“I saw you Friday night!” she blurted. “I was coming in to meet a friend after her shift. I saw you heading out.”
Glancing away from her toward the door, he brushed at the dark curls that had fallen into his eyes again. “That’s possible,” he noted. “I like working in the evenings here.”
She shrugged. “Well, obviously.”
“Why?” he asked. “Why obviously?”
She raised her eyebrows. “Because you’re here now? Instead of the middle of the day?”
He blinked. “Of course.”
“So what do you do?”
“Me?”
The girl snorted and looked around the otherwise empty room. “Yeah.”
He opened his mouth and almost considered telling her the truth, just to see what the unusual girl might say.
“I do…research.”
She stood, as if waiting for him to continue. When he didn’t, she smiled politely and held out a hand. “Well, it’s very nice to meet you.”
He paused for a moment then held out his own hand to shake hers.
“Nice to meet you as well…” He frowned a little. “What’s your real name?”
“Why?”
“I…” Giovanni had no idea why he wanted to know, except perhaps, because she didn’t seem to want to tell him. So he flashed her his most charming smile and cheered internally when he heard her heart speed up.
She rolled her eyes. “My ‘real’ name is Beatrice. But I hate it, so please just call me B. Everyone does, even Dr. Christiansen,” she added, referencing the very formal Director of Special Collections for the library.
“Of course,” he said with a small smile. “I was simply curious. For the record, however, I think Beatrice is a lovely name.” He made sure to pronounce her name with the softer Italian accent it deserved.
She rolled her eyes again and tried to keep from smiling. “Well, thanks. What can I get for you this evening, Dr. Vecchio?”
“The Tibetan manuscript, please.”
“Of course.” She handed over a small paper slip so he could fill out the formal request for the item. Then she reached into the desk drawer to hand him a pair of silk gloves necessary for handing any of the ancient documents in the collection.
He took a seat at one of the tables in the windowless room, laying out his notebooks, a box of pencils, and a set of notes for Tenzin written in Mandarin. After a few minutes, Beatrice walked through the door from the stacks. Carefully placing the grey paper box containing the fifteenth century Tibetan book on the counter, she turned back to make sure the door to the air-controlled room was closed and locked before she walked around the desk and toward Giovanni.
“There is a book you need to copy for me,” Tenzin had asked.
“Why do you need it copied? Isn’t there a translation available somewhere?”
“No, I want this one. It’s in Houston. Didn’t you just move there?”
He frowned. “I didn’t move here so I could copy books for you, bird girl.”
“How do you know? Maybe that’s exactly why you moved there.”
“Ten—”
“I have to fly. Be a good scribe and copy it. Use the…what do you call it when you send me things?”
“The fax machine.”
“Yes, use that. I’m going into the mountains for a while. Have Caspar send them to Nima for me when you’re done.”
“I’m busy right—”
She had already hung up.
He noted again how well-preserved the manuscript was as the girl opened the acid-free paper box. The manuscript was a series of square, painted panels that contained spells purportedly used by goddesses for healing. The carved wooden covers and gold and black ink were startling in their clarity, and though it held the musty odor typical of old documents, he noted with satisfaction very little scent of mold or mildew clung to it.
“Please wear your gloves at all times and handle the pages as little as possible. Please keep all manuscript materials inside the box as you examine them. If you need further assistance in examining the document, please…”
Listening absently to the rote instructions the girl offered, his mind had already moved ahead to his task for the evening. He’d copied the first third of the small volume over the summer. He estimated careful transcription of the manuscript would take another four to five months at the rate he was working. Fortunately, time was not an issue for him on this project.
He settled down to take advantage of the two hours he had left to work on the transcription. He hoped to finish the second of the six sections by the end of the week so he could have Caspar fax it to Nima with his notes.
“Dr. Vecchio?”
“Hmm?” He bit his lip, lost in his own thoughts.
“Did you have any questions?”
He flashed her a smile before turning his face back to his work.
“No, I’m fine. Thank you, Beatrice,” he said, his concentration already shifted to the manuscript in front of him. He heard the young woman quietly return to her seat behind the computer.
They worked for the next two hours, both occupied in their own projects. Every now and then, she would glance at him, but he barely noticed, engrossed in his careful transcription. The soughing of the air-conditioner provided background noise to the turning paper, the scratching of his pencil, and the quiet click of the young woman’s keyboard as she typed.
Shortly before nine o’clock, she closed her books and walked to his table. He looked up at her, dazed from concentration. He saw her take note of his precise transcription of the characters. They were a nearly exact copy of the original, down to the thickness of the brush strokes he recreated with the tip of his pencil, over and over again.
“Dr. Vecchio, I have to ask for the manuscript now. The reading room is closing in fifteen minutes.”
He blinked. “Oh…yes, if I could finish this last character set?”
“Of course.” She waited for him, and Giovanni smiled politely as he closed the manuscript, repacked it, and put the lid on the box.
The girl took the book back to the locked stacks to put it away in the dim room where it was housed. As she locked up the stacks room, she turned back to see Giovanni putting his pencils and notes away in his leather messenger bag.
“Well—”
“Why don’t you like the name Beatrice?” he asked, looking down as he fastened the brass buckle of his bag.
“Excuse me?”
He looked up at her, dark hair falling into his eyes again.
“It’s a lovely name. Why do you prefer to be called by your initial?”
“It’s…old. My name—it sounds like an old woman to me.”
He smiled enigmatically. “Yet, you work around old things all the time.”
“I guess I do.”
He leaned his hip against the sturdy wooden table.
“She was Dante’s muse, you know.”
“Of course I know. That’s why I have the stupid name to begin with. My dad was a Dante scholar.” Beatrice looked down to straighten her own papers on the desk. “Kind of a fanatic, really.”
He cocked his head and studied her. “Oh? Does he teach here?”
She paused and shook her head. “No, he died ten years ago. In Italy.”
His eyes darted back to the table, and he pulled the strap of his bag over his head as some faint memory tickled the back of his mind.
“I’m sorry. It’s none of my business. Forgive my curiosity.”
She frowned. “I’m not going to start weeping or anything, if you’re worried about that. It was a long time ago.”
“Nevertheless, I apologize. Good evening, Beatrice.” He exited the room, taking care to make as little noise as possible as he slipped down the dark hallway.
He entered the musty stairwell, taking a deep breath of the humid air to gauge who else was present. Satisfied he was alone, he rapidly descended to the first floor and made his way through the still crowded student-study area. As he approa
ched the glass entrance, he caught a glimpse of Beatrice in the dark reflection as she stood near the elevator in the lobby, her mouth gaping as she stared at him. Not turning for even a moment, he pushed his way into the dark night and strolled toward the parking lot adjacent to the library.
When he reached it, he saw the slight flare of the cigarette as Caspar leaned against the black Mercedes sedan.
“A good evening, Gio?”
Giovanni frowned at his old friend, flicking the cigarette out of Caspar’s mouth as he approached the door. He stood in front of the man, looking down on him as he spoke.
“I don’t like the cigarettes. I thought you had given them up.”
Caspar looked up with a mischievous grin. “If I’m only living for eighty years or so, I’m going to enjoy them.”
Giovanni opened his mouth as if to say something but then shook his head and slid into the dark interior of the late-model sedan. Reaching into his messenger bag, he slid on a pair of leather gloves and crossed his arms while his friend got behind the wheel.
“Any requests?” Caspar fiddled with the stereo as Giovanni’s eyes scanned the dark parking lot.
“Are the Bach fugues still in the changer?”
“Indeed they are.”
Caspar switched the CD player on. In a few moments, the sedan was filled with the alternately lively and melancholy notes of the piano. Giovanni sat motionless, listening with pleasure to the modern recording of one of his favorite pieces of music.
“Mrs. Martin was not in the library this evening,” Giovanni said, his voice low and bearing more than its usual light accent.
“Oh? Everything all right?”
He shrugged. “Look into it tomorrow. Call and find out why she’s changed her hours. If it is simply a family issue, then it is no concern of ours.”
“Of course.”
The car was silent as it turned toward Buffalo Bayou.
“Inform me if it is anything other than that.”
“I’ll take care of it.”
A few moments later, they pulled up to the gate, and the wrought iron swung aside at their approach. Giovanni pulled out his pen and used it to push down the button for the automatic window, enjoying the smooth rush of air into the vehicle as it made its way toward the house. The grounds were suffused with the scent of clematis and roses that night, and the air smelled strongly of cut grass.
“The gardeners came early,” he noted.
Caspar nodded. “They did. We’re supposed to get rain tonight.”
“There is a new employee at the desk.”
“Is that so?” Caspar stopped the car near the rear courtyard, shifting the car into park so his employer could exit the vehicle before he put it in the garage behind the house.
“A girl. A student. Beatrice De Novo. Check on her, as well.”
“Of course. Anything in particular you want to know?”
He opened the door, reaching down for his leather bag before he stepped out. “There’s something about the father. He was killed ten years ago in Italy. Let me know if anything jumps out at you.”
“I’ll take care of it.”
Giovanni climbed out of the car, resting his hand lightly on the door frame. Leaning down, he spoke again to his friend.
“I’m swimming for a bit, and then I’ll be in the music room for the rest of the night. I won’t need anything. Good night.”
And with that, he stood up, nudged the car door closed, made his way across the courtyard with the bubbling fountain, and strode into the dark house.
Caspar drove the car back to the garage, parked it, and sat in the driver’s seat, petting the steering wheel lightly.
“He’s getting better, darling. Only one little short on the door panel this time. Not that he noticed, of course.”
Chuckling, he exited the vehicle, locked the garage, and made his way into the house, flipping on all the lights in the kitchen. He thumbed through the mail again, separating the household bills from the extensive correspondence of his employer, before he shut all but one of the lights off again and made his way to the library on the second floor.
Pouring himself a brandy, Caspar settled down with the first edition of A Study in Scarlet that Giovanni had given him for his sixtieth birthday. Forgoing a fire, he opened the window facing the front garden and enjoyed the closeness of the night air, which smelled of the grass clippings the gardeners had raked that afternoon.
An hour or so later, he paused when he heard the door to the music room close as Giovanni shut himself in. Caspar wondered which instrument would catch his attention, praying it wasn’t one of the louder brasses. He breathed out a sigh when he heard the first notes of the piano struck. From Giovanni’s thoughtful mood earlier in the evening, he expected to hear Bach, so he was surprised to hear the strange Satie melody drift up from the first floor.
“There’s something about the father. He was killed ten years ago in Italy.”
Caspar frowned as he remembered the familiar light he’d seen in Giovanni’s eyes. He hadn’t seen that light for almost five years. Part of him had hoped to never see it again.
“What are you up to, Gio?” he muttered as he stared out the open window.
The gentle dissonance of the piano was unexpectedly disturbing to the man as he sat in his favorite chair. A breeze came through the window, carrying the earthy smell of coming rain to his nose. Caspar stood, walked to the window, and shut it just before fat drops began to fall.
Chapter Two
Houston, Texas
September 2003
“Grandma! I’m going to be late for class.”
“One more shot, Mariposa, just let me…there. All done. The light was exactly right on that one.”
Isadora Alvarez De Novo set down the camera and smiled. Beatrice stood up from the small table near the windows and plucked her bag from the floor.
“Are you painting this afternoon?” she asked as she bent to kiss her grandmother’s wrinkled cheek.
“Yes, yes. I’ll be in the studio all day. Will you be home for dinner?”
“Nope. Wednesday, remember? Night hours.”
“Oh, of course, handsome professor day!”
She snorted. “He’s not a professor, Grandma. He just has a doctorate and does research at the library. I’m not sure what he is, to be honest.”
“Besides tall, dark, and handsome?”
Beatrice rolled her eyes. “You mean fastidious, formal, and silent?”
“Oh, you say that, but he’s probably just shy. Maybe it’s because he’s European.”
Beatrice shook her head before she filled her travel mug from the small coffee press her grandmother had prepared for her. “I don’t know. He is mysterious, that’s for sure.”
“He never talks to you?”
The young woman shrugged. “Sure, a little. He’s always polite. I’ve tried making conversation, but he’s very…focused. He always looks absorbed in his work. But, I could swear I’ve felt him watching me more than once.”
Her grandmother smiled. “You’re a beautiful girl, Beatrice. He would have to be blind not to notice.”
Beatrice chuckled. “I really don’t think it’s like that. No, it’s not like he’s checking me out, more like he’s…observing.”
The old woman’s eyes widened. “Could he be gay? Oh, what a disappointment. Though, maybe I could introduce him to Marta’s boy then—”
“Grandma!” she laughed. “I have no idea. It’s none of my business. I should be embarrassed gossiping about patrons like this. And I really have to go.”
“Fine, but you need to find some nice boy to have fun with. The last one was so boring.”
Beatrice walked out the door. “I’ll see what I can do,” she called out. “Bye!”
She sped out the door and down the steps of the small house near Rice University where she had grown up with her grandparents. Passing the oak tree that shaded the driveway, her eyes caught the dark, twisted grooves cut into the trunk close t
o forty years before.
S.D.
Stephen De Novo. She climbed into her small car. Despite what she had claimed to the curious Dr. Vecchio, the hollow pang of his loss still marked her life. Despite his busy schedule, she and her father had been very close. With the passing of her grandfather, Beatrice and Isadora were all that was left of the tight-knit De Novo family.
She pulled into the university parking lot and grabbed the first spot she found, running to her first class as soon as her feet hit the ground.
In fact, Beatrice felt like she ran all day, and by the time she got to the library at four o’clock, she was ready to collapse. She took the cantankerous elevator up to the fifth floor and put her books in the small office she shared with her supervisor.
“B?” she heard Charlotte call from the copy and photography room.
“Yeah, Char, I’m here. I’m sorry I’m late, it’s seems like—”
“Oh, don’t worry about it,” Charlotte Martin said as she walked toward the reference desk. The young woman switched on the computer at the desk and logged into the library’s system. “It’s Wednesday today,” Charlotte said with a grin.
“Yes, it is.”
“Wednesday means night hours for you.”
“No!” Beatrice gasped. “I’d totally forgotten about that.”
“Liar.” Charlotte paused for effect. “So, have you had any luck with the mysterious Dr. Vecchio?”
“What? Why is everyone asking about him today? Did you and my grandma have a meeting?”
Charlotte laughed. “No! I’m just curious. You’ve seen him for what—three weeks now? I’m curious what you think. He’s quite the mystery around the library, you know.”
“Librarians have vivid imaginations and far too much time on their hands. I think he’s just a historian or something.”
“A really hot, Italian historian with a cute—but not indecipherable—accent,” Charlotte said as she wiggled her eyebrows. “And you’re a gorgeous, single almost-librarian. I see possibilities.”
A Hidden Fire Page 2