This conversation happened about two weeks into dating, but it’s still good. My now-husband asked me during a date where I wanted to eat. I told him I could find something I like anywhere. His reply: “You know, you’re the easiest girl I’ve ever dated.”
—J.L.T.
“Alright, everyone,” I said, standing in front of the Save the Library Committee who were tucked into the tables in the small library conference room. “We all know the situation. The library is in danger of losing more funding.”
When I’d advertised a meeting, I wasn’t completely sure who to expect. But five people and a dog had shown up right on time.
“A crying shame,” yelled out Horace Otismeyer, who was a retired train conductor with a penchant for urban fantasies. “This is all because of that Peter Stone.”
“Now, it’s not exactly Peter’s fault,” Melinda Douglas said. “He just wants to help our little town grow.”
Melinda was contractually obligated to make such statements seeing as how she was Peter’s great-aunt.
The group took this as open season to debate on the merits of Peter and his plan for Two Harts. Stanley, the half-terrier, half-throw rug rescue dog that belonged to Abel Sanchez, bellycrawled to my feet and stared up at me with huge mournful brown eyes.
“Yes, yes. I don’t like it when they all talk at once either,” I said.
Stanley half-barked in agreement and then slumped to the side. He wasn’t dead or anything. Just lazy.
“Can we please get back to the meeting?” I bellowed.
Mrs. Katz, who had been my sixth-grade teacher, shot me a sharp look. “Really, Mae, did you have to yell?”
I bit the inside of my mouth and prayed for patience. “We need a plan. This mess the library is in requires a good plan.”
“Is it true Stone wants to cut the budget by a hundred thousand dollars?” Saylor Bridges, a mother with two young children, asked. She also happened to be the youngest member of the committee. By decades.
“That’s what I heard too,” Horace said. “A hundred thousand dollars is a lot of money.”
It’s an entire fake engagement worth, actually.
“Between last year’s cuts and these new proposed cuts, it will be close to that amount,” I said. “It’s going to be catastrophic to the library if this new budget gets through the city council.”
“What can we do about it?” someone asked.
“That’s what this meeting is for,” I said.
“How about we hunt down all those council members and tell them what for?” That was Sarah Ellis, who weighed eighty pounds on a good day and with her white curls, orthopedic shoes, and pearl necklace, was also our oldest member.
“That council will do whatever Peter says.” Horace pounded a fist on his palm. “Maybe we could rough up Peter.”
“For God’s sake, Horace,” Mrs. Katz huffed. Horace and Mrs. Katz got along about as well as oil and water. If the oil was a salty retired teacher and the water was a crotchety old man with too much time on his hands.
Abel Sanchez, who was generally a silent observer, piped up. “My son knows a guy.”
“We should probably stay away from anything illegal,” I said. Although secretly I thought the idea had some merit.
Mrs. Katz raised her hand (because teacher) and waited for me to call on her. “Back in my day, we used to raise money with a silent auction. We’d get local businesses to donate and then let people bid on them. ’Course, the biggest draws were always the donations that came with a man.”
I choked on a cough. “I’m sorry, what?”
“Years ago, it started with a lunch auction. The ladies would make a homemade basket lunch. The meals would get auctioned off along with the company of the woman who made them. But it seems the ladies are better at fighting over the men.”
“That seems a little sexist,” I said.
“But it’s the truth. There was once a four-way bidding war over a man that ended with a donation of over five thousand dollars.”
I bit back a laugh. “So how did this work, exactly?”
“A man would volunteer—”
“Or be volunteered,” Horace cut in, shoulders slumped like he’d been there himself.
“A gentleman would offer a skill or service.” Mrs. Katz strolled to the front of the room and faced the crowd. “Things like three hours of handyman work, or enjoy a home-cooked meal by Juan Fernandez. That man made the best fajitas. It was awful easy on the eyes to watch him make them, too.”
“You would like his fajitas,” Horace muttered.
Mrs. Katz shot him a scathing look.
Sarah nodded. “Years ago, Joe Price was the hot ticket. You remember that?”
It should be noted Joe Price was in his seventies and was permanently clothed in coveralls and grease as he owned an auto shop.
“I do, indeed.” Melinda sighed. “He was known to be very good with his hands.”
“Of course the quality of the man is important.” Mrs. Katz gave Horace a once-over. “Isn’t that right, Horace?”
“What’s that supposed to mean?” he demanded.
Mrs. Katz cocked one eyebrow. “Oh, I don’t know. I seem to remember some of the packages weren’t big sellers.”
“Just because no one appreciated learning about a fascinating topic…”
Mrs. Katz barked a laugh. “Fascinating topic? The history of railroads in Texas?”
“…doesn’t mean it had anything to do with the quality of the man.”
“If you say so.”
He crossed his arms. “I do say so.”
Stanley winced and threw his paws over his eyes. Same, puppers. Same.
“So, it’s decided then?” I said, before Mrs. Katz could reply. “We’re holding a silent auction.”
Horace frowned. “Maybe we could have some rules for this thing? Minimum bids and such?”
Mrs. Katz snorted. “Yes, and rules for the items donated. Nothing train-related, perhaps?”
Horace crossed his arms, shooting a glare at Mrs. Katz.
Although we didn’t call for a formal vote, it seemed everyone agreed.
“It will be a regular meat market, I expect,” Horace grumbled.
“Cheer up, Horace,” Sarah said. “Maybe someone will pay more than twenty dollars for you this time.”
