Bettie Page Presents: The Librarian (3 page)

CHAPTER 6

In the morning there was a note on her desk from Sloan.
See me immediately
.

If Sloan wanted to talk to her, Regina thought, maybe it was the universe helping her solve the dilemma of whether or not to report “the incident,” as she now thought of it.

During her entire subway ride to work, she had debated whether or not she should tell Sloan about what she had seen on the fourth floor yesterday. As the train pulled into Forty-second Street Station, she finally decided that it was her responsibility to think of the library first, and so she should report the guy. Then her only question became when and how to broach the subject. But being summoned to Sloan's office first thing certainly moved things along.

“You wanted to see me?” Regina asked from the doorway.

Sloan was sitting at her desk, flipping through an issue of
Modern Bride
. On her computer screen, she was watching a Vera Wang bridal runway show.

“Yes,” Sloan said. “I need you to come with me to a Young Lions meeting. You know about the Young Lions, right?”

Regina shook her head.

Sloan sighed. “It's part of the fund-raising arm of the library. It's a membership group for supporters in their twenties and thirties. I'll give you some literature to read on it. But the pressing thing to know right now is that they sponsor an annual fiction award gala. We're completely behind this year. The committee consists partly of members of the library board and partly of the reading committee that decides on the nominees and winner.”

“I think I've heard about this,” Regina said, wondering how she was going to segue into her little eyewitness report.

“I should hope so. At any rate, I need for you to take notes at the meeting. I had an intern doing it, but she quit, so for now you'll have to fill in. We meet in the Trustees Room on the second floor at ten.”

Regina knew all about the Trustees Room—one of the most opulent in the library. But she had never seen it firsthand, and she was excited for the opportunity to do so. Still, a pall hung over her.

“Okay, but before the meeting there's something I want to talk to you about—”

“Not now, Regina. Let's go.” Sloan logged off of the bridal Web site and pulled her Chanel bag over her shoulder.

Regina dutifully followed Sloan down the hall. Her boss did not seem interested in conversation, and so Regina followed her lead and remained silent.

The Trustees Room did not disappoint; with its teak floor and elaborate sculpted white marble fireplace, it was the picture of elegance. An inscription on the fireplace read, in part,
THE CITY OF NEW YORK HAS ERECTED THIS BUILDING FOR THE FREE USE OF ALL THE PEOPLE. MCMX
.

Above her, the low-relief ceiling had an oval design of banded, cream-colored moldings. A massive brass chandelier hung in the center, and, even looking up from where she stood, Regina could make out the details of the carved satyr masks and lions.

Regina took a seat at the dark oak table in the center of the room. All of the seats were filled but the one. A legal pad, freshly sharpened pencil, and bottle of water were positioned in front of each person.

“We'll start as soon as Sebastian arrives,” said a small brunette, addressing the group with a chirping, high-pitched voice.

While the group was waiting, everyone chatting among themselves, Sloan leaned over and said, “I'll introduce you when everyone's here. I think we're just waiting for the director of the board,” Sloan said. “Oh—there he is. Sebastian Barnes.”

Regina followed Sloan's glance to the doorway and nearly fainted.

It was the man from the fourth floor.

CHAPTER 7

“Let's get started,” the man said, as he took his seat at the head of the table. His dark good looks seemed even more dramatic in the context of the meeting room. With his high cheekbones and impossibly glorious head of hair, he was a walking ad for Polo by Ralph Lauren.

Regina was halfway down the table from him, but somehow his dark eyes seemed to hone right in on her.

Sebastian Barnes.

The Barnes Collection.

Regina looked down at her legal pad, her face burning.

“Sebastian, before we get started . . .” Sloan said, glancing at Regina.

No, no, no,
thought Regina.

“I want to introduce our new librarian, Regina Finch. She'll be sitting in and taking notes.”

“Welcome aboard, Regina,” Sebastian said. The sound of her name on his lips was surreal. She felt the rest of the table looking at her, but she couldn't formulate a reply—not even a simple thank-you. What really amazed her was that there was no hint of shame as he looked at her—not even the shadow of an acknowledgment that she had caught him in a compromising situation.

He was every bit as gorgeous as the image of him in her mind—maybe more so. His Adonis-like good looks could have been generic handsomeness on someone else, but his black eyes and glossy dark hair gave him a beauty that bordered on exotic. And there was an energy about him, something vibrantly alive—something unmistakably sexual.

He opened the meeting with a discussion of the fiction award gala. Apparently, the awards had been given in the spring for the past eleven years, but this year the trustees of the library wanted it to take place in the fall, to kick off the fall season and drum up support leading into the holiday fund-raising. Unfortunately, the last-minute change had thrown off their entire schedule.

“This gives us no time to read, to plan . . . it's an untenable calendar,” said one woman.

“The trustees feel the event is getting lost in the spring. The holidays are a gift-giving, charitable-giving time of year, and a celebration of fiction will bring attention to the library when it's most valuable for us.”

“Can't you reason with them?” someone else asked. “We have hundreds of submissions from publishers. More than last year, even, when we had twice the time. There is simply no way to give every novel on this list the proper consideration.”

Sebastian shook his head. “We'll have to manage. I'm outvoted.”

The table erupted with spirited outrage.

“We need more readers,” said the woman. “Sloan, you're going to have to take on some of these titles.”

“I would love to,” said Sloan, though Regina suspected, from the white-knuckle grip on her pencil, she meant just the opposite.

“Sloan, we all know you're busy with wedding planning, and this is a time-intensive job,” said Sebastian. And then, looking at Regina: “I think we'll have to draft the rookie for this one.”

“What?” asked Regina and Sloan simultaneously.

“Good idea,” said the small, high-voiced brunette. “All hands on deck.”

“Wait a minute,” said Sloan. “Regina is my employee, and it's my responsibility to ensure that her time is used wisely—”

“I'm not asking her to do the reading on the clock, Sloan. And you heard Betsy—we all have to pitch in.” Then, as if that settled it, he focused his gaze back at Regina. “Regina, you are officially one of our readers on the fiction board. I'll explain it to you after the meeting. The jist is that this award was created to support the work of young fiction writers—thirty-five years old or under. The prize is ten thousand dollars. Publishers send in their nominees, and we pare it down to the finalists. Like I said, we can discuss it after the meeting. Right now, we have to move on to the fall reading series. Jonathan Safran Foer dropped out, so we need a replacement for November. . . .”

Regina watched him, barely hearing him yet riveted by his confidence, his command of the room. She still didn't get the roles and hierarchy of the library and all the various networks of fund-raising and events sponsorship, but she had the distinct feeling that no matter what the room or event, Sebastian was in charge.

She took refuge in her legal pad. Taking notes was the only thing she could do to keep herself from staring at him, at the way he gestured with his large hands. The way his pin-striped shirt pulled slightly against his broad shoulders. The way he smiled, suggesting that whatever was going on in the room was miles away from what was going on in his mind.

Time seemed to both stand still and speed up. She didn't want the meeting to end—as if, when the hourglass ran out, he would disappear. She knew this was irrational, and yet the feeling she got just from being in the same room with him was not something she wanted to lose just yet.

“I have to get going,” Sloan announced. “Lunch with the East Side Women Readers Coalition.”

Regina glanced at her watch, and sure enough it was almost noon.

“We're about done here, anyway,” Sebastian said, standing up. “Regina—stay a minute. Let me run you through the selection process for the fiction nominees.”

Sloan turned around and gave them a funny look. “Sebastian, she needs to get back to work.” She gave a small, phony laugh, as if to indicate that even though it really wasn't that important, she was duty-bound at least to say it.

“I won't keep her from you for too long, Sloan. Just humor me.” And he winked at her. Sloan smiled and, placated now that she was a coconspirator, walked out of the room.

The rest of the board members filed out the door. When the Trustees Room was empty except for the two of them, Sebastian gestured for her to take a seat at the table again. He resumed his place at the head.

“You may as well sit closer. No one else is here to fill these seats,” he said, smiling at the four chairs Regina left between the two of them. Swallowing hard, she moved to the seat next to him, carrying her legal pad with her.

She couldn't look at him.

“Regina, it's great to have you on board.” At that, she managed to meet his gaze. He smiled at her as if they shared a secret—which, of course, they did. She looked away.

“So how long have you worked here?”

“Two weeks,” she said.

“Are you from New York?”

“No,” she said, uncomfortable with having to answer questions. She thought they were there to talk about the fiction award gala, not her. Sebastian looked at her expectantly, and she realized he was waiting for her to continue, to say where she was from. “I'm from Philadelphia. Outside of Philadelphia—the Main Line.”

“Ah, the genteel Main Line,” he said, smiling. She didn't know if he was teasing her or what.

“My family isn't like that,” she said defensively.

“So when did you move to New York?”

“A month ago.”

“Wow. You really are a rookie.”

She felt a flash of annoyance. “I'm not a rookie when it comes to books. I have my degree in Library and Information Science. I graduated cum laude.” Ugh, why did she say that? What did she care what he thought of her?

He nodded, as if contemplating this barrage of information. “I'm assuming you're a fast reader? You like fiction?”

“Yes,” she said, crossing her arms.

“Who are some of your favorite authors?”

She looked at him again, eyeing him warily. “Contemporary or classic?”

“Either one.” He smiled, clearly charmed, or at least mildly entertained. She found him to be patronizing and irritating, but she would be damned if she was going to shy away from his questions.

“Well, Henry James, for one.”

“Ah, yes. ‘The Beast in the Jungle.' ”

She looked at him in amazement. “You've read it?”

“Don't look so surprised. I was an English major. And yes, I've read it. It's one of my all-time favorite short stories.”

“Only one of them?”

“I think a few of Raymond Carver's are top of my list.”

She nodded. It was difficult to argue with Raymond Carver.

“Well, this is encouraging,” he said, clapping his hands together. “At least we know we share the same barometer for short fiction.” His eyes were bright. “How about contemporary?”

She thought for a minute, her mind suddenly blank. This was ridiculous—she didn't have to prove anything to him. She didn't care if he had majored, minored, and double-minored in English: This was one conversational arena in which she felt utterly confident.

“Jess Walter. Every one of his novels is amazing, and they're all so completely different from one another. Then, I guess, Tom Perrotta, Michael Chabon . . .”

“Interesting,” he said, as if she had revealed something.

“What?”

“Every writer you've named is a man. You must really connect with the male sensibility.”

Was this true? Had she really not named a single female writer? She felt a flash of annoyance. Who was he to judge her answers, analyzing them like some sort of literary Rorschach test?

“I don't know what that's supposed to mean,” she said. “And you don't have me fooled for a second, by the way. All this talk about fiction doesn't change the fact that you're the type of person who can . . . who can . . .” She faltered, suddenly aware that the force of her indignation had backed her into a conversational corner.

“Who can what?” he asked, clearly amused. His handsome smile, the way he leaned toward her, eagerly awaiting her response, was the final insult.

“Have sex with someone
in the library,
” she whispered.

“Now, now—I don't think you should be going around making such serious accusations,” he said, so innocently she thought momentarily that she'd imagined everything she'd seen. And then he started to laugh.

“I can't believe you think this is funny,” she said.

“Hey, let's not forget that
you
were the one sneaking into a private room. You are a naughty girl.”

And then he wasn't smiling. His eyes locked onto hers in a way that made her insides flip. Her mind filled with an image of that woman bent over, her hair sweeping the floor . . . the look of pleasure on his face as Sebastian thrust into her over and over again . . .

Regina stood up and rushed out of the room.

•

“How's it going in the library biz?” asked Derek, reaching into her package of Oreos and eating them two at a time.

She looked to Carly to correct her boyfriend's poor kitchen etiquette, but her roommate was oblivious, perched on the countertop and painting her toenails neon green.

“Uh, fine,” Regina said, opening the refrigerator and retrieving the spaghetti left over from last night's dinner.

“Any more naked encounters?” Carly asked.

“No,” said Regina.

“Did you tell your boss?” asked Derek.

Regina stuck the pasta in the microwave.

“No, I didn't mention it.”

“You let the perv stay on the loose?” Carly asked with glee.

Regina shrugged. “I don't know if he's necessarily a perv. He was in a private room, and it turns out it's a room his family donated or something.”

She moved to the dining room table, pushing aside Carly's latest pile of fashion magazines.

“Uh, hello? You can't just leave on that bizarre little note,” said Carly.

She waddled into the room with her toes spread out, walking on her heels. Derek followed behind her. “What do you mean, his family donated the room? Who's his family?”

“I don't want to tell you,” Regina said.

Carly laughed. “Why the hell not? You finally have something interesting to say, and you're holding out on us?”

“You'll just go tweet it or blog it or tumble it, or whatever you do.”

“I will not,” said Carly. “I promise, your kinky little library friend will be our little secret. Won't leave this room. Right, Derek?”

“Right,” Derek piped up, on cue.

Regina hesitated for a minute, but her need to confide in someone overcame her sense of caution. “Sebastian Barnes,” she blurted.

“What about him?” asked Carly.

“He's the guy.”

Carly pulled out a seat at the table and plopped herself down, eyes wide.

“You're fucking with me.”

“No, I'm not. Why—do you know him?”

Derek hovered nearby, clearly very interested in the answer to that question. Carly reached for a
W
magazine in her pile, then flipped hurriedly through the back pages. Not finding what she was looking for, she picked up another. She studied one page briefly, then shoved the open magazine in front of Regina's face. It was a black-and-white photo of a lithe woman, bent over to reveal the arch of her spine in a backless dress. Her hands, with ballerina fingers, reached for her feet, almost touching her elegant stilettos.

“Who is this?” Regina asked, oddly afraid Carly would say, “His girlfriend.” Though why would that matter? But instead, Carly pointed to small print at the bottom of the page: Photographer Sebastian Barnes
.

It took a minute to register. “Let me see that.” Regina took the magazine and flipped to the next page, and the next. The photograph Carly showed her was just the first of a whole editorial spread, all photographed by Sebastian.

“He's, like, kind of a big deal,” said Carly. “When he first came up at the magazines, people thought he was a dilettante—because of all the money, you know. But he shut down all the criticism with photos like these.”

Regina put the magazine down. “Well, good for him. That still doesn't give him the right to use the library like his personal playground.”

Carly sighed. “Loosen up, Regina. You should recognize a great New York moment when it's staring you in the face.”

“Or when you're staring it in the bare ass,” Derek joked.