Parisian Chapter

by Janet Skeslien Charles

Genres: Women's Fiction; Family Life

Synopsis

From the New York Times bestselling author of The Paris Library and Miss Morgan’s Book Brigade, a charming and cinematic novel following a young woman from Montana who takes a job in the American Library in Paris, where she discovers the power of storytelling and her own dreams.

Paris, 1995: It’s been five years since Lily Jacobsen and her best friend Mary Louise arrived in Paris from their small town of Froid, Montana. Determined to establish themselves as artists—Lily, a novelist, and Mary Louise, a painter—they share a tiny walkup and survive on brie and baguettes.

When Mary Louise abruptly moves out, Lily feels alone in the city of light for the first time and must find a new way to support herself. She lands a job as a programs manager at the American Library in Paris, following in the footsteps of Odile, her beloved French neighbor in Montana who told her stories of heroic World War II librarians when Lily was growing up. Here in the storied halls of the ALP, she meets an incredible cast of characters—her favorite author, quirky coworkers, broke students, trailing spouses, haughty trustees, and devoted volunteers—each with their own stories... and agendas. Lily often seeks solace in the Afterlife, the library’s attic that’s home to hundreds of unpublished manuscripts, and there, she discovers a box of archives that may be a link to the past: to Odile’s own Parisian chapter.

This moving, propulsive story offers a panoramic view of a real historic institution, and revisits characters from both of Janet Skeslien Charles’s beloved novels. Lily’s story is a love letter to the artist’s life, friendship, and leaving home only to find it again.

Release date: May 5, 2026

Publisher: Atria Books

Print pages: 240

Sample

Chapter 1: January 1995: Lorenzo Bruni—Head Librarian

Chapter 1 JANUARY 1995
Lorenzo Bruni—head librarian

I’m on the Front Line, the first librarian that people encounter when they enter the American Library in Paris. And let me tell you, people are pains. My colleagues and boss, Quentin Hayes III, have no idea what it’s like to deal with the public. Day after day, year after year, I stand at attention behind the circ desk, waiting for patrons to ambush me. Like today. Katie Hunt slinks over to return a pile of torn magazines. Her kid ripped the Family Circle to shreds, and she wants all to be forgiven. I want to shout that we’re in a foreign country—we can’t just go to the store to pick up another copy. But Hayes gave strict orders not to yell. While I’m taping pages, old Mike Roth saunters in with a baguette sandwich sticking out of his book bag. Hayes won’t let me kick him out because he paid for his membership like everyone else. Before I can inform the loudmouth that the library isn’t a picnic area, Jennifer de Narp storms over. Using her Louis Vuitton clutch as a pointer, she calls my attention to a burned-out lightbulb in the reading room and orders me to change it. I want to say that our handyman will handle it, but Hayes won’t let me refuse her. She’s one of the Select Few, insanely rich donors. While I dig the ladder out of the broom closet, Mazie Chester sneaks past in her neon-green greatcoat. It’s been a decade since she paid for a membership, but Hayes won’t let me confront her. His logic: if we’re nice to her, she’ll leave her fortune to the library instead of to Morris Templeman, her cat. This place is a revolving door of loons.

And speaking of revolving doors, another program manager left without a goodbye. Lizzy cleared off her desk and spelled out “I QUIT” with Saul Bellow paperbacks. We weren’t surprised by the resignation—not many can hack the job, or Hayes—but the choice of Bellow puzzled us. She only lasted six months before she huffed home to Auckland.

Contrary to what you might think, some people don’t want to be in Paris. Perhaps their spouse got transferred here for work, and they trailed behind. Countless writers have followed in the soused footsteps of F. Scott Fitzgerald, and they stick around because they have more pride than brains. Or like me, they came to study at the Sorbonne and stayed for love. Bound by a passion for the same subject, many of us fell for a French classmate. Reciting your vows by the light of a hundred flickering flames during a candlelit Mass at Notre-Dame seems romantic. And it is, until the love of your life cheats. By then, there are children. The French divorce court won’t allow you to leave the country—not if you want to go with your kids, anyway. I long to move back to my native Sicily to be closer to family. But until my twins turn eighteen, I’m stuck in Paris. Ten more years to go. In my parenting support group, we call it a prisoner-of-war situation.

When you live abroad, eventually—no matter your age or situation—catastrophe strikes back home. Say your mom gets cancer. You’re torn between returning to nurse her for a few months or staying put to reassure your kids, who are back to bed-wetting because of the split. You choose your children, which means your siblings—who bear the brunt of caretaking—hate you. Your mother passes, and you weren’t there. For the rest of your life, guilt is an acid that eats at you.

Any wonder people in this town are wound so tight? To escape the whiny patrons and nagging phones, I follow the nonfiction stacks from 355 (The Art of War by Sun Tzu) to 970.3 (Trail of Tears by John Ehle); skirt the spartan back office, where unlike me, support staff work without constant interruption; sneak past the land mine of Hayes’s corner office; and climb the clanging metal stairs to the Afterlife.

On this deserted mezzanine, a wingback chair and gray couch bathe in the gentle light that filters through the cracked plexiglass ceiling. Three walls teem with musty classics, while the fourth holds unpublished manuscripts. Encased in matching blue boxes, each tale is an unexpected gift. The engrossing account of a female firefighter who battles blazes and sexism, or the Algerian baker who “rises” to fame when his bread wins the premier prize in the city of Paris’s best baguette competition. I’ve read all but three manuscripts. I just want to sink in the chair to savor a story—and ten minutes of peacetime—before returning to the battlefront.

But I see that moron Roth left half of his ham sandwich on a shelf, the butter soaking into David Copperfield’s spine. I fetch a paper towel to mop up his mess.

“Hell is other people,” Sartre wrote. Certainly while sitting in the American Library in Paris.