Part 2

"Please accept my apologies," he stated, still kneeling upon the floor. "I will have to be more careful." His hair was dishevelled--great curly locks of jet black, and he laughed nervously as he brushed it from his eyes. He peered at her with eyes so black, yet so kindly, that Gretchen found herself blushing again and put a hand to her chest. The man stopped for a moment to adjust his shirt and coat, then stood slowly, and with the hint of a bow, swept past her and away. Unaccountably, she felt suddenly light-headed and sat down upon the floor by her books. His eyes! she exclaimed to herself with an outrush of breath. She felt that in an instant they had devoured her; had known all about her. She could not recall ever having seen such lively and intelligent eyes--so deep and black they seemed like windows opening onto a starlit sky. And his hand! when he placed the last book upon the stack--the nails so trim. His hands were almost feminine, and finely wrought. Gretchen gradually composed herself, then picked up her books and continued about her work.

* * * * *

Several times thereafter in the course of a fortnight Gretchen saw the same young man about the library, and they developed an acquaintance that began and ended with nodding pleasantly and wishing each other "good day". She thought him quite the most interesting patron she had seen in the library for... she knew not how long--perhaps never in the two years she had been there. He was flamboyant, certainly, Gretchen decided, but he had not that rakishness or arrogance that so often accompanies one who is as smart a dresser as he seemed. Her thoughts chanced to light upon him sometimes, and within the fortnight, she decided he must be attached to the university. Perhaps a professor--well certainly not a full professor, he was far too young and had not grown into that masculine stuffiness that comes with long tenure--and his physique was trim. No, she decided, he was probably a fresh young assistant to an elder professor.

"Gretchen, dear." Miss Sadie's voice crackled behind her in a very strange manner and Gretchen looked around. "I do fear I'm catching some contagion, dear," Miss Sadie continued in a whisper, "can you possibly mind the desk until closing?"

Gretchen hesitated for a moment. She had worked long enough in the library to feel at ease, and with classes already in recess for the Christmas holidays, there were few patrons. "Of course, Miss Sadie," she answered. "I do hope you're feeling better tomorrow."

"If not, I shan't be in," Miss Sadie replied in a very weak tone. "I'll--I'll try to send word."

"I'll see to everything, Miss Sadie--just take care of yourself." She paused. "And I'll inform Mr. Johnson--it's no trouble at all." With a smile and a pitying wag of her head, she added, "Take good care of yourself."

Miss Sadie thanked her, and took her leave. Gretchen was alone, at last, if only for an evening, as temporary queen of the reference desk. Well, it was about time she was asked to do something besides fetch books, she thought airily, and took a seat at Miss Sadie's desk. Miss Sadie was not very neat for a librarian, she thought, wiping a finger across the desk, so she began to tidy a few things up. She put down a fresh blotter and arranged the papers in a more orderly manner, then opened a drawer in search of a cloth. Really, Miss Sadie is the epitome of disorganization, she muttered, seeing the jumble. It's a wonder that a woman like her can retain such a position.

Bing-bing! Gretchen looked up suddenly when the bell upon the front counter sounded. Standing there with his hand poised above the bell was the young man.

"May I be of assistance?" Gretchen asked, in her most librarian-like tone.

The young man smiled. "I sincerely hope you can. I wonder if you might be able to help me find this book?" He held out a small slip of paper between two fingers. "It doesn't appear to be in the open stacks."

Gretchen glided to the desk and took the slip of paper from him. A glance at the number was sufficient. "You're correct," she told him, handing the paper back. "It's in one of the special collections."

"I wonder, then, Miss..." He paused, drawing out the word into a silence, until Gretchen felt obliged to fill the audible gap.

"Haviland," she offered in a whisper.

"Miss Haviland. Could you help me locate it?" He smiled with the slightly curling lips he always wore. Not condescending, she decided--perhaps amused, or even flirtatious.

Gretchen stood flustered for a moment. Patrons were not allowed into the special collections--they were under lock and key. Should she leave the reference desk unattended while she fetched it for him? In the interim, what if another patron had pressing business? A preposterous quandary, Gretchen then told herself. "Of course, Professor," she replied crisply. "Let me bring the key."

The young man laughed then, with a toss of his head so that his black curls flopped into his eyes. He suddenly sighed, with an exaggerated look of defeat, brushing back his hair. "Do I appear so like a professor, Miss Haviland? How did you know?"

It was Gretchen's turn to be amused, and she smiled as she went to Miss Sadie's desk drawer to bring the key. "You have not the air of a student, Professor..." she drew out the word in a manner imitative of his previous query, until he had to break into a wondrous smile.

"Bridwell!" he exclaimed, and rapped four fingernails once upon the desk. "Employed only this year--in the English department."

"Professor Bridwell," she continued, imparting a certain air of coquetry to her words, "your dress is frankly too punctilious for a student; and if I might be so tactless, you seem... more evolved, shall we say."

Having drawn out the key, she beckoned him to follow. They ascended the back staircase--likewise taboo for patrons. All the while Gretchen thought how to exonerate herself should she be caught by one of her superiors while leading a patron--alone--into the inner sanctum. She decided the best approach would be to plead ignorance--"Oh," she could say, "I had no idea that professors were considered ordinary patrons." Would that be sufficient excuse?

The book was easy to find, and Gretchen put herself to no particular difficulty--but nevertheless, Professor Bridwell's thanks were profuse. He consulted the book--which could not leave the library--for an hour or more. On departing he returned the book to the counter. He inclined his head, with the now-familiar flop of his curly hair, and said, "I do hope to have the pleasure again, Miss Haviland."

Gretchen watched from Miss Sadie's desk as he departed through the foyer and down the steps leading out. She closed her eyes for a moment and sat quietly after he had left--simply savoring the moment. A faint scent lingered behind him: a distinctive cologne that left quite a favorable impression on her.

* * * * *

Gretchen attended a short afternoon concert on campus. It was the last student recital of the season, and she had heard tell of the program: the afternoon was to open with mazurkas by Chopin and a selection of those divine "Transcendental Etudes" by Liszt--she could not stay away. Chopin was an aperitif, followed by a few mildly diverting piano works by students. Then, she sat breathless and transported--utterly transported, halfway to tears upon a bed of clouds--through the etudes of Liszt. In particular she had never heard the "Harmonies du Soir" more beautifully rendered.

After an intermission, which she spent simply sitting quietly, pondering the exquisite delicacies of Liszt's piano writing, the second part of the concert opened with Vivaldi's "The Four Seasons", performed by an intimate ensemble rather than with the full complement of strings. The performers were students, to be sure, but she found it delightful nonetheless. When the "Autumn" season opened, she even felt a sudden chill in the air--the performance was so wonderfully effective--and she pulled her shawl more tightly around her shoulders. She chanced then to look across the audience, and thought that several rows down, in front of her, she saw Professor Bridwell. She had no idea he liked concerts; in fact, she realized that she knew nothing whatever about him. She was positive it was the professor--even from the back, there was no mistaking his curly hair. At once she realized that he rather resembled portraits of Hector Berlioz. He sat upright, almost leaning forward in a posture that seemed ready to rise in an instant. She fancied that could she but see his handsome face, his eyes would be closed, as he was carried away by the music, blown upon Vivaldi's autumn wind. Why she was looking at the audience rather than at the orchestra she really did not know--she forced her gaze away from the professor's back and tried to concentrate again upon the music. But her effort was unsuccessful.

When the concert was ended, Gretchen fairly ran to the exit, and stood there at the door, looking back across the auditorium. Yes, it was he, she saw finally. He was coming up the aisle and she glimpsed his face among the swarm of bodies. He appeared to be alone; he spoke to nobody. She stepped out of the way and kept looking across the audience, as if seeking someone else. He soon arrived, and when he walked past, she turned and looked at him, as if suddenly noticing him for the first time.

His smile was as delightful as always. "Good evening, Miss Haviland," he said, with a tone of warmth.