Violists | Page 9

she had to replace that day she worked
rather slowly. Lost in thought, she hummed to herself, not so loudly
that any patron who happened to be about could hear, but loud enough
for her own amusement. She had just returned to the cart and pushed it
to the next row. She lifted another armful of books, choosing those
whose home was in that particular row, and turned to walk slowly,
watching the numbers. She glanced at each book when she shelved it,
lamenting that she had too little time that day--there could be no stolen
moments of reading, even briefly. She stood on her toes to reach an
upper shelf and stopped humming for a moment. The sound of a
footfall reached her at that instant, and she gave the book a quick
shove.
"Good day, Miss Haviland."
Gretchen looked around to see a fine pair of wool trousers, as she
returned her weight fully to her feet. Following upward with her eyes,
she felt a pleasant blush. "Professor Bridwell, you startled me!" she
exclaimed.
"Careful," he returned, reaching his hand above her head. Gretchen
looked up to see that he pushed the book further onto the shelf; she had
left it precariously tottering on the edge. "You almost lost one, Miss
Haviland."
"Oh dear," she laughed, and grasped the rest of the books more
securely to her chest. She continued to walk easily down the row, with
her wool skirt swinging about her ankles. "Is there a book I can help
you find?" she asked, whirling toward him like a schoolgirl.
"Actually," the professor said, nervously drawing out the word. "I've
not come in a--a professional capacity at all today."
"Oh?" Gretchen turned to look at him, but kept walking. With her free
hand, she extracted a strand of hair from her mouth.

"The other evening--at coffee," he said, taking up the pace beside her.
"Well, really, I found the conversation most delightful and..."
"Yes?" Gretchen stopped, then knelt to shelve another book, lower
down.
"And I was wondering," he continued rather quickly, as if he dare not
speak of it, "whether you might consent to dine with me this evening."
Gretchen stood up, rather slowly. "I--well..."
"Yes," the professor stammered, "of course--such short notice. I
understand. It's hardly proper, and I'm sure you're quite busy. Perhaps
another time." He stepped backward as if to take his leave.
"Not at all," Gretchen said with a faint smile. She clutched the heavy
books more tightly in her arms. "I should be delighted, really." She
caught his eye then, and saw it twinkle. The sight of his smile could not
but make her return it fully. "The other evening, it did seem there was
ever so much more to say." She continued down the row, with
Professor Bridwell beside her.
"Is that an acceptance?"
She laughed and stopped to face him squarely, as if astonished. "Why, I
believe it is, Professor." She blinked her eyes. The sudden blush in his
cheeks was profound, and she composed herself to keep from laughing.
"Would six o'clock be too late? Or too early?"
"Neither, Professor." Gretchen thought he looked as if he had been
handed a Christmas goose. "I'll meet you at the main entrance."
"Stupendous! I'll..." He still sounded incredulous, and seemed near to
bursting. He pushed his black locks from his eye, and twisted a lock on
one finger. "I'll meet you at six then?"
They took their leaves of each other, and Gretchen thought she heard a
faint whistling in the main stairwell as the sound of his boots on the
stone steps receded. She flew to her cart immediately the sound died
away in the distance. Her unflagging concentration would be required if
she were to be finished by six--she had seven more cartloads of books,
and less than five hours in which to reshelve them all. She did not stop
or rest until five forty-five, when she bid Miss Sadie good evening, and
made her way to the main entrance. She stood inside the great oak
doors, under stone arches where she could see the professor through the
glass when he approached. With a few moments to ponder and catch
her breath while she waited, a sudden flutter filled her bosom. Good

Lord, she thought to herself--it's a wonder he did not think me
scandalously forward. She felt a faint tingling in her cheeks as if she
had begun to color. What sort of woman would join a stranger for
dinner with five hours notice? Part of her dared not even answer her
own question, but another part of her replied that he was not a perfect
stranger by any means--she had met him any number of times--and had
joined him for coffee with no notice at all. It was