A Groovy Kind of Love (The Bibliophiles: Book Three)

By Karen Wojcik Berner

2015 Readers' Choice Nominee: BigAl's Books & Pals

Uptight British lit lover meets a free spirit at a book club and his world is turned upside down!

After placating to his father’s demands that he play Little League baseball and major in computer programming in college rather than his beloved English literature, Thaddeus assumed that several years into his career, he would finally get some peace and quiet.

Then he met Spring Pearson, the younger, free-spirited daughter of Hippie parents, at a book club meeting. Instantly smitten, Thaddeus finally worked up the courage to ask Spring out. But will an old college pinkie-swear promise Spring made fifteen years ago get in the way of this bibliophilic romance?

"A Groovy Kind of Love" is the third and final installment of Karen Wojcik Berner’s Bibliophiles series. Written as stand-alone novels, each book focuses on one or two members of a fictional suburban classics book club, revealing their personal stories while the group explores tales spun by the masters.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Karen Wojcik Berner
• Release date: Jan 12, 2015
• ISBN: 9781311444431

Karen Wojcik Berner

Karen Wojcik Berner writes contemporary fiction with a sprinkling of the classics. An award-winning journalist, her work has appeared in several magazines, newspapers, and blogs, including the Chicago Tribune, Writer Unboxed, Women's Fiction Writers, and Fresh Fiction. She is a member of the Chicago Writers’ Association. When not writing, she can be found on the sidelines of her youngest’s football or lacrosse games, discussing the Celts with the oldest, or snuggling into a favorite reading chair with a good book and some tea. She lives in the Chicago suburbs with her family.

Book preview

PART ONE

Chapter One

Chicago, 1970

We all have a first memory, one dug deepest in that part of the brain that commemorates the dawn of our cognizance. For some, maybe it’s their first plush toy. Others might recall bouncing on their fathers’ knees. Thaddeus had none of these. His awakening began the first day his mother brought him to the library.

Bundle up, sweetie. Maureen Mumblegarden pulled five-year-old Thaddeus’s coat collar up around his neck. Can’t forget the mittens. She snapped them onto large strings dangling from his coat sleeves, and yelled down the empty hallway, Let’s go, Addie.

His sister slogged to the foyer. Why can’t I stay by myself? Granny’s right downstairs.

You’re not old enough. What if you start a fire trying to heat up some SpaghettiOs? Mother zipped up her Borgana coat. The whole place would be up in flames before Granny could even make it up here.

But I’m nine!

Precisely.

"She’s gonna make me watch As the World Turns!"

Mother grabbed her purse and keys. Bring a book or something to occupy yourself while Granny watches her soap operas.

But—

Enough! This is a special day for your brother, and I won’t have you ruining it.

At the bus stop, Thaddeus stood perfectly still, afraid that if he moved even an inch, one of the cars whizzing past would roll over his foot and crush his big toes. His left hand grew sweaty inside its mitten from gripping his mother’s glove so tightly. A few feet away, cars lined up on the street in front of a dark-green shack. An older man with an apron tied around the waist of his parka handed newspapers through passenger-side windows. Pedestrians grabbed their copies from huge stacks and threw dimes in an old cup. Overstuffed racks held magazines, some of which Thaddeus recognized from the coffee table in the living room.

Maureen purchased a copy of Highlights for him and a Ladies’ Home Journal for herself. Something to keep us busy on the bus. She tucked them into her purse. Here it comes. Stay close.

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Wake up, honey. This is our stop. The mother nudged her boy awake.

Thaddeus stumbled down the street, his post-nap haze lifting with each step. Businessmen marched down the sidewalk, briefcases swinging in unison. Car horns beeped. Messengers zigzagged through traffic with large canisters on their backs. Past restaurants and stores mother and son trod, tall office buildings blocking out the sun.

Their destination was a massive gray building, one full block in size, which he thought looked like Aunt Barbara’s wedding cake, each tier more ornate than the one below, with arches and columns and words he had never seen before.

What is this place, Mother?

It’s the library. She opened the doors to reveal crisscrossing marble staircases.

Little Thaddeus navigated the stairs, picking his legs up extra high so he didn’t fall. Mosaics of green-colored glass, gold leaf, and mother of pearl guided him toward the main room. His nostrils filled with the scent of paper and a hint of dust.

What does that say? He pointed to one of the many quotes lining the third floor’s outer hall.

‘He that loveth a book will never want a faithful friend, a wholesome counselor, a cheerful companion, or an effectual comforter.’ It’s from Isaac Barrow. Follow me, sweetie.

They entered a grand room capped with a gold-rimmed, blue-stained glass dome. The ornate ceiling sparkled when sunlight shone through. His mother bent down and whispered in his ear, That is the world’s largest Tiffany dome. See those symbols at the top? Those are the signs of the zodiac. People born under the same sign usually have similar characteristics.

Thaddeus didn’t know who this Tiffany was, but she sure made some beautiful art—all those pieces of glass put just so. He couldn’t take his eyes off of it and ended up walking right into his mother, jostling them both.

The woman perched behind the circulation desk peered down at him. May I help you?

He gulped, his eyes begging for his mother’s assistance.

My son turned five last week. We would like to get him a library card.

Thaddeus puffed out his chest. After all, he was old enough to be in a magnificent place such as that.

Why certainly, ma’am. The woman turned to Thaddeus. Happy birthday, young man. Let’s get you started.

He printed Thaddeus Mumblegarden IV in his best hand, careful to make each letter small enough to fit on the line provided, while still being legible, quite a feat for one so young.

The librarian returned and handed him his card. Thaddeus beamed. A glorious bibliophilic universe was at his disposal! Well, at least the children’s section.

Reading time starts in ten minutes downstairs in Room B. Enjoy your great adventure, young man.

On the way down, Maureen read him every quote adorning the walls, nuggets of wisdom passed down from great thinkers of every world region in praise of books and reading. Thaddeus didn’t understand it all, of course, but he could feel it was a sacred space, a special place where the tales of generations could be passed down to those who had the same card as he.

An elderly gentleman clad in a tweed jacket and corduroy pants waved them into Room B. Thaddeus took a spot in the front row among the other children while Maureen joined the other mothers near the back.

Greetings, young lad, the man said. I haven’t seen you here before. They spoke the same language, yet he didn’t sound like anyone Thaddeus had ever heard.

I got my library card today. My birthday was last week. The boy beamed.

I see. You’ve just picked up your passport.

Library card, Thaddeus corrected.

Bring it here, son. Let me see. The man examined the card carefully. Ah, this is not merely a library card. With this, you can travel the jungles of Africa with Rudyard Kipling or traipse the moors with Emily Brontë. He patted Thaddeus on the head and sent him back to his seat. "All right, children. Today we are going to read Winnie-the-Pooh by A. A. Milne, who happens to hail from my motherland of England."

The man’s voice danced in Thaddeus’s ears. Beautifully rounded vowels waltzed alongside perfectly pronounced consonants, all joining together to tell the story of Christopher Robin’s sweet teddy bear.

Before catching the bus home, Thaddeus and Maureen Mumblegarden stopped in Marshall Field’s for a cup of hot cocoa and a cookie.

Mother, look! Thaddeus tugged at her coat. He picked up a Pooh bear from a display and hugged it tightly.

He cuddled the bear throughout the entire ride home, careful not to drop his new friend on the dirty bus floor.

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Addie! You should have seen it! The dome! All the books! You’re never going to believe what we found at Marshall Field’s. He shoved Winnie-the-Pooh toward his sister.

She pushed the plush toy out of her face. Cute, Thaddeus.

I’m not Thaddeus, he replied mimicking the storyteller’s accent as best as he could. I’m Christopher Robin.

Yeah, that’s not too weird. Mom, what did you get me? Addie smiled and batted her eyes.

I’m sorry, Adelaide. I told you this was Thaddeus’s special day. We did the same thing when you turned five.

Like I remember. She turned in a huff, stalked to her bedroom, and slammed the door.

Mother, said Thaddeus, still in a British accent. Thank you for this most lovely day. I’m sure I shall remember it always. He hugged her tightly, made Pooh Bear give her a kiss as well, and skipped to his room.

Chapter Two

Chicago, 1973

C ome on, everyone! It’s two fifty-five. Knees digging into thick green shag carpeting, eight-year-old Thaddeus knelt before the television and turned the dial to channel nine.

Plopping onto the Barcalounger, his father settled in and put his feet up on the ottoman. Shit. Mo! I forgot my beer!

Hold your horses, his mother called from the kitchen. I’m putting the chicken in the oven.

Addie guided Granny Wallace to the sofa as a familiar theme song welcomed viewers into a cozy, wood-paneled den with a wingback chair and a TV very similar to that of the Mumblegarden family. The camera homed in on the bookshelf. The Canterville Ghost flashed on the screen while host Frazier Thomas welcomed viewers to another edition of Family Classics.

Yes!

Shush, Thaddeus. Maureen handed her husband his beer and sat next to Granny, who didn’t seem very pleased about the movie choice.

Another bloody English flick? she said. Real nice they are too, brickin’ up yer own son, leaving him to die, and dooming him to haunt a castle.

Granny, please. You’ll ruin it for the kids, Maureen whispered.

Granny muttered, English bastards and fished her knitting needles out of a large tapestry bag.

Thaddeus, of course, was delighted. He’d been crossing his fingers for Robin Hood, Peter Pan, or anything with castles. Besides story time at the library, which he was getting entirely too old for, the show was his chance to hear the Queen’s English, which he was getting rather good at copying. Last Thursday, he had spoken in a British accent all day, much to his delight and the chagrin of his family, particularly Addie. Despite all of Granny Wallace’s stories of her ancestral home, it was Scotland’s neighbor to the south that truly captivated him.

England had pastoral, rolling countryside with gentle sheep roaming freely among ancient trees. England had puddings, which were not at all like Aunt Mildred’s banana pudding parfaits served in her plastic mock parfait glasses with snap-on bottoms. An English pudding was more like a moist cake, a sight that caused the Cratchits to clap with joy when the missus brought it to the table. England had things like sultanas, exotic-sounding white grapes, treacle tart, and Turkish delight. They drank tea from proper china, not from saucerless coffee mugs. In America, when young Thaddeus requested a cuppa while out for breakfast with his family, he was met with looks of confusion and responses like, A cup a what? Come on, kid. I don’t got all day.

During a commercial, Thaddeus the elder posed an important question to the younger. Excited about Little League, son?

Thaddeus forced a smile. Not at all. Both his father and grandfather had played college ball. The old man loved the game so much—what kind of son would he be not to give it a go?

Guess who’s running your team? Just got the roster. Hope there’s some talent. That kid across the street doesn’t look like he could hit the broad side of a barn.

Father?

His father slipped on a Cubs hat. Call me Coach.

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From that day on, the elder Thaddeus Mumblegarden was referred to as Coach by every boy of a certain age in the neighborhood, by their parents, and even by Stanley, who ran the convenience store two blocks down. Baseball was the sport for spring and summer. Nothing else compared. At the time, soccer was only played by recent immigrants, and lacrosse had not yet moved west of the Appalachians. Most of the boys on Thaddeus’s team practiced twice a week after school. Games were on Saturdays. Most boys, except for Thaddeus, who, while Addie helped their mother wash the dinner dishes, was drilled every night on stride, hip rotation, plate discipline, and proper stance.

Despite his pedigree, Thaddeus wasn’t good at first base. Catching was a problem at first, but boy, could he throw! He had a naturally balanced leg kick, good control, and a smooth, effortless throwing motion. Coach only had to show his son where to grip the ball for each pitch. After that, Thaddeus fired it over the plate time after time, whether fastball, slider, or curve. He was so consistent, in fact, the elder Mumblegarden had before him something he had never seen before—a natural! Sure, he and his father had played college ball, but they’d had to work hard at it for hours every single day. Imagine what Thaddeus could do with his talent plus a strenuous workout schedule!

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The sun shone brightly on a crisp April Thursday. Seven fielders stood hunched over, knees bent, gloves out in ready position, while the catcher signaled the pitch to Thaddeus. Three other Little League Cubs players each attempted to get a hit without much success.

All right, men. Bring it in. Coach Mumblegarden clapped and gathered his team round. Time for some grounder practice. Mikey, Bobby, and Pat on this side. He pointed left. Johnny, Tony, and Thaddeus over here. He pointed right. The rest of you, follow Coach Kowalski for batting practice.

The shortstop prospects divided up accordingly.

Little farther back, Pat. There you go. Perfect. Okay. Shortstop is the most dynamic of baseball’s defensive positions. You gotta be quick on fielding and have a good arm to throw the runner out at first base. Let’s see what you got. He rolled the ball at Tony. Charge the ball. Don’t wait for it to come to you. By the time it does, the runner’s already on base. Good job!

One by one, the boys had their turns, each accompanied by Coach yelling, Charge it! Charge it! Good!

Then Thaddeus was up.

Coach side-armed a grounder with some heat on it, much more than the others. Don’t just stand there. Get up on it!

Thaddeus put his glove down, but the ball caught a weird bounce and rolled up and out of his glove. Coach biffed the bill of his baseball cap. Next time, hustle out there, huh? Then the man turned to address the other boys. Guys, being a baseball player requires all-around talent and dedication, am I right?

Coach yelled louder. I didn’t hear you. Am I right?

Yes, sir! the mini-Cubs screamed in unison.

Well, all but one. The boy who everyone knew would be the starting pitcher stood off to the side and sighed, despising baseball more with each practice.

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How’d it go, guys? Maureen was folding laundry at the kitchen table, amid neat stacks of olive-green and chocolate-brown towels.

Good, Mo. Good. Thaddeus here’s gotta give more effort when he’s not on the pitcher’s mound. Besides that, the team looks good. I’m gonna hit the showers. He slung a towel over his shoulder and headed for the family’s one bathroom.

Dusty and tired, Thaddeus plunked onto a chair next to his mother.

Don’t get my towels dirty, okay, sweetie? She slid the olive-green stack away from her son. Rough practice?

They’re all rough, Mother. I’m doing the best I can.

Maureen got up and poured him a glass of water. I know, sweetheart. Here you go. Your dad takes the game very seriously, that’s all. Go look on your bed. I have a surprise for you.

The boy took off for his room. There on his bed lay The Lion, the Witch, and the Wardrobe and The Wind in the Willows. He ran back into the kitchen and threw his arms around his mother’s waist. You are the best mother in the whole world. Even in England!

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No one seemed to care whether Thaddeus Mumblegarden IV lived or died at school, but they sure cheered for him on the pitcher’s mound. On game days, one would have thought he was the most popular boy. Even his father would give him a well-deserved pat on the back after the Little League Cubs beat whomever they played that day. With only one loss, a tough one to the Little League Tigers, Coach Mumblegarden’s team stood atop the eight-year-old division, up two games on the Brewers, which really wasn’t a very appropriate name for a children’s team. The Cubs had clinched the division the week before, and all that was left of the season was the conference championship.

At breakfast the Sunday before the big game, tiny butterflies flitted around in Thaddeus’s stomach, but not from the impending World Series. Oh, no. He would try his best. The butterflies were in anticipation of the season’s ending, just one short week away. He already had a trip to the library planned and a to-read list filled with books.

Coach Mumblegarden loaded up his plate with scrambled eggs. Hey, Thaddeus. How about after church, you and I get in some extra practice?

The boy put up one finger as he finished chewing then wiped the corners of his mouth with a napkin and replied, We played all day yesterday with the game and batting practice afterward. Besides, I have a lot of homework today—a book report, research on my animal for science, and several math problems.

Not important! Next weekend’s the World Series.

Maureen shook her head. Excuse me, but school is very important. Number one priority, actually. Right, dear?

But… Coach tried to persuade her with his eyes, but she stood firm.

No. Academics are first. Aren’t you always telling the boys baseball is a thinking man’s game? Lots of strategy and such? She spread grape jam on her English muffin, which Thaddeus had insisted upon calling a crumpet, although the second-rate American counterpart probably paled in comparison.

I’ll play baseball with you, Coach. Adelaide would do anything to get out of homework. Her report on Australia was due the next day and so far, she had only made a eucalyptus tree and a small koala with butcher paper and cotton balls. She would be spending all day with her head stuck in the Encyclopædia Britannica at the library. I’ve been playing catch with Joe and Vince.

I’ve seen you. You throw like a girl. The father drained his coffee mug. Baseball’s a man’s sport.

Maureen rolled her eyes. What about the All-American Girls League that played during World War II?

Poor substitute until the men got back. He ran his napkin across his mouth. Girls can’t play sports.

Sure they can. And when Title IX gets passed, they’ll have the funding for it, too. Maureen rose to clear off the table.

Yeah, to take away money from perfectly good men’s sports. Her husband left the kitchen in a huff.

Thaddeus brought his plate and juice glass to the sink. I’m a man, and I think girls can do whatever they want. Women can do lots of things. Look at you or Queen Elizabeth or Beatrix Potter!

The mother hugged the son and ruffled his hair. Go get ready for church, dear.

Addie put the butter back in the fridge. I want to march with those women I saw on television yesterday and burn my bra.

Maureen chuckled. You’ll have to wear one first.

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Mercifully, beginner baseball teams played shortened games. The Little League Cubs were tied with the Brewers 5-5 in the top of the seventh and last inning of the championship game. Two runners were on base, with two outs.

Zeke Symanski was up for the Brewers. A hulk of a boy, he lumbered up to home plate and kicked the sand, which blew right through Freddie’s catcher’s mask.

Hey, watch it! Freddie barked.

Zeke tapped his cleats with the bat. You watch it. I’m like Babe Ruth. I can point to a spot then hit a homer right to it.

All right, boys, cut your jawing. The ump adjusted his pads. Play ball!

Zeke stepped up to the plate and pointed toward left field.

Oh, please. Freddie shook his head and sought out Coach for the signal. Fastball. All right, Thad, my man. You got this bozo.

Thaddeus fired the ball over the plate.

Strike one! the ump shouted.

Two more, my man. Freddie squatted down again and signaled another fastball.

Strike two!

Zeke backed away.

Hey, Zeke. Bring us home, buddy, shouted his teammates on base.

Coach Mumblegarden called a time out and trotted to the pitcher’s mound. One more pitch. That’s all we need. Let’s give him a curve ball. Just like we practiced. Okay? He slapped his son’s back and returned to the bench.

We want a pitcher, not a belly itcher! erupted from the Brewers’ bench.

A small bead of sweat traveled down Thaddeus’s cheek from his brow. He took off his cap and wiped his face with his sleeve. One more pitch until his time was free for reading. Just one more pitch. He wound up and let the curveball go.

Expecting a fastball, Zeke