The Bronte Book Club for Hopeless Romantics Read online

  “I’m in agreement with Annette,” I remarked. “This is the most awesome part of Jane Eyre. It’s not just the psychological aspect it represents — it’s the ghost story, like Tim and C.J. are saying. Charlotte was a genius. She was centuries ahead of herself in terms of staging the story.”

  Once upon a time, I had ardently defended Charlotte’s dramatic plot devices against a snooty academic adviser’s characterization of ‘sensationalist melodrama’... just not with the exact words I was now using. Did I miss those debates? Sometimes. And maybe that was why I was glad the book club asked me to join them.

  “It’s the haunting nature of the whole story in a nutshell, those chapters,” continued Annette. “It’s the sweeping romance at its most passionate stage, what fuels that gentle, steadily-burning love between Jane and Rochester for the rest of their lives. I was telling one of my patients the other day that I used to wish that I was Jane. Who needed to be young and beautiful and swooning on a fainting sofa when they could be that strong and that human — and have a love that beautiful in return?”

  Annette was a nurse, and somehow I could imagine her consoling patients with her favorite literary passages. Even now, as she tucked aside a strand of dishwater blonde hair, and cradled her book against the front of her green medical smock, I could see the permanent outline of a paperback novel in her sweater pocket.

  “And Jane's a strong character. Modern thriller romance, you don't get a heroine who determines her destiny like Jane does," said Tim. "I noticed that a couple of weeks ago...one of the young guys at the garage talked me into going to see some suspense movie. The girl could have rescued herself a dozen times, but she kept making the same bad choices, like she was helpless to stop doing it. Then some guy comes to rescue her, and he gets killed doing it ... and it all would've been prevented if she'd just had a little common sense."

  "I think I saw that movie," said Annette. "I went with a coworker. Was it playing at the Mirage last week?"

  "Could've been. I get all my dates mixed up these days." Tim shook his head. He hadn't eaten any of the cookies tonight, even though the butter ones were his favorite. Whenever working on a car engine left too many grease stains on his hands, I noticed he avoided touching food. Gentlemanly fear of making the rest of us uncomfortable, I imagined. So I put two on a napkin and handed them to him, receiving a grateful smile in return.

  "I guess we'll read the next five chapters before we meet next week," said Annette. "Can everybody make it?"

  "I'll be here," said Sophy. "I'm finished with my summer credit classes."

  "Um, yeah," said C.J. "I'll come. Everybody else?" He glanced around, his gaze falling last of all on Llourdes, who looked up from her phone.

  "Uh....Sure. Yeah," she said, at last.

  "Guess that leaves me," said Tim. "I'll be there, of course."

  "And I will be, too," I said. "Unless, of course, Tim's ace employee finishes my car by then...."

  "Not from what he told me," said Tim, shaking his head. "Sorry, Paige."

  "A girl can dream, right?" I snapped the lid on the cookie tin. "See you guys next Friday, then."

  I watched the group file out the library's front door, Annette adjusting her sweater around her shoulders as Sophy chatted to her about a television version of the book, Tim opening the door for both of them. Llourdes was on the phone with a friend, and C.J. was shuffling off in the dark towards the little place I knew he lived and worked from. They all went their separate ways once they were beneath Gull Avenue's streetlamps, most of them having no other plans except to go home to dark and quiet houses.

  Instead of following their example and climbing the stairs to my dark and quiet apartment, I locked the door behind me and walked down the street and across the sidewalk that divided Main Street. The neon lights of Hill o' Beans window sign glowed brightly, animating a coffee bean tumbling above a sack full of them and the shop name.

  I pushed open the door. The rich smell of coffee and cacao beans warmed the air and tempted the taste buds all at once. Florence + the Machine's "Third Eye" was playing over the shop's stereo system, proving that Cam's barista Mallory was working tonight. Behind the gleaming pastry case stocked with strawberry tarts, mango coconut lime bars, and lemon custard drops, Cam himself was wiping down the counter.

  "One half-fat mocha latte, please," I said.

  "You sure you trust me to make one?" he asked. "No cutting back on the milk? No substituting inferior beans?"

  "You should knock it off now. Mallory will think we're really having a fight. And if I didn't come in here, who would defend the music choices that serenade your customers?"

  "I've told him before, people love modern and upbeat," said Mallory, appearing from the shop's kitchen, her long dark ponytail swinging against her shoulders. "Just today, I had someone ask me to replay the Jack Johnson CD."

  "Whatever. All I'm saying is, music clutters the atmosphere," said Cam. "Unless it's good rock and roll, in which case it fits in everywhere."

  "Try making that case to the symphony crowd," I said, accepting my coffee cup from him. "Besides, the friends I was hanging out with tonight would've liked this song." Sophy and Annette would, probably.

  "Who were you hanging out with?" he asked.

  "You know. It's Friday night. The book club." I sat down at a table.

  "Oh, those guys." He wiped an extra-sticky spot on the counter's surface. "Any new members? Closer to your age, for instance?"

  "Same old crowd," I answered, shaking my head. "I'm not that much younger than Annette and Tim. Or older than the rest." Then again, maybe I wasn't young enough for the college crowd anymore, I reflected. Wasn't I too young for the forty-something scene, though?

  "I was just asking," said Cam. "I wasn't implying anything by it."

  "I thought maybe you were thinking about joining us," I said. "Checking out a copy of Jane Eyre or maybe Wuthering Heights." I took a sip of coffee.

  "You know that's not exactly my thing," said Cam. "I'm more of a hands-on project person."

  "We could use some new blood," I said. "It's been the same five people forever. Well, six." I included Llourdes, although she was only coming to the book club to fulfill a community college credit. "Nobody ever invites any friends, or — or anybody else to join." No one had a 'significant other' to add to the mix on Friday nights — and nobody's coworkers or friends seemed interested in discussing the glorious collective works of the Brontes.

  "If you're planning to build a bookshelf next meeting, I'll join you. Otherwise, I'll be right here, steaming milk and listening to Mallory's weird CD collection."

  "I heard that," she called from the kitchen.

  "So'd you have a good time?" he asked. He placed a plate in front of me — a complimentary strawberry tart. I decided that all joking about Cam's cheap habits must end.

  "Yeah. It was a great meeting. We talked about Jane's groundbreaking presence as a heroine, and about scary movies," I said. "And then we drew plans for a secret summer reading tree house."

  "Now that I can help with," he said. "Are you going with two entrances or one? A rope ladder or a wooden one nailed directly to the trunk?"

  "I think you should finish your boat before you help us build our tree house," I said. "Isn't it still at the 'planning stages'?"

  "I thought you said the lumber warped from leaning too long against your garage wall," offered Mallory, from the other side of the counter.

  "Funny," said Cam. "As you two are well aware, I'm a busy guy. And, no, the lumber did not warp. I have a finished frame now, an actual boat frame on saw horses in my work shop. All it needs are some planks, a little work on the prow and stern, and it'll be on the water before you know it."

  "This summer?" I asked.

  "No, of course not. Don't be ridiculous," he said. "Give me a month or two. Tops."

  "I won't forget," I said. "Maybe I'll even come and help paint it before you shove out to sea. Add some cute little daisies to its sides."

&nb
sp; Cam made a face. "No daisies, Peg. This is a rugged sailboat, not your little car with the psychedelic decals on the doors."

  "It's a classic sixties model," I defended. "It's part of the look. I think it's adorable." I reached into my bag and pulled out a spare copy of Charlotte Bronte's novel. I laid it on the table and pushed it in front of Cam.

  "Here," I said.

  "What's this for?"

  "It's in case you change your mind and want to drop in some night the book club's meeting," I said. "Or in case you want to give it a flip-through sometime. It's not just some cheesy women's novel about a fainting heroine and a brooding hero. There's a lot of depth to Jane and her story, even a little adventure. I think you might kind of like it."

  "Right," he said, semi-sarcastically. His thumb flipped open the first few pages, creasing the inside spine. I expected him to shove it back across to me, like he had the previously-offered copies of Shakespeare and Dickens. I was pretty sure that Cam's only classic novel was To Kill a Mockingbird.

  But he didn't return it right away, his finger still turning a few pages. "So," he said, clearing his throat a little. "If I were to read Jane Eyre —"

  "Evening everybody!" Caroline breezed into the coffee shop in her usual manner. She pulled off her summer scarf and dropped her shopping bags on the floor as she sat down at our table. "Did you see the repair work they're doing on the highway? I had to cut across Ocean Lane in Valencia to get here from the city."

  Next to Stacy — and Cam — Caroline was my oldest friend in Lewis Cove. We had known each other in college; now she worked as a realtor with an office closer to the metropolis than town, and believed firmly that one's social life should never slow down, no matter the time of day or the fatigue one might be feeling.

  "Just a cup of black coffee for me, and a low-cal snack, " she said to Cam. "What's with the book?" Her gaze fell on the copy of Jane Eyre.

  "It's mine," I said. "I'm trying to recruit new members for the book club."

  "Was that tonight?" said Caroline. "Is that why you said 'no' to going out with Greg's friend tonight?" Greg was Caroline's current boyfriend — his friend was a blind date setup I had been stealthily avoiding for two weeks.

  "A date?" said Cam. "You're dating again?" He looked at me.

  "For the record, I was never not dating," I clarified. "I just haven't met anybody with whom the interest is mutual. Not in awhile, anyway."

  "To qualify as 'dating,' you have to go out with them," said Caroline. "Not just say you're going to do it sometime, then keep giving them excuses for why you're not available."

  "Those aren't excuses, Caroline, those are reasons," I said. "Friday nights, I'm always at the book club. I'm the librarian, I have to be there to unlock the door and let them in."

  "So? Get them to meet somewhere else. They can meet in Cam's coffee shop. Lots of atmosphere and great beverages."

  "The music will drive them out," said Cam, placing a low-fat granola bar in front of her. "I'm instituting an 'all rock and roll, all the time' policy come Monday."

  I hid my smile for this answer. "Besides, I like the club," I continued. "I like being part of their meetings."

  "The Hopeless Romantics?" said Caroline. "There's a reason why it has that nickname, Paige. They're people who can't find the right person because they're too picky, or because they're too blind to see the right person when it's right in front of them. You are not hopeless — and you're definitely not a fully-fledged romantic."

  "I have a romantic streak," I said. "And it's mean to call them hopeless just because they have a lot of free time and no romantic ties. They're just trying to spend an evening with people they have something in common with. That's the whole point of the club — an exchange of mutual ideas on literature."

  "Will you exchange mutual ideas with Greg's friend next week?" she asked me.

  "Maybe," I said. "I'll call him. We'll find an evening we're both free." From behind the counter, Cam coughed noisily. I wondered if he had tried a bite of the low-fat granola bars he kept on hand for calorie-conscious customers.

  Caroline leaned forward and lowered her voice. "Speaking of dating," she said, "I have the perfect person for Cam." She glanced to the side, making sure he was busy with a new customer.

  Did I mention Caroline is an obsessive matchmaker, too?

  "What?" I said. "Carrie, you know him. He has a strict 'no dating' policy, and it doesn't seem like it's changed over time." In fact, Cam's love life had been on hold ever since I'd known him — dating back to a painful breakup that he generally went to great lengths to avoid mentioning.

  "You would have said the same thing after college, when you were tired of dating guys who turned out to be jerks or losers," said Caroline. "Time changes things — that's why you're finally considering an actual dinner date instead of having coffee with somebody and deciding to just be friends."

  I glanced at Cam. "Who do you have in mind?" I asked her.

  "Oh, just somebody I know in the city. You don't know her. But she'll be perfect." Caroline took another sip of her coffee, then checked the time. "I've got to go. I'm meeting Greg and a friend at his place for a late-night movie, then I have to finish some details for an open house."

  "Are you planning to sleep tonight?"

  "Of course, silly." She squeezed my shoulder. "That's what I have penciled in for four A.M. See you later." She gathered up her shopping bags and was gone.

  "I think your friend has espresso for blood," said Cam. "She's a coffee vampire. That's how she can be so wired at one in the morning."

  "It's only eight-thirty," I said.

  "I'm talking about the time I saw her at the convenience store. I was chugging Pepsi to stay awake long enough to reach my house, while she and her friends were practically stampeding the place for doughnuts, talking nonstop the whole time they were in the cashier's line."

  "That sounds like Caroline," I said. While I would be deep asleep in my bed in college, she was generally at a friend's sorority house party. Not much had changed in the four years or so since we graduated. "But what were you doing awake at that hour?" Cam was the 'bed by eleven' type, or so I had always heard him claim.

  "Went to a friend's wedding out of town," he said.

  "You went to a wedding?" Another thing Cam avoided — all reminders of romance and happily-ever-after in real-life form.

  "I had to." He sounded reluctant to admit this. "I was in it." He had made himself a latte, I noticed, and drank the whole thing in three gulps. I decided it was best not to ask any more questions.

  I polished off my tart, licking the tips of my fingers. Across from me, the copy of Jane Eyre fanned its pages in the breeze, its cover bearing the image of a solitary woman gazing at a large house in the mists.

  Hopeless romantics. That was the fate of people who didn't have Jane Eyre's strength — or luck, as some would say. But how much of it was luck ... and how much of it really was recognizing what you want?

  Imagine if the Hopeless Romantics weren't really hopeless at all.

  ***

  "Caroline didn't coin that nickname for them, you know," said Stacy, as she lifted a stack of Dr. Seuss books. "I think it was Annette. Or maybe it was one of the other members. Anyway, it's kind of an inside joke among them, so you can't blame her for saying it."

  "I don't. I think she does have a point," I said. "I know Caroline was just being ... Caroline, but maybe the Hopeless Romantics really are stuck in a life pattern, and can't see beyond their everyday lives anymore, except in books. And, like in books, they need a little nudge towards change."

  "I think I know what you're suggesting," said Marina. "And it's a risky idea."

  At a frail eighty-something, Marina is the library's oldest volunteer — and former librarian — who retired two years ago, then changed her mind about setting off for her next great adventure. She had been the librarian for close to twenty years, and everybody loved Marina's unusual creativity and her vast store of energy.

 
I had been friends with Marina from the first summer I came to Lewis Cove; knowing her better now, I had discovered she seemed to possess the power of a mind reader, with her uncanny habit of knowing exactly what you're about to say. She was a unique person in many ways— as her brightly-printed caftan blouse and amber hoop earrings proved even now.

  She was giving me an all-knowing look from behind bifocals on a pearl bead chain; at the same time, her hands didn't make a mistake in alphabetically organizing a cart of free paperbacks withdrawn from library circulation, even without visual aid. I think maybe she has eyes in her palms.

  "How could you know what I'm about to say?" I challenged, taking a sip from my amaretto and almond blend. "Even I don't know."

  "Nevertheless," said Marina. "I know your car is still in the shop. I know you're not going on vacation for weeks and weeks, and that you're starting to get summer fever in this place. Believe me, after thirty years behind that circulation desk, I know the temptation to find something to do ... but meddling in people's love lives isn't a good idea. Believe me, it goes wrong ninety times out of a hundred."

  "Me? Meddling? Never," I said. "I'm not Caroline's brand of romantic, believing everybody has to be in a relationship, no matter what."

  "How would you ever match the Hopeless Romantics with anybody?" said Stacy. "Half of them have pretty much given up on ever falling in love — the other half is still trying to check off an impossible list of qualities."

  "Maybe the answer is right under their noses, though," I said, talking to myself more than my friends. I was thinking about the last meeting, picturing everyone's faces, remembering their voices and words. "At least for two members, anyway. Tim and Annette."

  "Tim the mechanic?" said Stacy. "I don't think he's been out with anybody. Ever. Marty at the garage says Tim spends half his nights trying to fix impossible engine problems, ordering engine parts — basically anything to avoid going out or going home."

  "Exactly. But he's such a nice guy," I said. "He's funny, he's kind, he's smart. He likes reading, and learning about new things — in fact, a book request just arrived for him, one on cooking Italian style."