The Widow's Son (3 page)

After exchanging greetings, I'd barely settled on a wicker chair when she declared in a carefully articulated voice: “Mr. Bevan, I'm not inclined to support your application for ABAA membership. Can you provide reasons why I should?”

“Well,” I began nervously, “my shop has an extensive stock of the highest quality in categories of travel, adventure, and exploration, much of it British…”

She raised a ring-bedecked hand to shush me.

“Yes, yes, I'm aware of that. But I'm mostly interested in
how
you acquired them.”

“I fail to see how that matters, ma'am.”

A faint smile. “Oh, but it does, young man. Very much so.”

“They were given in exchange for services I rendered to the previous owners.”

“So I've heard; the proprietors of the fabled Book & Bell of Cecil Court, London, I believe. And therein lies the rub, you see. The notoriety of Penelope Wilkes and the late Adrian Hart colors the pedigree of your cache in a most unflattering manner.”

“The provenance of those books is unquestioned,” I replied. “Wilkes and Hart had their faults, but they were devoted book people. They kept meticulous records.”

She narrowed her eyes. “Faults? One is thought to have murdered a Russian client. And the other killed himself.”

“Pillow, I mean, Penelope was never charged—and if she had been, it would have been ruled justifiable homicide. As for Hart's suicide, it was one of the few honorable things the man ever did.”

I glanced at Norman Tate, who tapped his watch in response.

“This has been a mistake,” I said, rising from the chair. “I'm sorry to have wasted your time, Miss Darp.”

She looked up at me, surprised by my refusal to kowtow to her. “Please sit down. I merely wanted to give you a taste of what to expect from the Board of Governors. Some are convinced you acquired your inventory dishonestly.”

She handed me a thin biscuit that had been next to the teacup.

“And please feel free to call me Eula. May I call you Michael?”

“Yes,” I said, accepting the cookie and returning to the chair. “Thank you, Eula.”

I paused. “Is there really so much interest in how I came to own these books? I mean, the members of the Board are wrong—I did nothing dishonest.”

“There are unsettling rumors about a discovery of secret journals dating from Captain Cook's voyages,” she said. “Supposedly, these journals would cast a very negative light on Cook's reputation. If true, this would send shock waves through Britain, rewriting its hallowed maritime traditions.”

I remained silent, but a flickering glare through her glasses showed she expected to hear more.

“Well, what of it, Michael?”

“I'm not at liberty to say.”

“Young man, every bookseller who has made something of herself has sacrificed something. It takes intellect, finances one rarely has enough of, and tremendous will. Luck is recognized, of course, but highly suspect when inexplicably abundant. The Board members are jealous of you, Michael. It isn't the question of your reputation or the provenance of your books—we booksellers are all knaves at some level. While they envy your exceptionally good fortune, I'm afraid it does not equate to respect. You must be more forthcoming on this matter to show you came by those books through good and honest effort.”

My only response was to smile inwardly at the irony. I had confronted death no less than four times in New Zealand during my quest for the three journals penned by a marine on Captain Cook's historic voyages to the Pacific. It was in exchange for one of them—and the promise to never disclose the contents of the other two—that Pillow Wilkes voluntarily deeded the entire stock of her bookstore to me. I'd damned well earned them, but was honor-bound to never explain why.

“I won't comment,” I reiterated forcefully, making it clear I didn't appreciate being backed into a corner.

“Then you have said enough. It must be true.”

“Eula, the books were a reward for something I did for Ms. Wilkes. It nearly cost me my life; it may have taken a bit of my sanity as well.”

I hoped that would be enough for her, but she continued and was every bit as exacting in her questioning as she was in her catalog and book descriptions. She pressed for details, not about the explosive content of the journals, but demanding specifics about the trade-off for them. Were there loan payments? Was there a note? Is there a disclosure pending? Were you privy to their darkest secrets perhaps? (“Blackmail is something the Board would understand,” she remarked wickedly.) Had I given Ms. Wilkes something of equal value? And on and on.

I shook my head to all of it, finally gazing at a framed caricature of Marcel Proust to avoid her eyes.

When I looked back at her there was a concerned look on her face.

“Michael, I take my role in the ABAA very seriously. Indeed, I feel somehow that my efforts over the decades have helped elevate humanity in some small way. I cannot make exceptions to my standards. Without critical evidence of your honesty and commitment to the highest degree of professionalism, I find it difficult to offer an endorsement.”

She sighed, then reached over for a file, skimmed the top page, and turned back to me.

“Don't think me unfair. Your refusal to divulge a colleague's secrets is admirable. And you've been highly recommended by Charles Walsh, a person whom I value highly.”

She sighed and placed her eyeglasses on her forehead. “Because I still wish to help you, let's try this a bit differently. Tell me about books you have acquired other than through the Book and Bell windfall?”

“My acquisitions have been rather modest, I'm afraid.”

For the next twenty minutes, I related tales of my few significant finds in ten years of scrounging through attics and cellars for quality used books. I described my research to verify an obscure first of
A Yankee in Canada
by Henry David Thoreau and told her of my happy discovery of a complete series of Arthur Rackham illustrateds at a neighbor's garage sale.

“I have firsts of Ian Fleming's later Bond novels; the full body of work of George MacDonald Fraser; and some Irish Renaissance writers such as Lady Gregory, George Russell, and—”

“Any Yeats?” she interrupted. “Joyce perhaps?”

“Only later editions.”

“I see. ‘Modest' certainly was a fair description of your achievements, Michael. If you ever hope to pursue and secure the kind of books for which the rich and powerful eagerly compete—and, therefore, pay handsomely for—adequate funds and courage are not always enough. What you have so gratuitously received from Ms. Wilkes is a beginning, nothing more. You'll need more than that for the ABAA. To be a treasure hunter—and isn't that what we all are?—sometimes means becoming a pirate. It will take all the cunning, patience, and knowledge you can muster to anticipate where a rare bit of history might manifest itself.”

Her dark eyes were soft now that they weren't shielded by the glasses; I felt a sense of kinship. She flipped to the second page in her file.

“I also did a little research on your background before you became a bookseller. I understand you practiced law?”

“Yes, until I was disbarred for allegedly misappropriating a client's funds.”

“Oh, dear.”

“A corrupt district attorney had it in for me.”

I studied Proust's picture again, realizing how lame those words sounded.

“I see,” she said with a little cough. “And wasn't there a more recent arrest?”

My God, she was thorough and exacting; her reputation for detailed research was only too accurate.

I looked at her directly and confessed details that she already knew.

“I was once thought to have murdered a colleague.”

“Hmmm.”

I noticed Norman Tate had stopped tapping his watch.

“Charges dropped,” I added.

“How convenient.”

“Even received a commendation.”

“Fascinating. I don't recall that made it into the papers.”

“No, ma'am.”

“Pity.”

She sighed again as she reached over to pat my hand.

“I hope you can appreciate my situation, Michael, but I have to uphold ABAA standards as well as my own. I cannot support your admission.”

Bitterly disappointed, but not surprised, I sat for a moment taking in the pristine copies of rare books, each carefully shielded from sunlight through their artful arrangement on the shelves. They were not just objects to Eula, but testaments to the greatness of mankind. She was doyenne of a noble profession responsible for preserving nothing less than the combined wisdom of all humanity.

Yes, Eulalia Darp had her standards. And I wasn't up to them.

“Thank you for your honesty,” I said, rising to leave.

“Don't give up, Michael. Trust your instincts, but aim higher. Should you happen to acquire something interesting in the near future perhaps we might chat again.”

“Something interesting” would have to be along the lines of a Shakespeare first folio if I hoped to have a productive audience with this maven of the book trade.

As he led me to the door, Norman Tate cautioned me to never buy any ducks.

“Why not?” I asked, perplexed.

“Because with your kind of luck they'd jus' drown.”

There was plenty of the morning left, but given my state of mind after the meeting in Lawrence I'd be as useful as an ashtray on a motorcycle if I returned immediately to Riverrun.

It was a nice day and being around the campus had me feeling nostalgic. Remembering that Alice Winter had mentioned that her son, Mark, was taking summer classes at the law school, I decided to drop by Green Hall to say hello. Mark responded immediately to my text and we agreed to meet at the student lounge in twenty minutes.

Lest you think I get a kick out of interrupting fledgling barristers during their onerous studies, my reason had a real purpose. And it wasn't just to encourage him in his career path. I fancied him as a potential son-in-law.

The idea wasn't so far-fetched.

My daughter, after surviving a tumultuous experience with drugs, had spent five months at a rehab center in Lawrence. During that period, Mark, who had known Anne in high school, had been extremely supportive, even cutting law classes to check on her when she seemed particularly down. By the time Anne returned to the University of Colorado to complete her master's degree in theatre studies, it seemed to Josie and me that a spark had been lit between them.

Mark's mother, however, was gobsmacked when, a month earlier, I mentioned the visits.

“Mark?” she'd asked warily. “I didn't know he was seeing her.”

“Yeah, almost every day,” I'd responded, surprised that she wasn't aware of this. “He brought her doughnuts, flowers, even used to play his guitar for her. I'm beginning to think there's even the possibility of a budding romance. I guess he sees some of the same things in her that you do, not to mention that she's beautiful and adventurous. Your son's no dummy.”

“Romance?” A cloud seemed to cross her face. “Please say you're joking.”

“I'm not, Alice. He was wonderful to her—”

She shot a look that could have melted a bucket of diamonds.

“Listen, you,” she said slowly, tonelessly. “Keep that…that…tart from my boy.”

The muscles in my jaw tightened and I made a vague sound in my throat. But before I could form words of protest, Alice had stormed off, spouting something about a “chip off the old block.”

Now, it was true that my daughter's wild-ass reputation left something to be desired, but Mrs. Winter's virulent reaction left me more puzzled than angry. It didn't fit the gentle and dignified woman I'd known since grade school and who, until that moment, had expressed only admiration for Anne's courage in combating addiction. It was all the more shocking because Alice was normally the epitome of Junior League propriety; a gentle lady who, when not soliciting money for Haitian orphans or slinging hash with volunteers at the City Union soup kitchen, could be found organizing bingo parties at the local assisted living center.

It simply wasn't fair. Now that Anne was off drugs, she'd lost that alien, strung-out demeanor; and while she still retained the aristocratic bearing and hint of a plummy accent from her Mayfair London upbringing—all thanks to her British grandparents—the last vestiges of Sloane Ranger snobbery were gone. Equally lost, I fervently hoped, was her affinity for hell-for-leather risk taking.

Whether Alice's cosseted son was mature enough to handle the female Bevan spitfire was another thing, however.

The last time I saw Mark Winter was during his junior year in college. He'd had the easy manners of a young man rather full of himself, but not obnoxiously so. In some ways—looks particularly, but also by his knack for guileless charm—Mark reminded me of a young Cary Grant before the actor encountered Mae West.

As an adolescent Mark had never given his parents the misgivings that Anne had supplied me with in buckets, but for the longest time he had a lazy attitude that bugged the hell out of them. It was never my place to say anything. I figured the ever-demanding attitude of Tim Winter had a lot to do with it. Once the boy left for college, he apparently shed the mopiness, excelling in his studies while serving as president of his fraternity and lettering in baseball.

Such attributes, noble as they are, don't exactly prepare one for dating a firecracker with
Vogue
model looks who had nearly married Robert “Long Bob” Langston, a notorious Hollywood libertine.

I hoped to see if the young man was not only in the running for my daughter's affections, but also up to the formidable task of corralling her.

Green Hall sits in a flat plain on the west side of campus. Built in the late seventies, it's a five-story glass and limestone building of nondescript architectural significance that has none of the charm of the law school's former nineteenth-century Corinthian-columned home atop Mount Oread. The newer structure's one saving grace—in my eyes at least—is that it stands next to Allen Field House, a college basketball Mecca.

The student lounge was packed with students sprawling on chairs and sofas when I entered. I spotted Mark among a tense group gazing at a bulletin board with the latest test results. He was one of the few who looked genuinely pleased.

He was exactly as I'd remembered him from two years earlier; a little fuller in the face perhaps, but just as handsome. Like Michelangelo's David, he was broad in the shoulders and long in the flanks, with a mop of curly hair cut slightly long. His large brown eyes, dark eyebrows, and long dark lashes gave him a slightly roguish look. His upper lip was slightly narrower than the lower one, so when he smiled, which seemed to be often, you got the full dental assault.

Having seen what he wanted, Mark broke away from the cluster of students gathered around the board and made his way toward me with an outstretched hand.

“It's great to see you, Mr. Bevan.”

“And you, Mark. Classes going well?”

“I'm glad to have Civil Procedure behind me, but it turned out okay. You want some coffee?”

“No, thanks. How are you doing otherwise?”

“Well, Torts…”

“I mean socially.”

“Fine,” he said, looking somewhat puzzled.

We both stared at our feet for a few awkward moments before I spoke again.

“Actually, I wanted to thank you.”

“Sir?”

“For checking on Annie—when she was at the Allen Rehab Center. It meant a lot to her that you made the effort. For me, too.”

Mark's blush said it all.

“It was my pleasure, Mr. Bevan. As a matter of fact, we remain in touch.”

“Seriously? I mean, anything serious?”

His smile widened as his face grew redder. “No, nothing like that. But I'll see her in Aspen when my classes end next month. She wants me to guide her up the Maroon Bells.”

I thought I knew what else that meant, but before I could say anything, he pleaded, “Don't tell my folks. Okay? Mom wouldn't approve.”

My expression told him I knew it wasn't because she feared either one would topple off the mountain.

“I'm afraid that cat's out of the bag,” I said. “When I mentioned to her that you guys seemed to be getting pretty close, she didn't take it very well.”

He sighed heavily. “It's not like Mom to be so closed-minded about Anne. Even my dad doesn't have a problem with it.”

“Your mother needs more time,” I suggested unconvincingly. “At any rate, I'm delighted that you and Anne are interested in each other—as friends or whatever.”

“Thanks, Mr. Bevan.”

“Mike.”

“Sir?”

“Call me Mike. Makes me feel younger.”

I left him shortly after that, filled with joy in the knowledge that, for once, something seemed to be going right in the personal affairs of my daughter.

Silly me.