Free The Lake and the Library by S. M. Beiko

first photo I had taken of the library before going in. There was a fist around my heart.
    Tabitha leaned in, speculating from her advantageous height. “Well? What is it?”
    I couldn’t decide if it was a blessing or not that the pictures had been stolen from me, yet again. Nervously, uncomfortably, I laughed a bit and shouldered the bag. “Damn. Must’ve left it at home. I have to go, though; didn’t tell Mum I was going out. She’s been having crazy mood swings with the move so close. She’ll flip, you know?”
    Tabitha’s disappointment was palpable, but her confusion surmounted it. “You came all the way over here, though. Are you sure you can’t just tell me what it is?”
    I was already taking painful steps to leave her driveway. “No, no. I want to show you first. Anyway! I promise I’ll show you tomorrow.”
    She just shrugged and came down off the steps to bundle me into a hug before I bounced away with a wave. We’d reconciled halfway. That was better than nothing.
    â€œBye, Tabs!”
    As I curved round the corner, out of Tabitha’s view, my eyes winced shut and I squeezed my arms around myself. In a kinetic mind flash I could see, could
feel
, Li grappling with my bag to keep me back in the library. My imagination made up for the interlude where I wasn’t looking at him, and he must’ve grabbed the picture pile. I had felt them in my hand. I had taken them. They were solid. I opened my eyes and looked at said hand, the one that had met with so much trouble still disturbingly uninjured.
    As I walked carefully home, shaking my head and feeling a bad, unfamiliar buzz coursing at my temples, I could clearly picture Li lounging in solitude in the quiet shadow of a bookcase, poring contentedly through my pictures. And I was left empty-handed, with one Polaroid that meant nothing at all.
    Nothing to anyone, except me.

She has made the best out of what little she had available to her on such short notice. The town hall sparkles with a hundred frosted lights, and the serving men are sharper than diamonds in their smooth tails. All locals, of course, but they enjoy playing the part, hustling martinis and canapés as though it were just another day on the grain line. And besides, they want to feel the light coming off him when he makes his toast.
    The Fort Garry Hotel would have been a more suitable venue
, she muses from the top of her champagne glass, the bubbles prickling her upper lip. But Treade has come through for her, yet again, just as she knew it would. She surveys the burgeoning party from a shaded alcove, greeting businessmen and their spouses with utmost courtesy, fawning over their attire — which has either come from the States or straight from the Hudson’s Bay catalogue, but at least they’ve made a sporting go of it. Tuxedos and gowns, the upper crust of Winnipeg, having flocked to farm country for a mere birthday party, coo over the long ride in and just how
endearing
this little hamlet is. She can very clearly picture David’s restless ghost scowling at the entire affair, drowning his contagious misery in gin. But not tonight. This is not his night, or his place anymore. She finishes the champagne and shudders, exhausted already.
    â€œShall I get you another, Mrs. Jovan?”
    And there he is at her shoulder, sly and quiet, and just as apt as her to hide from the smattering of guests and attention. Like mother like son, as ever. They retire to the mezzanine for some privacy. He passes her another full champagne flute from a proffered serving tray along the way.
    â€œYou know,” she says to him, “it is
your
birthday. Surely you could thank your friends for coming.” She doesn’t scold him, not truly. How can she, when she was avoiding the lot of them, too?
    He looks heavenward as she puts the drink aside to adjust his silk tie. “They were my father’s friends. Not mine. Neither