“Agreed. The artist’s contact information will be printed on a card underneath. We could use the main hallway. It’ll bring people into the library and give our regulars something new.”
He made a “hmm” noise. Wavering. Definitely wavering.
“After all,” I said, “our mission statement mentions cultural enrichment. What better way for patrons to be introduced to art than to see the work of local artists displayed at their library? At the old library, there wasn’t room, but we could use the entire main hallway.”
“The long-term benefits could be significant,” Stephen said slowly.
Yes! I kept my smile small and my fist-thrust in my pants pocket.
“However, the work involved could overshadow those benefits.” He toyed with his glasses. “Your hours have increased substantially over the last year due to your efforts to champion the bookmobile.”
“But I’m salaried,” I said quickly. “It doesn’t cost the library any extra. And I’m glad to do it, I really am.”
He made another “hmm” noise. This one was harder to decipher.
“What if I talk to some of the gallery owners in town,” I offered. “See if they’re willing to help. They select the art, I check to make sure the art’s suitable, the galleries get agreements from the artists to be part of the show, they move the art up here, and I help them hang it. Hardly any work at all.”
Stephen rubbed his eyes. “I don’t have the energy to argue. Keep me informed, is all I ask.”
“I . . . are you sure?”
He was already back to studying his computer monitor. “Check about insurance. And don’t hand out any front-door keys.”
“No, of course not.” I went to the door and turned. “Stephen?”
“Yes?”
I wanted to ask him what was bothering him, wanted to say if he needed to talk about something, about anything, that I could be trusted. That I could be his friend. “Is there anything I can do for you?” I finally asked.
“No, thank you,” he said, chiseling the boundary line into stone.
There was nothing to do but leave. So I did.
• • •
I spent the next couple of hours shuffling spreadsheets and databases, printing reports, and checking bookmobile projections against reality. Far too early to tell, of course, but it did my heart good to see that, on a per-stop basis, my plucked-out-of-thin-air estimates of patrons and materials checked out were low.
I smiled at the nice numbers, then pulled out the phone book and picked up the phone.
“Grice residence.”
This time the female voice had a French accent. Or what I thought was a French accent. Could have been Swiss, for all I knew. Or Belgian. Not that it mattered; I needed to get through her to Caroline. “I’d like to speak to Mrs. Grice about showing some artwork from the Lakeview Gallery.”
“Your name, please?”
“Minnie Hamilton. I’m assistant director at the library.”
“One moment.”
I hummed my own hold music while I waited. Though in my appeal to Stephen I’d said I’d talk to gallery owners in the plural, I hadn’t really meant it. One would be plenty, if only I could convince her.
“Miss Hamilton, this is Caroline Grice. We speak again.”
“Yes, ma’am.” I put a smile in my voice and started my spiel. I was only halfway through when Caroline jumped in.
“Tell me if I’m understanding correctly. The library will display artwork from the gallery; no art will be sold by the library. We obtain the artists’ agreement and select the artwork, which you will need to approve. We deliver the artwork and remove it when the show is over. We will add the library to our liability insurance for the duration of the show.”
“That’s it exactly.” I was about to launch into an apology for all the work this would cause. To apologize for the short notice, but that I hoped we could work out a date to meet within the next week and—
“The selections can be made today,” she said. “At some point tomorrow I daresay I’ll have contacted all the artists. Correct?”
I blinked. The speed of light had nothing on Caroline Grice. She suggested we meet in two days to formalize the details. I agreed, then hung up and went to get a celebratory soda.
“What’s the matter?” Josh was loading his cargo pants with bags of corn chips. “You look funny.”
“I am funny,” I said. “Did I ever tell you the one about the—”
“You’ve told me all your jokes.” He ripped open a bag of chips. “You know, has anyone ever told you that they’re all kind of dumb?”