A Hidden Fire
Page 7
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“You and my grandmother are far too interested in my love life, or lack thereof. But thanks for calling me ‘gorgeous.’”
“You are,” Charlotte sighed. “You have the most perfect skin. I kind of hate you.”
“And you have the perfect husband and two perfect children, so I think you win. Is Jeff enjoying having you home every night?”
Charlotte smiled and nodded. “Yes, all joking aside, thanks for taking the evening hours. It makes a huge difference with the boys involved in so many activities now.”
“No problem. I can always use the cash.”
“Speaking of cash, did I tell you someone very wealthy and very generous just donated a couple of letters from the Italian Renaissance to the library? We should be getting them in the next couple of weeks.”
“Letters? What are they?”
Charlotte shrugged. “Not sure. I haven’t seen them. I guess they’re a couple letters from some Florentine poet to a friend who was a philosopher. Late fifteenth century, supposedly very well-preserved. I should remember the names, but I don’t. They were in some private collection, from what I hear. Honestly, I have no idea why the university is getting them.”
“Huh.” Beatrice frowned. “We have hardly anything from that period. Most of the Italian stuff we have is late medieval.”
“I know,” Charlotte shrugged again, “but they were donated, so no one’s going to complain.”
“When do they get here?”
“A few weeks, maybe closer to a month or so.” Charlotte laughed. “I thought Christiansen was going to piss his pants, he was so excited when he told me.”
“And thank you for that mental image,” she snorted. “I’m going to go to check the dehumidifiers in the stacks. I’ll see you in a bit.”
Beatrice was still shaking her head when she entered the manuscript room, chuckling at her playful supervisor. Charlotte Martin’s enthusiasm for books and information was one of the reasons the young woman had decided to pursue a master’s degree in library science. Far from stuffy, Beatrice had discovered that most libraries were small hotbeds of gossip and personal intrigue. Intrigue that she enjoyed observing but also tried to avoid by hiding in her own small department.
She checked the moisture readings in the stacks, tracking and resetting the meter for the next twenty-four hours. She walked to the center of the room to empty the plastic container from the dehumidifier that pulled excess water from the thick, South Texas air, so it wouldn’t damage the delicate residents of the manuscript room.
After completing her duties in back, she pulled one of her favorite books from the shelves and opened it, poring over the vivid medieval illuminations in a German devotional. After a few minutes, she tore herself away to go help Charlotte with some filing before she settled at the reference desk for the evening and began to work on a paper for one of her classes.
At five-thirty, Charlotte waved good-bye, and by seven o’clock, Beatrice heard the familiar steps of Dr. Giovanni Vecchio—mysterious Ph.D., translator of Tibetan texts, and all around hot-piece-of-gossip-inducing-ass—enter the reading room.
“Good evening, Miss De Novo. How are you tonight?”
She heard his soft accent as he approached and saved the file she was working on before she looked up with a smile. He was wearing a pair of dark-rimmed glasses and a grey jacket that evening. His face was angular, handsome in a way that reminded her of one of the photographs in her art history textbook. His dark, curly hair and green eyes were set off by a pale complexion that seemed out of place on someone with a Mediterranean background.
Beatrice decided that no one should be that good looking—especially if they were smart. It simply put the rest of the population at a disadvantage.
“Fine, thanks. I’m fine.” She sighed almost imperceptibly, and straightened her black skirt as she stood. “The Tibetan manuscript again?”
He flashed a smile and nodded. “Yes, thank you.”
Beatrice went back to retrieve what she had begun to think of as “his” manuscript and walked out to Giovanni’s table in the far corner of the small room. Setting it down, she noticed he already had his pencils, notebooks, and notes from the week before laid out on the table. He was nothing, if not organized and well-prepared.
“Do you need the spiel?” she asked as she handed him his silk gloves.
He smirked. “Not unless you are required to give it every time I’m here.”
“I’ve seen you here a few weeks now. If you won’t tell, I won’t.”
“Your flagrant disregard of protocol will be our secret, Beatrice,” he said with a wink that set her heart racing. She hated her name, but maybe she didn’t hate it quite as much when it rolled off his tongue with that sexy accent.
She just smiled and tried to breathe normally. “I’ll be at the desk if you need anything.”
“Thank you.” He nodded and slipped on the gloves to pick up the book. As always, she noticed the seemingly incongruent features which only added to the mystery he presented.
His fingers were long and graceful, reminding her more of an artist than a scholar, but the body beneath his casually professional wardrobe looked like that of a trained athlete. He appeared fastidious in his appearance, but his hair always seemed just a bit too long. No matter how he was dressed, she always smiled when she saw his expression, his concentrated frown and preoccupied gaze were one hundred percent academic.
“You are,” Charlotte sighed. “You have the most perfect skin. I kind of hate you.”
“And you have the perfect husband and two perfect children, so I think you win. Is Jeff enjoying having you home every night?”
Charlotte smiled and nodded. “Yes, all joking aside, thanks for taking the evening hours. It makes a huge difference with the boys involved in so many activities now.”
“No problem. I can always use the cash.”
“Speaking of cash, did I tell you someone very wealthy and very generous just donated a couple of letters from the Italian Renaissance to the library? We should be getting them in the next couple of weeks.”
“Letters? What are they?”
Charlotte shrugged. “Not sure. I haven’t seen them. I guess they’re a couple letters from some Florentine poet to a friend who was a philosopher. Late fifteenth century, supposedly very well-preserved. I should remember the names, but I don’t. They were in some private collection, from what I hear. Honestly, I have no idea why the university is getting them.”
“Huh.” Beatrice frowned. “We have hardly anything from that period. Most of the Italian stuff we have is late medieval.”
“I know,” Charlotte shrugged again, “but they were donated, so no one’s going to complain.”
“When do they get here?”
“A few weeks, maybe closer to a month or so.” Charlotte laughed. “I thought Christiansen was going to piss his pants, he was so excited when he told me.”
“And thank you for that mental image,” she snorted. “I’m going to go to check the dehumidifiers in the stacks. I’ll see you in a bit.”
Beatrice was still shaking her head when she entered the manuscript room, chuckling at her playful supervisor. Charlotte Martin’s enthusiasm for books and information was one of the reasons the young woman had decided to pursue a master’s degree in library science. Far from stuffy, Beatrice had discovered that most libraries were small hotbeds of gossip and personal intrigue. Intrigue that she enjoyed observing but also tried to avoid by hiding in her own small department.
She checked the moisture readings in the stacks, tracking and resetting the meter for the next twenty-four hours. She walked to the center of the room to empty the plastic container from the dehumidifier that pulled excess water from the thick, South Texas air, so it wouldn’t damage the delicate residents of the manuscript room.
After completing her duties in back, she pulled one of her favorite books from the shelves and opened it, poring over the vivid medieval illuminations in a German devotional. After a few minutes, she tore herself away to go help Charlotte with some filing before she settled at the reference desk for the evening and began to work on a paper for one of her classes.
At five-thirty, Charlotte waved good-bye, and by seven o’clock, Beatrice heard the familiar steps of Dr. Giovanni Vecchio—mysterious Ph.D., translator of Tibetan texts, and all around hot-piece-of-gossip-inducing-ass—enter the reading room.
“Good evening, Miss De Novo. How are you tonight?”
She heard his soft accent as he approached and saved the file she was working on before she looked up with a smile. He was wearing a pair of dark-rimmed glasses and a grey jacket that evening. His face was angular, handsome in a way that reminded her of one of the photographs in her art history textbook. His dark, curly hair and green eyes were set off by a pale complexion that seemed out of place on someone with a Mediterranean background.
Beatrice decided that no one should be that good looking—especially if they were smart. It simply put the rest of the population at a disadvantage.
“Fine, thanks. I’m fine.” She sighed almost imperceptibly, and straightened her black skirt as she stood. “The Tibetan manuscript again?”
He flashed a smile and nodded. “Yes, thank you.”
Beatrice went back to retrieve what she had begun to think of as “his” manuscript and walked out to Giovanni’s table in the far corner of the small room. Setting it down, she noticed he already had his pencils, notebooks, and notes from the week before laid out on the table. He was nothing, if not organized and well-prepared.
“Do you need the spiel?” she asked as she handed him his silk gloves.
He smirked. “Not unless you are required to give it every time I’m here.”
“I’ve seen you here a few weeks now. If you won’t tell, I won’t.”
“Your flagrant disregard of protocol will be our secret, Beatrice,” he said with a wink that set her heart racing. She hated her name, but maybe she didn’t hate it quite as much when it rolled off his tongue with that sexy accent.
She just smiled and tried to breathe normally. “I’ll be at the desk if you need anything.”
“Thank you.” He nodded and slipped on the gloves to pick up the book. As always, she noticed the seemingly incongruent features which only added to the mystery he presented.
His fingers were long and graceful, reminding her more of an artist than a scholar, but the body beneath his casually professional wardrobe looked like that of a trained athlete. He appeared fastidious in his appearance, but his hair always seemed just a bit too long. No matter how he was dressed, she always smiled when she saw his expression, his concentrated frown and preoccupied gaze were one hundred percent academic.
