Blood Ex Libris Read online

  I restrained myself from shoving my glasses up my nose. It was my nervous tic, but now was not the time for it. Be cool, be smooth. “Well…” I paused to make sure I remembered profoundly complicated things like, oh, my own library’s hours of operation and the simple closing-up tasks I had done every night for years. “Um, I’m here until nine. I don’t know how late you want to eat dinner?” Damn, damn, damn! Could I not have phrased it in a way not guaranteed to end all possibility of a dinner date?

  “Is it acceptable I meet you there at 9:30 PM, and we share at least an after-dinner drink?” He smiled again, seeming pleased to have come up with this potentially workable solution. I, personally, was beyond delighted with it. “That’s perfect!” Did I sound too enthusiastic there?

  “I will look forward to 9:30 and to seeing you...Noosh.” A bit of extra warmth in his voice as he said my name? Oh, he was the cool, smooth, and in-control one here. I was just hanging on, trying not to make a fool of myself and not particularly succeeding.

  “Me too,” I belatedly responded as he lithely slid away. He moved like a cat. Maybe he was a professional dancer? It would explain his confidence, perfect movements, and sleek, exotic looks. But why would a professional dancer be in Centerville, or even Blackacre, which was no bigger a town, nor any more prominent as a center of the arts?

  Needless to say, I did not pay overmuch attention to my last hours of work and went through the close-up checklist like an automaton.

  External existence didn’t start again until after 9 PM. He was there when I got to Beowulf’s, an espresso to hand. Drinking espresso—how sophisticated and European of him. I knew no one who didn’t get some variety of caffeinated beverage involving lots of milk and a flavored sugar syrup, possibly with whipped cream and things sprinkled on top as well. He was at the table with the cushiest chairs. I tried and failed not to think, Aww! It’s “our table,” and he remembered!

  It was normally a happy event to come into the café, which was filled with the warm, spicy scent of their award-winning Grendel’s Mother’s Black Bean Chili, but this time I was too busy trying to eat neatly while enjoying making eye contact. Not a time to spill food down my shirt. And remember not to talk with your mouth full. I didn’t eat much, and what I ate, I didn’t taste.

  Alexandru nursed that espresso. I managed to eat an entire meal—well, to move it around my salad plate and chili bowl as I talked and listened—and drink two pots of oolong tea in the time it took for him to not finish his wee cup of thick black coffee. Perhaps no one actually likes espresso?

  Alexandru got more out of me about my life than I think I’d ever told anyone before. Not having any friends after second grade. Being called “bookworm” and “nerd” by everyone in the school, even the other geeks, and how books were my only friends for years. My discovery of computers, which made me even geekier, making friends, which helped me care less about being a geek, and my excitement about how computers were not the enemies of books and libraries but their best friend. How while growing up, I’d lived at my local public library and had a schoolgirl-crush on Miss Evans, who was the archetypal “sexy librarian” and how she’d inspired me to get my Bachelor’s in Computer Science and after that, my Master’s in Library Science. About my wonderful years of college, where I finally blossomed socially. About my hopes of being a digital archivist someday, even though there were so few opportunities.

  Alexandru did drop a few hints about himself. He would say things like, “Ah, I understand just how it is to feel alone amongst your peers,” but before I could get more out of him, he would ask me another question, which would set me off again. I finally managed to nudge some information out of him: he had moved to the U.S. from Romania, had a house over in Blackacre, and had recently returned from some travel. When I inquired about his trip, he was pretty vague about details. He had been visiting family, who, it seemed, were pretty widely spread out around the world. OK. And he was independently wealthy, which didn’t mean much to me but sounded nice.

  I got much more out of him when the talk turned to music. He was a big Mahler fan too, leaving me in the dust. The passionate way he spoke about the great Gustav’s music enthralled me. Given his knowledge and insight, I joked, he should write a book about Mahler. This brought the first smirk I’d seen to his face. He muttered something like, “Don’t think Gustl would like that!” and promptly changed the subject. He got me talking about EDM, which I’d reservedly admitted liking, but he seemed honestly intrigued, and I found myself offering to make a playlist for him.

  Beowulf’s late-shift employees had to ask us to leave. I did get a wink from Mia-the-closing-shift-barista on the way out the door, so I didn’t think I had to fear not being allowed back in the next day.

  He walked me home. It was clear, and the stars were bright. Since it had been an extremely warm winter, there were no distracting snowdrifts to lurch through. He strode beside me in the unusually balmy night. There was no one else out as, with the exception of Beowulf’s, they roll up the sidewalks at nine around here, even in summer. It was the deep quiet of late night, but the half-full moon gave us plenty of light once our eyes adjusted.

  I can’t say with any accuracy what we talked about, one of those “everything and nothing” conversations. More important than words was how his green-gold eyes gleamed in the moonlight. In fact, the moonlight did right by him; it brought out the planes of his face in high relief, making poetic the harsh curve of his strong nose. His hair fell so darkly that I could not see where it ended and his leather jacket began. He walked close to me, his eyes meeting mine in long looks. Is it any wonder I couldn’t tell you what was said along the way?

  It was like something out of a romance novel—certainly not out of the previous story of my life. I tried to savor every moment, notice every little detail. The night air still held a little of winter’s bite, and I’d forgotten my gloves. He noticed me rubbing my hands together for warmth. I’d been attempting to do this surreptitiously so my hands wouldn’t be repellently cold if he just happened to want to hold one of them, but it gratifyingly ended up with him rubbing my hands to warm them. To do this, we had to stand quite close together, of course, me looking first down at my small hands being massaged by his larger ones, and, gathering my courage, up into his eyes. They were framed by thick black lashes that stood in sharp contrast to his skin, which in this light lost most of its olive tone and looked like alabaster or something.

  When he didn’t kiss me, I nearly died, but it was natural to stay hand in hand as we started walking again, speaking in low murmurs, quiet laughter. When we got to my little home, I didn’t know what to do. Every part of my body and most of my brain wanted to invite him in, but I’d never invited someone I didn’t know well up to my place for sex. Let’s be clear: I wanted to.

  Alexandru made up my mind for me. He leaned me against the doorframe and stroked his fingers down my hair. I shuddered. There was nowhere I could look but into those gold-green orbs. I now understood how someone could feel they were drowning in someone else’s eyes.

  He leaned forward. Stopped. Slowly leaned forward more. Stopped. Perhaps he was politely giving me time to back away if I wanted, but for me, it was a terrible tease. I leaned forward the littlest bit to encourage him. Finally, finally, his lips brushed against mine in the gentlest of kisses: one, two, threeeee. When he pulled away, leaving me leaning foolishly towards him with my eyes still closed, frustration rushed hot through me.

  It looked like he knew my feelings because he leaned into my neck and nuzzled it softly. I could hear and feel him breathing against my skin. My knees seriously considered turning into jelly.

  He pulled back and looked into my eyes again. “Noosh, I must leave for some small while. I do not want to…” here he made a noise that sounded like “eh bee-ann-eh,” “to start things. Only then to return. May I…will you let me resume this when I return?”

  “Oh,” I said, feeling like I’d just walked into a wall. This was not how I�
�d planned the next few minutes and hours to go. Not that I had a plan, but this wouldn’t have been it. Still. He was being honest and considerate, which I had to respect even though what I wanted badly was for him to “start things.” Right now.

  I tried for an answer that walked the line between letting him off easy in recognition of his candor but also made it clear I’d been hoping for more and was disappointed to be losing out. “Alexandru. I-I would love to pick up right where we left off as soon as possible.” Well, that was playing hard to get. No coy seductress, I.

  Thankfully, my desperation did not seem to put him off. “I am not certain how long I shall be, but not more than a few weeks. I shall come into your library or Beowulf’s as soon as I return.”

  Could women get blue balls? Blue walls? This achieved whole new levels of unfairness, in a life where I’d never experienced much romantic fairness, anyway. “Do you have to go? Right now?”

  Alexandru chuckled, a dark, rich sound like the best fudge you ever ate made audible. “Ah, draga mea,” Romanian? Sexy! “I do not wish to go right now. I want what you want. But it is best this way, and when I get back, I will make up for every minute of waiting, I promise you this.”

  I think I sighed heavily. He was saying all the right things. Except for the clichéd part about forgetting everything else in the world, he wanted to take me upstairs, and we would spend the rest of the night, well, actively.

  Alexandru looked down at me silently, eyes full of meanings I couldn’t read. The look lasted a long, frustrating time. I was a moment away from looking down in confusion and unhappiness when he leaned down again and finally, finally properly kissed me.

  His lips were this amazing mix of soft and firm. Like the topmost layer of skin was made of the softest microfiber, underneath which was titanium—warm, malleable titanium. So, not really titanium. I’m not cut out for this romance stuff. He kissed me chastely at first, and when I met him with enthusiasm, the kiss became passionate. No tongue, but meeting of lips after meeting of lips, like waves crashing on a beach.

  I’d never been kissed like that before. Actually, I’m not sure how many people get kissed like that. It utterly wiped away all my doubts about myself, my doubts about this striking, mysterious man actually being interested in me, and replaced them with the warm knowledge of requited attraction.

  I have no idea how long it lasted. While a few eternities might have flashed by, in the end, it didn’t count because no matter how long it had lasted, it was over all too soon.

  Alexandru withdrew slowly from the kiss, despite my hope that my lips’ gravitational field might catch him again. He escaped enough to be able to look into my eyes. I was amazed my glasses hadn’t fogged up. We had a meaningful conversation, just looking at each other. It was full of promises, assurances, and implications for the future, conveyed by far more than words. I would be the last person in the world to talk about a “soul-to-soul connection,” but if such a thing did exist, that’s how it would be done. It was intoxicating.

  He leaned in and kissed my forehead, then I was spun ’round and gently eased through my door. I sort of came to in the entryway at the bottom of the staircase, the door closed behind me, and a whisper echoed in Alexandru’s wake: “I shall return to you soon, draga mea.”

  Chapter Three

  You can probably imagine what I was like after that. Giddy. Singing to myself. Tripping over things. I was worse than any teen with their first crush. I waltzed around. I could have danced all night, I could have daaaanced allllll niiiiiight! Gooey love songs and some rather more explicit ones became the playlist of my life.

  For the first week, I was manically energized. Never had the Helen Abigail Winstringham-Fenstermacher Memorial Library been more hopping—returned books were back on their shelves almost before they were checked in. The children’s reading hour ended up with everyone dancing—don’t ask! The library website got a sexy new make-over and even more functionality, which possibly three people would ever use.

  Andre and Zuzu went from worrying about me to teasing me mercilessly and asking when I’d introduce them to the mystery person. I bouncily traded quip for quip, when normally I’m the person who can’t think of anything good in the moment but has the perfect reply bubble up in her head when it’s well past too late.

  When the weekend came, I was cautiously careful not to expect Alexandru. He’d said “not more than a few weeks,” so no matter how much I longed to see him, he wasn’t going to be back yet, and that was that. I did the raking and other yardwork for the Muckenfusses, who were happy to have someone on whom to foist such tasks since their free labor—i.e., their children—now all lived too far away. Mrs. M gifted me with one of her county-fair-winning Black Forest cakes, so I had the triple win of exercise, distraction, and cake.

  Week two was a slightly more mellow version of week one. I couldn’t keep up such bounciness, and anyway, what if I over-exerted myself and ended up with a cold or something right when Alexandru returned? I reined it in a bit and re-read all the Sherlock Holmes stories for comfort and pleasure, and after that, dug my teeth into some new science fiction that had been piling up on the “to read” pile. My kids were dismayed to discover there would be no dancing this week.

  Week three I started getting antsy. He’d said, “Not more than a few weeks,” which would seem to indicate I could expect his imminent return. By Wednesday, every day was full make-up and styled hair, just in case he got home a few days early.

  He didn’t get home early. He didn’t get home at the end of the week, nor on the weekend.

  No worries, it’s fine, I told myself. He didn’t say “three weeks,” he said, “a few,” and different people mean different things by such vague words as “a few.” What with travel being what it is, he probably missed a flight, or it was canceled due to obscure airplane problems or an erupting volcano or something. Although there were none in the news—I checked. Really, there were a bazillion good reasons Alexandru might return any random number of days past a vague deadline.

  So, I kept up my dressing up—if I was going to Beowulf’s or the HAWFML—pronounced privately amongst us staff as, “Haw-Fuck-My-Life.” That meant I had to do some shopping because before Alexandru came into my life, I’d pretty much lived in Librarian Casual, which was not dramatically different from Slouchy Student. It was past time for a style makeover, and I thought I’d try Ready For Romance, which necessitated a different wardrobe. It was trips to the mall for me, although since it was during the holiday rush, it ended up being far worse than I’d remembered malls to be. Regardless, I ended up with trousers which more resembled leggings than anything else and pencil skirts—you simply cannot do the children’s reading hour in a mini-skirt—and silky blouses, and sweaters that made miracles of my bust.

  Speaking of bust-related miracles, I made a dent in my savings in a lingerie shop where previously I had bought only the no-underwire t-shirt bras. There was the makeover, which cost more than all the clothing together but came home in a much smaller bag.

  I also went in for a well-overdue eye exam and found they made super-sexy spectacles nowadays, which really brought my look together. I got contact lenses for the first time, too, because kissing definitely worked better without glasses on.

  The velocity created by the new wardrobe and wearing makeup lasted two weeks. I felt like I was playing dress-up every day and was a new person for it—bonuses were the ensuing compliments from Zuzu, Andre, and the whole reading group at Beowulf’s, including our curmudgeon. What did me in was the weekend. I’d spent the first of the two weekends re-cleaning my rooms and attempting some cooking, just in case Alexandru happened to show up.

  By the third weekend, inertia and depression started to set in. Alexandru wasn’t coming back to live up to his sexy promises. He obviously wasn’t coming back at all. Maybe I’d hallucinated him in the first place. Since all I ever did was read, was it any surprise I’d gotten confused and thought I was living in a novel?

&n
bsp; Still, I kept wearing my new wardrobe and my makeup. It was a combination of unconscious desperation mixed with a healthy enjoyment of discovering the art of attire and having fun with eyeliner and lipstick. I stopped thinking about Alexandru. The holidays were upon everyone, and I decorated the library, read holiday stories to the kids, and let the monthly reading group cancel because everyone was overwhelmed by all the shopping they had to do.

  Really. I forgot all about him.

  Christmas came and went. Bought presents for Andre and Zuzanna, and the Muckenfusses. Had a solo Christmas dinner in my apartment with some new graphic novels—no romance—to distract me.

  Time stretched to two months. Three. My life was just as it had been before the brief moment of intense insanity where I imagined I’d somehow gotten swept up in a wild romance. I initiated a program of my kids sharing their favorite books, and my monthly reading group mutinied over Gravity’s Rainbow.

  Chapter Four

  It had just turned to May, after a squelchy-wet April, which would have been very depressing if I’d allowed myself to think about hallucinatory men whose names sorta-kinda sounded like Xanadu. Which I didn’t. So it wasn’t. Honest.

  I had settled into my old life, unchanged but for my new tendency toward tight skirts and red lips. I had given up on the contacts, however, and just wore the new sexy glasses. I’d always loved the Sexy Librarian look. I wasn’t dressing up for anyone but me, dammit! Beowulf’s had just opened up their covered back patio for the year, and I was sitting out on it, even though it was still too chilly in the evening for such things.

  The café could get all too crowded in the winter months since there isn’t much else to do on long winter evenings in Centerville. It was a refreshing change to have space to spread out in and not be breathing other people’s air. I had spring lamb stew and oolong tea steaming in front of me and the newest Library Resources & Technical Services newsletter in my hand when I heard the door to the patio open. All at once, my arm-hairs stood on end, and it wasn’t the cold. I had my back to the door, and there was no way I could know his step. He walked so damn softly I could barely hear his feet on the flagstones, but I knew it was him.