That fateful summer I had found a job at an ancient hotel on the rocky coast of Maine. I was young and just out of hotel school, but the work required only a necktie and decent social graces. I qualified, barely.
The place was open only four months a year and never made a profit, even though it was located in an area of old wealth. It owed its continued existence to the local tycoons, who supported it as a convenient place to stash their excess guests. I was hired to be the Assistant Manager. The Manager, Mr. Royce, was a kindly, elderly gentleman, and the owners and clientele could afford to be gracious too. The relaxed atmosphere was important to me, because it let me occasionally find time to help my dad on his lobster boat. He was getting older, and the work was hard and unrewarding.
Unfortunately, not many other working folks could afford to live locally, so it wasn't easy to find friends. I spent most of my time off either hiking, for stimulation, or working on my rotten short stories, for depression. Stringing the words together was fun, but character and plot were elusive. I sometimes wrote at the town library, for inspiration.
The charming little library occupied the shell of a former white clapboard church. Today, the big arched windows were letting in a lot of sun, and the sounds and smells of mown grass, gulls, and the boundless ocean were wafting in on a cool sea breeze. The air was so fresh it made your skin tingle.
The Saturday volunteer librarian, Katherine, was a breath of fresh air, too. She was a nice-looking young summer resident who always wore ankle-length skirts and high-necked, long-sleeved blouses. I usually kidded around with her on my way in and out. She was fun. I had decided she should be my muse. Today, though, she was spending a lot of time talking with a preppy-looking young fellow wearing a little bow tie, of all things. He was sitting a few tables in front of me, so I was able to watch from under my eyebrows as they argued in whispers. Katherine was calm, but as the discussion went on the guy grew visibly upset and whispered louder and louder. Finally Katherine turned on her heel and marched away. He slammed his book shut, packed up and left. Given this immense breach of decorum, everyone watched him stalk out.
Only the rhythmic roar of the waves on the shore -- hey, that wasn't bad! - was left to inspire me. I had to know what happened. I made a point of looking Katherine's way as she roamed the aisles, re-shelving books and answering questions. I finally caught her eye.
She came over. "Can I help you?"
"I need inspiration."
She gave me her patience-it's-only-a-child smile. "You might read some other fiction. There are lots of good examples."
"They've already been written, though!" I whined.
She looked around for other, more mature patrons who might need help, but finding none, settled into the chair across from me. "Goodness, didn't your parents ever tell you not to show emotion?"
She was smiling, but I knew she was serious. Stiff upper lip. Never let them see you sweat. Class is grace under pressure. Katherine, like most summer residents here, was old New England aristocracy, descended from a long line of impeccably-bred Brahmins. One of the "Lowells speak only to Cabots, and Cabots speak only to God" crowd.
"Besides," she continued, "if I inspire you, you'll have to credit me as a co-author. If it's bad, of course, I'll just lurk in the acknowledgments."
"Oh, don't worry," I said. "It'll bad. My prose reads like exposition and my dialog sounds like a legal brief. This one needs some good characters. You look interesting. Tell me all your secrets?" Did I mention that on top of being annoyingly rich and smart she was hot, in a thin, WASPy kind of way? She had actual breasts large enough to stretch a blouse even when she slouched, silky long brown hair, a lovely smile, and hot wrists and ankles.
"My private life is none of your business, of course, Dave."
"That guy with the tie looked unhappy. Was a book mis-shelved?"
She sighed. "He wanted me to get him into a club. Can you imagine actually asking?"
"Aha!" I cried, very softly of course. "Conflict! Meaningful social dynamics! I could write about it!"
"Shhhhh, keep it down!" I could barely hear her. She smiled again, though. "He's not going in your story!"
"Is he an ex? What happened? How could he walk out on such a pretty librarian?" I squelched the 'fucking gorgeous.' I'd been absorbing the culture at the hotel for months now.
She looked around for patrons within earshot and whispered, "He's never been a boyfriend. Just stop it!"
"Maybe you need a boyfriend, then?" I asked hopefully. As the son of a lobstah fisherman, I knew I was NOCD, so I wasn't really serious. Still, she looked at me appraisingly before walking off.
That was interesting. I had a hard time focusing on my draft for a while.
She studiously ignored me all afternoon, so at closing time I waited until she was at the front desk before walking up. "Can I check something out?" I asked.
"And that would be?"
"I'd like to check out a librarian," I clarified as flirtatiously as possible.
"Haven't you been doing that all afternoon?" She paused, and then resumed work. "Do you even have a library card? Or do you just sit here swilling our coffee and stalking our personnel?"
"What's the loan period on librarians, two weeks? And, can I renew? You're a serious distraction from my Great American Short Story, just gliding around here looking all hot." Whoops.
"Well, . . . we're here to serve our patrons. Be at the hotel in a few minutes and we can discuss it. I drink Sauvignon Blanc," she said, carting away a bunch of returns.
****
