Page 13 of The Missing Pages
Ada glanced around the room. The other female guests were getting up from their tables. The votives around the room were dimming.
“I think I’ve spent so much time talking about myself, the kitchen will be closing soon.”
“It feels like no time has passed,” I said. I wished I could have stopped the clock from ticking, that the dining room would have stayed open all night.
“I haven’t even had a chance to pique your interest in the special Dickens edition,” she said, her voice lilting. “I haven’t done my job, I’m afraid.”
“But you have,” I insisted. I couldn’t say it at the time, but she had sold me something far more important. She spoke my language. I could sense her spirit nearly jumping out of her skin when she talked about the books that had come in and out of the store.
I held on to her every word, entranced by her intelligence, her beauty, and her undeniable charm. It wasn’t just the opportunity to purchase a rare and valuable copy ofDavid Copperfieldthat she offered me that evening. I felt like she was granting me entrance into her mind.
CHAPTER ELEVEN
Violet picked up the telephone in her dorm room and called the local florist to order that week’s flowers for Harry’s desk. She didn’t want to disappoint Madeline. Her job was one of the few things that had made her happy recently. It was something she now had purely to herself, something that existed without any connection to Hugo.
“I’d like to order the bouquet for the Widener Memorial Room,” she said.
“What are you imagining?” the florist asked. “Maybe something with fall colors?”
“Can you tell me what you have in stock?”
“We had some beautiful saffron and clementine-colored gerberas come in today, and also several lovely magenta zinnias. They’re quite vibrant and would make a great contrast flower to that arrangement.”
Violet closed her eyes. She could imagine the dark pink, yellow, and orange colors vividly.
“Perfect,” Violet said.
“Shall I put it on the usual account?”
“Yes. That would be great.”
“My name’s Lottie, by the way,” the woman shared. “I’ve been doing the flowers here for over forty years, and my father did it before that. So do know that we take special pride in having supplied the library’s flowers ever since Mrs. Widener first requested them.”
“I’m Violet. I just started working part-time at Widener and helping Ms. Singer.”
“A student then?”
“Yes, I’m a junior.”
“It’s a pleasure to meet you,” Lottie said. “And I love your name.”
“Thank you. It was my grandmother’s favorite color.”
“Violets are one of the hardiest flowers. They can survive even in snow or frost. So it’s a very good choice for a name.”
“I didn’t know that.” Violet found herself smiling from the other end of the phone. “I appreciate you helping me with the bouquet. I’m responsible for ordering them each week now for Ms. Singer. So, I guess you’ll be hearing from me a lot in the future.”
“Always happy to help, my dear.”
Violet hung up the phone and looked at the pile of clothes in the corner. She resolved not to wear a sweatshirt and sweatpants today. Violet pushed herself to walk over to the wooden wardrobe and pulled open the doors, reaching for a white blouse and chambray pants. She was just about to put them on, when the lavender scarf that Hugo had bought her for Christmas last year slipped from a hook and fell to the ground, landing directly at her feet.
She reached down and picked it up. The diaphanous material was soft between her fingertips. Violet hadn’t thought about the scarf for so long. Every memory she had about Hugo had been too painful to dwell on since his death. But the one of when she and Hugo had lain in front of the fireplace at the guest cottage of his parents’ home, unwrapping their gifts to one another, now filled her with warmth instead of sadness. She savored remembering how he had kissed her when she lifted the scarf from the beautifully wrapped package, and then playfully draped it around her shoulders.
“My own little Pre-Raphaelite,” he mused. He pushed back one of her stray red hairs and kissed her again, happy that he’d been able to put the Art History class they’d taken together the previous semester to good use.
Violet now wrapped the scarf around her neck. The memory of him filled her. She could almost feel his fingers grazing her skin.
Maybe, she thought, she was ready to bring a little bit of him with her to the library.
