 1983, Mom had died in 1986 and Alice had obviously married sometime after that. I wanted to see what had been said about the Vidrine hippie commune, how it had petered out and how Alice had changed everything. Because like it or not—like her or not—I had to admit she’d done an amazing transformation of the place.
Some time later the librarian—Kenyatta was her name—startled me as I hunched over a microfilm screen. “Sorry to disturb you,” she said. “But the library closes in fifteen minutes.”
“What time is it?”
“Quarter to six.”
I’d been here three and a half hours?
“Okay. Thanks. I’ll finish up here in a minute. What time do you open tomorrow?”
Right after she left I went back to the article I’d been reading about the christening of Daniel Lester Collins at