The Paris Library: A Novel

New York Times Bestseller

Janet Skeslien Charles

A Novel

The Paris Library

Logo: Book Club Favorites Reader’s Guide

A vivid, enjoyable, based-on-a-true-story tale. —Kristin Harmel, New York Times bestselling author of the The Book of Lost Names

CLICK HERE TO SIGN UP

For my parents

CHAPTER 1

Odile

PARIS, FEBRUARY 1939

NUMBERS FLOATED ROUND my head like stars. 823. The numbers were the key to a new life. 822. Constellations of hope. 841. In my bedroom late at night, in the morning on the way to get croissants, series after series—810, 840, 890—formed in front of my eyes. They represented freedom, the future. Along with the numbers, I’d studied the history of libraries, going back to the 1500s. In England, while Henry VIII was busy chopping off his wives’ heads, our King François was modernizing his library, which he opened to scholars. His royal collection was the beginning of the Bibliothèque Nationale. Now, at the desk in my bedroom, I prepared for my job interview at the American Library, reviewing my notes one last time: founded in 1920; the first in Paris to let the public into the stacks; subscribers from more than thirty countries, one-fourth of them from France. I held fast to these facts and figures, hoping they’d make me appear qualified to the Directress.

I strode from my family’s apartment on the sooty rue de Rome, across from the Saint-Lazare train station, where locomotives coughed up smoke. The wind whipped my hair, and I tucked tendrils under my tam hat. In the distance, I could see the ebony dome of Saint-Augustin church. Religion, 200. Old Testament, 221. And the New Testament? I waited, but the number wouldn’t come. I was so nervous that I forgot simple facts. I drew my notebook from my purse. Ah, yes, 225. I knew that.

My favorite part of library school had been the Dewey Decimal system. Conceived in 1873 by the American librarian Melvil Dewey, it used ten classes to organize library books on shelves based on subject. There was a number for everything, allowing any reader to find any book in any library. For example, Maman took pride in her 648 (housekeeping). Papa wouldn’t admit it, but he really did enjoy 785 (chamber music). My twin brother was more of a 636.8 person, while I preferred 636.7. (Cats and dogs, respectively.)

I arrived on le grand boulevard, where in the space of a block, the city shrugged off her working-class mantle and donned a mink coat. The coarse smell of coal dissipated, replaced by the honeyed jasmine of Joy, worn by women delighting in the window display of Nina Ricci’s dresses and Kislav green leather gloves. Farther along, I wound around musicians exiting the shop that sold wrinkled sheet music, past the baroque building with the blue door, and turned the corner, onto a narrow side street. I knew the way by heart.

I loved Paris, a city with secrets. Like book covers, some leather, some cloth, each Parisian door led to an unexpected world. A courtyard could contain a knot of bicycles or a plump concierge armed with a broom. In the case of the Library, the massive wooden door opened to a secret garden. Bordered by petunias on one side, lawn on the other, the white pebbled path led to the brick-and-stone mansion. I crossed the threshold, beneath French and American flags flittering side by side, and hung my jacket on the rickety coatrack. Breathing in the best smell in the world—a mélange of the mossy scent of musty books and crisp newspaper pages—I felt as if I’d come home.

A few minutes early for the interview, I skirted the circulation desk, where the always debonair librarian listened to subscribers (Where can a fella find a decent steak in Paris? asked a newcomer in cowboy boots. Why should I pay the fine when I didn’t even finish the book? demanded cantankerous Madame Simon), and entered the quiet of the cozy reading room.

At a table near the French windows, Professor Cohen read the paper, a jaunty peacock feather tucked in her chignon; Mr. Pryce-Jones pondered Time as he puffed on his pipe. Ordinarily, I would have said hello, but nervous about my interview, I sought refuge in my favorite section of the stacks. I loved being surrounded by stories, some as old as time, others published just last month.

I thought I might check out a novel for my brother. More and more now, at all hours of the night, I would wake to the sound of him typing his tracts. If Rémy wasn’t writing articles about how France should aid the refugees driven out of Spain by the civil war, he was insisting that Hitler would take over Europe the way he’d taken a chunk of Czechoslovakia. The only thing that made Rémy forget his worries—which was to say the worries of others—was a good book.

I ran my fingers along the spines. Choosing one, I opened to a random passage. I never judged a book by its beginning. It felt like the first and last date I’d once had, both of us smiling too brightly. No, I opened to a page in the middle, where the author wasn’t trying to impress me. There are darknesses in life and there are lights, I read. You are one of the lights, the light of all light. Oui. Merci, Mr. Stoker. This is what I would say to Rémy if I could.

Now I was late. I hurried to the circulation desk, where I signed the card and slid Dracula into my purse. The Directress was waiting. As always, her chestnut hair was swept up in a bun, a silver pen poised in her hand.

Everyone knew of Miss Reeder. She wrote articles for newspapers and dazzled on the radio, inviting all to the Library—students, teachers, soldiers, foreigners, and French. She was adamant that there be a place here for everyone.

I’m Odile Souchet. Sorry to be late. I was early, and I opened a book…

Reading is dangerous, Miss Reeder said with a knowing smile. Let’s go to my office.

I followed her through the reading room, where subscribers in smart suits lowered their newspapers to get a better look at the famous Directress, up the spiral staircase and down a corridor in the sacred Employees Only wing to her office, which smelled of coffee. On the wall hung a large aerial photo of a city, its blocks like a chessboard, so different from Paris’s winding streets.

Noting my interest, she said, That’s Washington, DC. I used to work at the Library of Congress. She gestured for me to be seated and sat at her desk, which was covered by papers—some trying to sneak out of the tray, others held in place by a hole puncher. In the corner was a shiny black phone. Beside Miss Reeder, a chair held a batch of books. I spied novels by Isak Dinesen and Edith Wharton. A bookmark—a bright ribbon, really—beckoned from each, inviting the Directress to return.

What kind of reader was Miss Reeder? Unlike me, she’d never leave books open-faced for a lack of a marque-page. She’d never leave them piled under her bed. She would have four or five going at once. A book tucked in her purse for bus rides across the city. One that a dear friend had asked her opinion about. Another that no one would ever know about, a secret pleasure for a rainy Sunday afternoon—

Who’s your favorite author? Miss Reeder asked.

Who’s your favorite author? An impossible question. How could a person choose only one? In fact, my aunt Caro and I had created categories—dead authors, alive ones, foreign, French, etc.—to avoid having to decide. I considered the books in the reading room I’d touched just a moment ago, books that had touched me. I admired Ralph Waldo Emerson’s way of thinking: I am not solitary whilst I read and write, though nobody is with me, as well as Jane Austen’s. Though the authoress wrote in the nineteenth century, the situation for many of today’s women remained the same: futures determined by whom they married. Three months ago, when I’d informed my parents that I didn’t need a husband, Papa snorted and began bringing a different work subordinate to every Sunday lunch. Like the turkey Maman trussed and sprinkled with parsley, Papa presented each one on a platter: Marc has never missed a day of work, not even when he had the flu!

You do read, don’t you?

Papa often complained that my mouth worked faster than my mind. In a flash of frustration, I responded to Miss Reeder’s first question.

My favorite dead author is Dostoevsky, because I like his character Raskolnikov. He’s not the only one who wants to hit someone over the head.

Silence.

Why hadn’t I given a normal answer—for example, Zora Neale Hurston, my favorite living author?

It was an honor to meet you. I moved to the door, knowing the interview was over.

As my fingers reached for the porcelain knob, I heard Miss Reeder say, ‘Fling yourself straight into life, without deliberation; don’t be afraid—the flood will bear you to the bank and set you safe on your feet again.’

My favorite line from Crime and Punishment. 891.73. I turned around.

Most candidates say their favorite is Shakespeare, she said.

The only author with his own Dewey Decimal call number.

"A few mention Jane Eyre."

That would have been a normal response. Why hadn’t I said Charlotte Brontë, or any Brontë for that matter? I love Jane, too. The Brontë sisters share the same call number—823.8.

But I liked your answer.

You did?

You said what you felt, not what you thought I wanted to hear.

That was true.

Don’t be afraid to be different. Miss Reeder leaned forward. Her gaze—intelligent, steady—met mine. Why do you want to work here?

I couldn’t give her the real reason. It would sound terrible. I memorized the Dewey Decimal system and got straight As at library school.

She glanced at my application. You have an impressive transcript. But you haven’t answered my question.

I’m a subscriber here. I love English—

I can see that, she said, a dab of disappointment in her tone. Thank you for your time. We’ll let you know either way in a few weeks. I’ll see you out.

Back in the courtyard, I sighed in frustration. Perhaps I should have admitted why I wanted the job.

What’s wrong, Odile? asked Professor Cohen. I loved her standing-room-only lecture series, English Literature at the American Library. In her signature purple shawl, she made daunting books like Beowulf accessible, and her lectures were lively, with a soupçon of sly humor. Clouds of a scandalous past wafted in her wake like the lilac notes of her parfum. They said Madame le professeur was originally from Milan. A prima ballerina who gave up star status (and her stodgy husband) in order to follow a lover to Brazzaville. When she returned to Paris—alone—she studied at the Sorbonne, where, like Simone de Beauvoir, she’d passed l’agrégation, the nearly impossible state exam, to be able to teach at the highest level.

Odile?

I made a fool of myself at my job interview.

A smart young woman like you? Did you tell Miss Reeder that you don’t miss a single one of my lectures? I wish my students were as faithful!

I didn’t think to mention it.

Include everything you want to tell her in a thank-you note.

She won’t choose me.

Life’s a brawl. You must fight for what you want.

I’m not sure…

Well, I am, Professor Cohen said. Think the old-fashioned men at the Sorbonne hired me just like that? I worked damned hard to convince them that a woman could teach university courses.

I looked up. Before, I’d only noticed the professor’s purple shawl. Now I saw her steely eyes.

Being persistent isn’t a bad thing, she continued, though my father complained I always had to have the last word.

Mine too. He calls me ‘unrelenting.’

Put that quality to use.

She was right. In my favorite books, the heroines never gave up. Professor Cohen had a point about putting my thoughts in a letter. Writing was easier than speaking face-to-face. I could cross things out and start over, a hundred times if I needed to.

You’re right…, I told her.

Of course I am! I’ll inform the Directress that you always ask the best questions at my lectures, and you be sure to follow through. With a swish of her shawl, she strode into the Library.

It never mattered how low I felt, someone at the ALP always managed to scoop me up and put me on an even keel. The Library was more than bricks and books; its mortar was people who cared. I’d spent time in other libraries, with their hard wooden chairs and their polite "Bonjour, Mademoiselle. Au revoir, Mademoiselle." There was nothing wrong with these bibliothèques, they simply lacked the camaraderie of real community. The Library felt like home.

Odile! Wait! It was Mr. Pryce-Jones, the retired English diplomat in his paisley bow tie, followed by the cataloger Mrs. Turnbull, with her crooked blue-gray bangs. Professor Cohen must have told them I was feeling discouraged.

Nothing is ever lost. He patted my back awkwardly. You’ll win the Directress over. Just write a list of your arguments, like any diplomat worth his salt and pepper would.

Quit mollycoddling the girl! Mrs. Turnbull told him. Turning to me, she said, In my native Winnipeg, we’re used to adversity. Makes us who we are. Winters with temperatures of minus forty degrees, and you won’t hear us complain, unlike Americans.… Remembering the reason she’d stepped outside—an opportunity to boss someone—she stuck a bony finger in my face. Buck up, and don’t take no for an answer!

With a smile, I realized that home was a place where there were no secrets. But I was smiling. That was already something.

Back in my bedroom, no longer nervous, I wrote:

Dear Miss Reeder,

Thank you for discussing the job with me. I was thrilled to be interviewed. This library means more to me than any place in Paris. When I was little, my aunt Caroline took me to Story Hour. It’s thanks to her that I studied English and fell in love with the Library. Though my aunt is no longer with us, I continue to seek her at the ALP. I open books and turn to their pockets in the back, hoping to see her name on the card. Reading the same novels as she did makes me feel like we’re still close.

The Library is my haven. I can always find a corner of the stacks to call my own, to read and dream. I want to make sure everyone has that chance, most especially the people who feel different and need a place to call home.

I signed my name, finishing the interview.

CHAPTER 2

Lily

FROID, MONTANA, 1983

HER NAME WAS Mrs. Gustafson, and she lived next door. Behind her back, folks called her the War Bride, but she didn’t look like a bride to me. First of all, she never wore white. And she was old. Way older than my parents. Everyone knows a bride needs a groom, but her husband was long dead. Though she spoke two languages fluently, for the most part, she didn’t talk to anyone. She’d lived here since 1945, but would always be considered the woman who came from somewhere else.

She was the only war bride in Froid, much like Dr. Stanchfield was the only doctor. I sometimes peeked into her living room, where even her tables and chairs were foreign—dainty like dollhouse furniture with sculpted walnut legs. I snooped in her mailbox, where letters from as far away as Chicago were addressed to Madame Odile Gustafson. Compared to the names I knew, like Tricia and Tiffany, Odile seemed exotic. Folks said she came from France. Wanting to know more about her, I studied the encyclopedia entries on Paris. I discovered the gray gargoyles of Notre-Dame and Napoleon’s Arch of Triumph. Yet nothing I read could answer my question—what made Mrs. Gustafson so different?

She wasn’t like the other ladies in Froid. They were plump like wrens, and their lumpy sweaters and boring shoes came in downy grays. The other ladies wore curlers to the grocery store, but Mrs. Gustafson donned her Sunday best—a pleated skirt and high heels—just to take out the trash. A red belt showed off her waist. Always. She wore bright lipstick, even in church. That one certainly thinks highly of herself, the other ladies said as she strode to her pew near the front, eyes hidden by her cloche hat. No one else wore a hat. And most parishioners sat in the back, not wanting to call themselves to God’s attention. Or the priest’s.

That morning, Iron-Collar Maloney asked us to pray for the 269 passengers of a Boeing 747 that had been shot down from the sky by Soviet K-8 missiles. On television, President Reagan had told us about the attack on the plane flying from Anchorage to Seoul. As the church bell pealed, his words rang in my ears: Grief, shock, anger… the Soviet Union violated every concept of human rights… we shouldn’t be surprised by such inhuman brutality… The Russians would murder anyone, he seemed to be saying, including children.

Even in Montana, the Cold War made us shiver. Uncle Walt, who worked at Malmstrom Air Force Base, said a thousand Minuteman missiles had been planted like potatoes across our plains. Under round cement crypts, the nuclear heads waited patiently for kingdom come. He bragged that the Minutemen were more powerful than the bombs that had destroyed Hiroshima. He said that missiles seek missiles, so Soviet weapons would bypass Washington and aim for us. In response, our Minutemen would soar, hitting Moscow in less time than it took me to get ready for school.

After Mass, the congregation lumbered across the street to the hall for coffee, doughnuts, and the fellowship of gossip. Mom and I stood in line for pastries; at the pulpit of the percolator, Dad and the other men gathered around Mr. Ivers, the president of the bank. Dad worked six days a week in hopes of becoming his vice president.

Soviets won’t let anyone search for the bodies. Godless bastards.

When Kennedy was president, defense spending was seventy percent more than it is today.

We’re sitting ducks.

I listened without listening—in the endless wariness of the Cold War, these grim conversations were the soundtrack of our Sundays. Busy piling doughnut holes on my plate, it took me a minute to realize that Mom was wheezing. Usually when she had a spell, she had a reason: The farmers are harvesting, and the dust in the air brings on my asthma, or Father Maloney waves that incense around like he’s trying to fumigate. But this time she clasped my upper arm, offering none. I steered her toward the closest table, to seats next to Mrs. Gustafson. Mom sank onto the metal chair, pulling me down beside her.

I tried to catch Dad’s attention.

I’m fine. Don’t make a fuss, Mom said in a tone that meant business.

Tragic, what happened to those people in the plane, Mrs. Ivers said from across the table.

That’s why I stay put, Mrs. Murdoch said. Gallivanting about gets you in trouble.

Lots of innocent people died, I said. President Reagan said a congressman was killed.

One less freeloader. Mrs. Murdoch shoved the last of her doughnut between her brown teeth.

That’s a rotten thing to say. Folks have a right to take a plane without getting shot down, I said.

Mrs. Gustafson’s eyes met mine. She nodded, like what I thought mattered. Though I’d made a hobby of observing her, this was the first time she’d noticed me.

It’s brave of you to take a stand, she said.

I shrugged. People shouldn’t be mean.

I couldn’t agree more, she said.

Before I could respond, Mr. Ivers bellowed, The Cold War’s gone on for nearly forty years. We’ll never win.

Heads bobbed in agreement.

They’re cold-blooded killers, he continued.

Have you ever met a Russian? Mrs. Gustafson asked him. Worked with one? Well, I have, and can tell you they’re no different than you or me.

The whole hall went quiet. Where had she met the enemy, and how had she worked with one?

In Froid, we knew everything about everyone. We knew who drank too much and why, we knew who cheated on their taxes and who cheated on their wives, we knew who was living in sin with some man in Minot. The only secret was Mrs. Gustafson. No one knew what her parents’ names were, or what her father did for a living. No one knew how she met Buck Gustafson during the war, or how she convinced him to jilt his high-school sweetheart and marry her instead. Rumors swirled around her but didn’t stick. There was sorrow in her eyes, but was it loss or regret? And after living in Paris, how could she settle for this dull dot on the plains?

I WAS A front row, raise your hand student. Mary Louise sat behind me and doodled on the desk. Today at the blackboard, Miss Hanson tried her best to interest our seventh-grade class in Ivanhoe; Mary Louise muttered, Ivan-no. Across the aisle, Robby’s tanned fingers curved around a pencil. His hair—brown like mine—was feathered. He could already drive, since he had to help his folks haul grain. He brought the pencil to his mouth, the pink eraser brushing his bottom lip. I could stare at the corner of his mouth forever.

French kiss. French toast. French fries. All the good things were French. For all I knew, French green beans tasted better than American ones. French songs had to be better than the country music that played on the only radio station in town. My life done broke down when that cud-smackin’ cow left me for a younger bull. The French probably knew more about love, too.

I wanted to sail down the runway of an airport, of a fashion show. I wanted to perform on Broadway, to peek behind the Iron Curtain. I wanted to know how French words would feel in my mouth. Only one person I knew had experienced the world beyond Froid—Mrs. Gustafson.

Though we were neighbors, it was like she lived light-years away. Each Halloween, Mom had warned, The War Bride’s porch light is off. That means she doesn’t want you kids banging on her door. When Mary Louise and I sold Girl Scout Cookies, her mom said, The old broad’s on a budget, so don’t hit her up.

My encounter with Mrs. Gustafson made me bold. All I needed was the right school assignment, and I could interview her.

As expected, Miss H assigned a book report on Ivanhoe. After class, I approached her desk and asked if I could write about a country instead.

Just this once, she said. I look forward to reading your report on France.

I was so distracted with my plan that when I went to the bathroom, I forgot to check under the stalls and lock the main door. Sure enough, when I finished, Tiffany Ivers and her herd skulked near the sinks, where she teased her wheat-gold hair in front of the mirror.

The flush didn’t work, she said. Here comes a turd.

Hardly sophisticated but when I studied my reflection, all I saw was turd-brown hair. I remained near the stalls, knowing that if I washed my hands, Tiffany would shove me into the faucet and I’d get drenched. If I didn’t, they’d tell the school. They did that to Maisie—no one would sit by Pee Hands for a month. Arms crossed, the bathroom quartet waited.

The hinges of the door squeaked, and Miss H peeked in. Are you in here again, Tiffany? You must have bladder problems.

The girls strode out, eyes on me as if to say this isn’t over. That I knew.

Mom, the guerrilla optimist, would tell me to look on the bright side. At least old man Ivers had just one spawn. And it was Friday.

Usually on Fridays, my parents hosted dinner club (Mom roasted spare ribs, Kay brought a salad, and Sue Bob baked an upside-down pineapple cake), so I spent the night at Mary Louise’s. Tonight, though, I stayed in my room and came up with questions for Mrs. Gustafson. As the adults ate, laughter spilled out of the dining room. When it got quiet, I knew that like lords and ladies in England, the women took themselves off so the men could settle into their chairs and say the things they couldn’t with their wives there.

While the women washed dishes, I listened to Mom’s other voice, the one she used with her friends. With them she seemed happier. Funny how the same person could be different people. This made me think that there were things about Mom I didn’t know, though she wasn’t mysterious like Mrs. Gustafson.

At my desk, I wrote down the questions as they came—When was the last time the guillotine sliced off someone’s head? Does France have Jehovah’s Witnesses, too? Why do folks say you stole your husband? Now that he’s dead, why do you stay?—concentrating so hard that I didn’t know Mom was behind me until I felt her hand warm my shoulder.

You didn’t want to spend the night at Mary Louise’s?

I’m doing my homework.

On a Friday, she said, unconvinced. Rough day at school?

Most days were rough. But I didn’t feel like talking about Tiffany Ivers. Mom pulled a present the size of a shoebox from behind her back. I made you something.

Thanks! I tore open the wrapping paper and found a crocheted sweater vest.

I pulled it on over my T-shirt, and Mom tugged at the waist, happy with the sizing. You’re beautiful. The green brings out the flecks in your eyes.

A glance in the mirror confirmed that I looked like a dork. If I wore the sweater to school, Tiffany Ivers would eat me alive.

It’s… nice, I told Mom, too late.

She smiled to hide her hurt. So what are you working on?

I explained that I had to do a report on France and that I needed to interview Mrs. Gustafson.

Oh, hon, I’m not sure we should bother her.

I only have a few questions. Can’t we invite her over?

I suppose. What would you want to ask?

I pointed to my paper.

Glancing at the list, Mom exhaled loudly. You know, there might be a reason she’s never gone back.

ON SATURDAY AFTERNOON, I hurried past Mrs. Gustafson’s old Chevy, up the rickety porch steps, and rang the doorbell. Ding-dang-dong. No answer. I rang the bell again. No one answered, so I tried the front door. It creaked open. Hello? I said, and walked in.

Silence.

Anyone home? I asked.

In the stillness of the living room, books covered the walls. Ferns lined a stand under the picture window. The stereo, the size of a deep freezer, could fit a body. I flipped through her record collection: Tchaikovsky, Bach, more Tchaikovsky.

Mrs. Gustafson shuffled down the hall as if she’d awoken from a nap. Even alone at home, she wore a dress with her red belt. In her stockinged feet, she seemed vulnerable. It occurred to me that I’d never seen a friend’s car in front of her house, never known her to host family. She was the definition of solitude.

Stopping a few feet from me, she glared like I was a robber come to steal her recording of Swan Lake. What do you want?

You know things, and I want to know them, too.

She crossed her arms. Well?

I’m writing a report on you. I mean, on your country. Maybe you could come over so I can interview you.

The edges of her mouth turned down. She didn’t respond.

The silence made me nervous. It looks like a library in here. I gestured to her shelves, which were full of names I didn’t know—Madame de Staël, Madame Bovary, Simone de Beauvoir.

Maybe this was a bad idea. I turned to go.

When? she asked.

I looked back. How about now?

I was in the middle of something. She spoke the words briskly, as if she were president and needed to get back to running the domain of her bedroom.

I’m writing a report, I reminded her, since school came right after God, country, and football.

Mrs. Gustafson slipped into her high heels and grabbed her keys. I followed her onto the porch, where she locked the door. She was the only person in Froid who did.

Do you always barge into people’s homes? she asked as we crossed the lawn.

I shrugged. They usually answer the door.

In our dining room, she clasped her hands, then let them go limp at her side. Her eyes flitted to the carpet, the window seat, the family photos on the wall. Her mouth moved to say something, possibly Isn’t this nice? like the other ladies would, then her jaw clamped shut.

Welcome, Mom said as she set a plate of chocolate chip cookies on the table.

I gestured for our neighbor to take a seat. Mom set mugs in front of her own plate and mine; in front of Mrs. Gustafson’s, she placed her teacup. I knew its story by heart. Years ago, when Mrs. Ivers had gone on a castle tour of England, Dad gave her money to buy a fancy tea set for Mom. But porcelain is pricey, and Mrs. Ivers returned with just one cup and saucer. Terrified the china would break, she kept it on her lap the entire transatlantic flight. In my mind, the slender cup covered in dainty blue flowers came from somewhere better. Finer. Like Mrs. Gustafson.

Mom served the tea; I broke the silence. What’s the best thing about Paris? Is it really the most beautiful city in the world? What was it like growing up there?

Mrs. Gustafson didn’t answer right away.

I hope we’re not bothering you, Mom told her.

The last time I was interviewed like this was for a job back in France.

Were you nervous? I asked.

Yes, but I’d memorized entire books to prepare.

Did it help?

She smiled ruefully. There are always questions one is unprepared to answer.

Lily won’t be asking those kinds of questions. Mom addressed Mrs. Gustafson, but her warning was meant for me.

The best thing about Paris? It’s a city of readers, our neighbor said.

She said that in friends’ homes, books were as important as the furniture. She spent her summers reading in the city’s lush parks, then like the potted palmettos in the Tuileries Garden, sent to the greenhouse at the first sign of frost, she spent winters at the library, curled up near the window with a book in her lap.

You like to read? For me, the classics assigned in English were a chore.

I live to read, she replied. Mostly books on history and current events.

That sounded about as fun as watching snow melt. What about when you were my age?

"I loved novels like The Secret Garden. My twin brother was the one interested in the news."

A