I FEEL LIKE I HAVEN’T LEFT THIS LIBRARY IN WEEKS. NOT THAT I don’t appreciate the atmosphere—it’s the lack of progress in my research that’s becoming tedious. Every day, every spare moment from the time I arrive on campus until I leave well after dark, I comb the shelves for one book that inevitably leads to another in an endless thread that never reaches a destination.
Tonight is no exception. It’s nearing eight o’clock, and I’ve already been here for four hours. When my eyes are so tired I can barely read the words on the page, I take a break and step outside with a candy bar I stuck in my bag a week ago. It’s only mostly melted.
The weather’s changing. Now well into October, the autumn chill has settled in. The cold stone steps sting through my jeans as I sit down and check my phone to find missed texts from Celeste, Eliza, and my dad. I answer his first, assuring him I’m still alive and well. Then Celeste, who’s taken an interest in my Tulley endeavor.
Celeste: Roberto showed the picture around to some people he knows at the archive department of the BBC. No help there. Sorry.
Me: Worth a try. Thank him again for me xx
Look at me, texting all British-like. Ending my texts with kisses has become a habit now.
Celeste: I think I’ve got him hooked. He wants to meet with his friend who teaches in the history department at Cambridge. See if they can’t find a name.
Me: Sorry I’ve hijacked your boyfriend lol
Celeste: This is better than telly. Speaking of which… I got drinks with Yvonne and Nate last night. He asked about you.
I don’t know how to answer that, but I know bait when I see it.
Celeste: That must have been some road trip you two took.
Me: It was fine.
Celeste: Right. You stick with that story.
Nate was a perfect gentleman during our visit to Rye. Nothing remotely scandalous or untoward occurred. Except in my head, where the scent of motor oil and warm engines reminds me of his broad chest beneath my palms as we traversed the country roads.
In the nearly two weeks since he brought me home to Notting Hill, I’ve found myself obsessing over the most random details about Nate. Like the tiny tears in his jeans. The frayed edges around his back pockets where the permanent outlines of his phone and wallet have become lighter than the rest of the fabric. How soft his T-shirt was. The small scar over his eyebrow. That gravelly tone to his voice.
I’ve entirely lost my mind.
But Celeste’s not allowed to know that.
Eliza, on the other hand…
Me: OMG has it really been a week since I messaged you?? I’m so sorry I’ve been out of touch. I live in the library now.
Eliza: No worries. Just keeping my promise to check in when I haven’t heard from you in a while. You know, making sure you weren’t murdered in a dark alley during a Jack the Ripper walking tour.
Me: That was oddly specific. (P.S. I’m still alive)
Eliza: Speaking of Jacks. How’s Hot Jack? Have you played bedroom rugby yet?
Me: Nope. Lee’s strict about his house rules.
And Jack’s busy hooking up with anyone but me, I decide not to add. At least that’s what I think he’s doing. He hasn’t been around much lately.
Eliza: Boring. And you haven’t met anyone else you like? In two months??
Me: Well…
Eliza: I knew it! Spill!
Me: I might have a second crush. Remember I told you about the guy who gave me a ride to Rye?
Eliza: Wasn’t that weeks ago? Why didn’t you say anything before?
Because I thought if I pretended the crush wasn’t there, it would just go away. But it’s still here.
Eliza: On a scale of 1–10, 1 being “I guess we can hold hands” and 10 being “take your penis out right now!” how hard are you crushing?
Me: Like a 7?
I’m lying. My attraction to Nate is at that visceral level where he simply breathes and I swoon.
Eliza: You slut.
Me: Would be an 8, but he’s a bassist.
Eliza: Oh no. I suppose it was inevitable.
Me: What was?
Eliza: That you’d end up with a rocker. Seems like a natural fit.
Is it? There’s nothing less appealing to me than Dad’s former lifestyle.
Then again, Nate isn’t interested in becoming a touring musician, so really, there’s no reason we shouldn’t be able to make it work—
What part of “he has a girlfriend” don’t you understand, Abbey?
Right. I need to stop acting as if I have any shot with him. He’s with Yvonne. The end.
Me: Gotta go. Still at the library.
I slide my phone in my pocket and head back inside. As always, Mr. Baxley sits at his information desk guarding the precious archives from us ne’er-do-wells and our greasy fingers. He scowls at me as I approach.
“Tell me something,” I say. He’s already slapping down the clipboard. “Anyone ever try ordering a pizza? Some tacos, maybe? For the sake of variety?”
He doesn’t twitch a muscle. Perfectly still in his abject disdain as I fill out yet another request form.
“I’m going to crack you, Mr. Baxley. One of these days.”
Unconvinced, he jerks his head to allow me access. As if I don’t have a sleeping bag and mini fridge set up under a desk with my name on it by now.
And so the cycle begins again. I read, and a footnote sends me to yet another volume. Not an hour later, I’m back. An exasperated Mr. Baxley slides the clipboard in front of me without so much as a grumble under his breath.
“Is this really necessary?” I ask. “I’m already in there. I keep filling out the same information for the same reason. Why kill all these trees?”
He doesn’t budge, so I scribble down a snarky response on the form in protest of this library’s archaic and redundant regulations.
REASON FOR REQUEST:
I like books that start with the letter R.
The next time, I get more creative.
REASON FOR REQUEST: A HAIKU
The quest for knowledge
Is right at my fingertips.
Insert five words here.
The time after that, a personal approach.
REASON FOR REQUEST:
I knew this kid named Martin in the fourth grade who came from a super religious family. He showed up on Valentine’s Day with cards for everyone in class—except me. It was very hurtful, Mr. Baxley. I cried when I got home, and my dad called Martin’s mom and was like, “What the hell, lady? Teach your son some manners.” She apologized profusely and put Martin on the phone to explain himself, and—get this, Mr. Baxley. Martin confessed that he left me out because his father told him redheads were created by the devil to lure weak men into the red pits of hell. I wonder what ever happened to Martin. His parents sent him to Catholic school the following year, where I assume gingers are forbidden from attending.
Oh, I am requesting this book for research purposes.
Pleased with my juvenile antics, I hand the clipboard back with a smile. “You don’t have to be a slave to bureaucracy, Mr. Baxley. Fight the power.”
Back at my desk, I get an email from Marjorie at the museum in Rye informing me that the painting is authentic. And while she’s taken pains to exhaust every contact she has, no one recognizes the woman in the portrait.
Another dead end.
In frustration, I fling my pencil across the room. It lands with unsatisfying quiet.
Yes, I can continue my research project on the tragic Tulley brothers, but who was this girl? Who, damn it? How is it possible someone so connected to a prominent family can simply disappear from history but for this one painting? It’s an infuriating mystery that loses its romance with every slammed door.
I’ve managed to chart a family tree for the modern Tulleys. They’re all accounted for with names and photos, none even remotely resembling the woman. And no long-lost sisters or daughters either. I thought for sure that a hole would appear on a branch somewhere. A blank space where this woman would fit. But no. Nothing.
I think maybe the library and I need to go on a break, Ross and Rachel style. It’s getting late, and I’m exhausted.
In a fit of desperation, I return to Mr. Baxley with my phone.
“Do you know this woman?” I push the phone at him to show him the photo. “The Tulley portrait artist Franklin Astor Dyce painted her sometime after World War II.”
His typical grimace evaporates as he carefully peers at the photo, squinting behind his glasses. “I don’t, I’m afraid.”
I swallow another rush of frustration.
He continues to study the image, then sets my phone down. “But perhaps you might want to have a look”—with a pencil, he scribbles a decimal number on a slip of paper— “at this.”
He hands it to me. Along with the damn clipboard.
Touché, Mr. Baxley.
But I suppose this is progress.
