Goose in the Pond - Earlene Fowler [22]
Her honesty disarmed me, and I smiled. “Yes, she is. But you’re no wilting violet yourself.”
“Thanks,” she said, smoothing back a strand of platinum chin-length hair. “I turned forty this year, and I’m feeling a bit left behind.” She was thin as a marsh reed with tiny features and a skittishness about her, like a finely bred horse. She was a lot like her aunt Constance—intense, perfectionistic, high-energy. But she differed in one significant way. She wasn’t a snob. Although a trust fund made her wealthy enough to buy us all out twenty times over, she was a hard worker and didn’t “hold airs,” as Dove would say. She had been the director of the library for the last three years, a job she was given because of familial connections. But detractors had to reluctantly admit, she was highly qualified for the job, with impeccable credentials from USC and experience at libraries in San Francisco and Sacramento. She apparently ran the place with the grace of a born diplomat and, according to Nick, was the most completely fair boss he’d ever worked under.
“Have you talked to Nick yet?” I asked, drawing her attention away from Dolores and Ash, who were laughing softly at some shared joke.
She scratched a corner of her glossy mouth with a polished nail. “Just briefly on the phone. I’m dropping by his house after this. He’s going to need time off, and that’s certainly going to wreak havoc on the budget. But never mind, that’s my problem. Have you been to see him?”
“No, I’m going to try and get by there today. I know he and Nora were very close.”
“The only ones left in their family,” Jillian said softly. Then I remembered that her whole family—mother, father, and brother—had been killed in a plane crash when she was ten. She came to live with Constance, her mother’s only sister, who’d never had children of her own. With five years’ difference in our ages, Jillian and I never ran in the same crowds, but she, according to my uncle Arnie, had been popular in school with both sexes. To add tragedy upon tragedy, Jillian’s husband, a talented architect who had helped design the new library, had left her a few months ago for a younger woman he’d met at some marathon in Hawaii. “Sent her a ‘Dear Jane’ telegram from Honolulu,” Nick had told me. “Quit his job the same way.”
“At least Nick has all of us,” I said to Jillian.
She gave her hair a minute toss, as if mentally shaking off her personal troubles, and smiled. “That’s right, and we’re going to be there for him. After I see him I need to start thinking about what I’m going to say to my employees Monday morning. Is there anything you can tell me about the progress of the investigation?”
“Sorry. They’ve just got started. I’m sure Gabe will talk to you if you give him a call. He’ll let you know what you can say.”
“I’ll call him from my car. I really want my employees to feel safe . . . to be safe. Whatever I have to do to achieve that, I will.” She tucked her tiny leather clutch under her arm. Casting one last surreptitious glance at Dolores and Ash’s lowered heads, she straightened her spine and pushed through the studio door.
I watched her walk out, an old country-western song coming to mind. Looking for love in all the wrong places . . . who would have ever thought a corny line like that could ring so true?
“So, has the Empress of San Celina got everything under control?” Dolores said behind me.
I turned around and faced her, surprise on my face. “Actually, she’s very concerned about Nick. And about the rest of her employees.”
Dolores shrugged. “I suppose.” She still wore the frilly white Mexican blouse that was part of her uniform at her parents’ restaurant downtown, but she’d replaced the full colorful cotton skirt with faded Levi’s. Her waist-length black hair was pulled back in a braid tied with a red ribbon. Right at this moment her smooth brown cheeks were flushed a rosy cinnamon. I hoped it wasn’t just because of Ash’s attention. According to Nick, who hired Dolores as a part-time library clerk in the reference department, she