Page 54 of The Hundred Loves of Juliet
“None whatsoever,” Helene says. “Just two people hanging out, doing crossword puzzles or playing board games or whatever it is that people do during snowstorms.”
I laugh then. “Crosswords and board games? Is that what you think of me?”
She shrugs, but smiles at the same time. “I dunno. That’s kind of the point, right? I don’t know anything about you. But I’m going to find out.”
“Okay, then,” I say. “I’ll take you up on the offer you made back at Shipyard Books. Let’s start from the beginning. Hi, my name is Sebastien. And the first thing you should know about me is, I’m a damn fantastic cook.”
HELENE
Good god, the man wasn’tlying when he said he could cook. Once Sebastien got going in the kitchen, there was no stopping him. Besides the promised risotto, he made pasta by hand, with eggplant, tomato, and basil. Then a swordfish dish with olives and capers. There was crusty bread with ridiculously good olive oil, and salad so fresh I would’ve sworn he grew and harvested the lettuce straight from the garden, except that it’s currently thirty degrees below zero outside. And finally, he made a cheese platter to cap it all off. I didn’t know that much food and wine could fit in my stomach, but if this is the first impression he’s going to make in our get-to-know-each-other phase, I give Chef Sebastien five stars.
“I have espresso and cannoli as well,” he says, “but I suggest we bring dessert with us and retire to the library.”
“How posh.” I laugh.
Sebastien’s skin flushes beneath the shadow of evening stubble, and he smiles shyly. He takes my teasing in stride; I like that.
While he brews espresso, I find the tray he used last night for coffee and load it up with cannoli. As full as I am, I can’t resist licking off some of the sweet, creamy filling that ends up on my fingers. I catch Sebastien watching me with his lips slightly parted. Not lasciviously, but as if I’m an objet d’art in the vein of Botticelli, worthy of worship.
“Sorry,” he says, spinning swiftly back to the espresso machine.
I smile to myself. I don’t hate the attention.
Sebastien doesn’t make eye contact again until we get to the library, and then it’s sheepish, like he’s still embarrassed. I want to tell him he shouldn’t be, though. It’s a nice change of pace to be admired like that. There are women out there who are routinely ogled and hit on at bars, but I’m not one of them. Compliments tend to center on my intelligence, which, don’t get me wrong, is wonderful. But it’s also electrifying to have someone enraptured by my looks for once. A girl ought to be allowed to feel pretty from time to time.
When I actually notice the details of the library, though, I forget my vanity. Because this room isn’t the tiny study I thought it was when we passed it in the hallway last night. That, apparently, was just the entrance.
Like the museum room, the library is palatial—two stories high, with a stained glass dome overhead patterned with spruce trees along the edges and art deco clouds in the middle; it probably lets in incredible light during the summer months, when the sun shines for nineteen hours a day. Beneath the dome are stairs like an ammonite spiral, and the walls on both the first and second floors are lined with hardcover books with pristine, uncreased spines, some leather bound and obviously very old, and others more modern, wrapped in shiny, colorful jackets. Deep, velvety armchairs and sofas fill the space in the center of the library, all on top of plush carpet that muffles the sound of my clunky limp. In the back corner, a gorgeous, antique gold lantern clock stands on display under a spotlight.
“This library looks like it belongs in Hearst Castle or something,” I say.
Sebastien smiles. “It’s one of my favorite rooms in the house, after—” He breaks off abruptly, but I suspect he was about to mention the gallery.
I’m grateful that he stopped himself. I am too happy on good food and wine right now to spoil the mood with our possibly impossible past and my—la-la-la,let’s not talk about it—future.
He sets the tray down on a low table in the center of the library and sits on the couch across from it. I could join him, but I’m too enchanted by the shelves to settle down quite yet.
“You’re obviously a big reader,” I say, running my hands along a shelf of volumes. I can practically smell the centuries on them—there’s something very specific about the scent of old paper and the ink that was used before mass manufacturing became a thing.
“I am,” Sebastien says. “One of life’s greatest pleasures is living the experiences of others through poetry and prose.”
The way he says “pleasure” sends a quiver through my belly. Maybe it’s the alcohol or maybe it’s the fact that Merrick never looked at me like Sebastien did several times over dinner tonight,but has anyone ever been able to make reading sound so, uh…I have to lean against the bookshelf for a second.
When I’ve recovered, I climb up the spiral staircase to the second floor, while he stays downstairs, sipping his espresso. As I explore the shelves up here, I quickly realize that Sebastien isn’t just a voracious reader and book collector. He’s a hardcore nerd.
“Your books are organized by the Dewey decimal system!” The wooden shelves are elegantly engraved to indicate the range of numbers that belong there. But the books themselves aren’t labeled with Dewey decimal numbers like in a normal library. “Oh my god,” I say, leaning over the banister to look down at him on the sofa below. “Do you have the filing system memorized so that you don’t even have to look it up to know where a book belongs?”
Sebastien laughs, and the sound is deep and resonant as it echoes through the library. It’s probably the most relaxed I’ve seen him since we met.
“Guilty as charged,” he says.
“That’s really impressive,” I say. “I mean, I’ve spent most of my adult life in the company of journalists and other word nerds, but organizing your personal library like this might take the cake.”
He raises his espresso cup up toward me on the second-story landing, as if modestly accepting an award I’ve given him.
“What’s the best book you’ve ever read?” I ask.
“That’s like asking someone to choose their favorite child.”
