Read Out to Lunch for Free Online

e-mails, and little Benji keeps sending the funniest snarky e-cards, and poor Lois keeps leaving tins of pastries on my porch. We are a strange little family, but I know they are worried about me, and I didn’t have much time at the funeral or at the house after to do more than hug and accept the usual banal sentiments of condolence, and the last two weeks have been full of paperwork and phone calls and business crap, and with not getting good sleep, I’ve just had very little energy.
    I stand up, less wobbly, and, pretty sure that pants-shitting is not in my future, head in the direction of the Library. Weirdly, I want to be able to see Nancy tomorrow and tell her that I did it, even though I know that she cares less about what I do and more about how it makes me feel to do it or not. But it will feel like a small victory.
    The Voix
pipes in.
“Good lord, just get there already. It will make you feel better. Or it will make you feel worse. But so the fuck what? Put on your big-girl panties and do it, because we always had brave faces for the team, and like it or not, they need to see you and be with you and know you are okay.”
    As soon as we turn the corner onto Kedzie, Volnay starts to pull on her leash, half dragging me down the block. We zip past Lula Café and City Lit Books, waving at Teresa, the proprietor, who is doing a display in the window as we pass.
    Just on the next corner sits The Larder Library, a three-story gray stone Victorian lady with a wide stoop leading to the porch, the dark green sign with its gold lettering carefully weathered to look like it has been here forever. The heavy dark wood double doors are open to let in the soft unseasonably warm autumn breezes, and the sweet vanilla scent of something delicious is wafting out into the street.
    I let go of the leash and Volnay tears up the steps ahead of me like a bat out of hell, careening into the shop, and skidding on the worn wooden floors, tumbling ass over teakettle and landing in a wriggling lump at Lois’s feet in their ubiquitous clogs.
    “Well, my word, look who’s here!” Lois bends her round form down and scoops my pup up in her arms like she is a mere feather, snuggling her to a Teutonic bosom and letting the dog lick her wrinkled cheeks.
    “Hello, Mrs. Piggle-Wiggle.” I go over to accept the bone-crushing embrace. Lois is only barely five feet tall, but is strong as an ox with a milkmaid’s peaches-and-cream complexion, water blue eyes, and the pinkest Cupid’s bow mouth I’ve ever seen on a grown-up. Her hands and arms are strong from years working in her family bakery, kneading vast lumps of dough into submission, and whisking dozens of eggs to fluffy clouds by hand. Two of her sons run the bakery now; the third is a butcher at Paulina Market. But Lois was never one for retirement. She had been a widow for over twenty years and a neighborhood resident her whole life; we hadn’t even gotten the sign up before she wandered by with a strudel to offer her part-time services. One bite told us all we needed to know, and we hired her on the spot. She treats us all like errant nieces and nephews, and we dote on her.
    “Liebchen.”
She cradles my face in her strong hands. “I’m so happy you’re here. Sit. I’ll make tea.”
    She wanders over to the kitchen, tossing Volnay a biscuit on her way with perfect efficiency of motion. Volnay takes the treat and clicks after her, a kitchen-floor dog if ever there was one.
    “Hey, Jenna, how are you?” Eloise floats out from behind the antique library table that serves as the front counter.
    I remember when Aimee called to tell me that a small neighborhood library on the South Side was getting a makeover and that she had snapped up a ton of beautiful old furniture, including card catalogs, tables, chairs, shelves, even a pair of ancient carrels which we put in the back of the store for the local writers who like someplace a little quieter than New Wave Coffee for their free Wi-Fi.