An Imperfect Librarian by Elizabeth Murphy Page A

much knowledge of our readers as we do of books. He’s an embarrassment to the profession.”
    â€œI’m sure he was a great librarian in his earlier days. I’ve never met anyone with such passion for books and reading.”
    â€œThat’d be fine and dandy if he’d share his passion with library patrons, but he doesn’t. Not unless it’s one of those darling young duckies with the bulges in the right places.”
    For Valentine’s Day, he had given a rose to every woman on staff. I saw the red flowers on desks and counters all over the library, with a card that read, Be mine, Valentine! HK.
    â€œHenry is lonely.”
    â€œMore like lecherous,” she says as she reaches for the ketchup.
    He once told me he longed for a Spanish or Italian woman, a long-haired brunette with tight cleavage and a heart that’s warm as the nicest of grandmothers on a Sunday.
    â€œHe has no family here. He’s in pain constantly because of his sciatic nerve. He’s frustrated with the changes in his role, changes in the–”
    â€œWhy are you defending him?” she says.
    â€œWhy not? He watches out for me.”
    She places her hand on top of mine. “I watch out for you too.”
    Someone she knows comes to the table to chat. After they leave, I dig into my fish and chips while Edith launches intoher plans for my first summer on the island. “We’ll drive across the island, go to Gros Morne, climb the mountain. It’s a world heritage site. We could stay in B&Bs if you’re not the camping type.”
    â€œI don’t have any holidays accumulated yet. Remember, I came here in September and it’s only April.”
    â€œYou’re allowed statutory holidays. That would give us three long weekends. We could visit the archaeological site at Ferryland. We’ll have a ball.”
    â€œI didn’t say I was going.”
    â€œYou’ll change your mind once summer comes and I show up at your office, all tanned, in my shorts and hiking boots – the sun splitting the rocks, the air filled with the smoke and smell of barbecues, the bugs and fish biting.”
    If I have my way, I’ll be back with Elsa by then.

CHAPTER TWELVE
a meaty morsel of a miracle
    I T ’ S THE TIME OF YEAR in England people call spring: tulips already faded, lilacs about to blossom, Easter bonnets stored away. In Newfoundland, the tulips are still in hibernation, icebergs are dotting shorelines, studded snow tires and skidoos are not yet stored away. The snow has melted and left the city littered with discarded coffee cups, lost mittens and scarves – as if we needed proof that the winter storms were so strong they’d blow the clothes off your back. For my fiftieth birthday, Mercedes and Cyril gave me a t-shirt with the caption: I survived the winter of ’99-2000 under a sketch of someone holding a shovel next to a snowbank.
    Inside my office, without an exterior window, the only sign of spring is the change in Henry’s mood. He’s more determined than ever that he’ll convince a woman to go on a date with him before the summer comes. If his track record is any indication of future success, I’d encourage him not to get his hopes up.
    â€œShe told me to check with her fiancé,” Henry says. “What does a darling like her want with a husband?”
    â€œWhat did Mrs. Kelly want with her Henry?”
    â€œI would never have wed in the first place, but her breasts made more than my eyes bulge. All the lads wanted to feel her up. When her Da caught us, he gave me two choices: marry her or marry her. I chose the latter. I was eighteen and almost as clueless as you are.”
    â€œHow was it?”
    â€œGrand at first,” he says. “Sex to die for, unlimited quantities. After three babies in less than four years, I didn’t want sex anymore. All I cared about was one measly moment of calm alone with a book,