Before either of us could say anything, I heard a tapping on my car window. Francine stood in the street, not looking her best. Her makeup was blurry and her hair seemed cattywampus. She was dressed in some sort of poncho over a tight skirt with high-heeled boots. I wondered where she thought she was going. Then I wondered how much of the sherry had remained in the bottle last night.
“I must sit there.” She opened my door and pointed at my seat. “Otherwise, I will have a terrible badness in my head from the movement of the car. It would not be pleasant for anyone.”
She stepped back as I climbed out of the car and lifted up the seat to crawl into the back. Even though I wasn’t that big, I felt like I was cramming into the small backseat. It was so tight that I wasn’t sure two people could even fit. Caldwell had stuffed several book bags with various shop names on them in the back, I assumed for us to carry our haul home in.
The sky was overcast and as we left the city, it started to rain, a gentle patter. I found it soothing, but Francine was fussing.
“Zut, my coiffure,” she said, patting at her hair.
I found myself staring at the back of Caldwell’s head, noticing how nicely shaped it was. When I leaned forward to hear their conversation, I would get a whiff of his smell—a hint of smokiness, a delicate scent of the binding of old books, and some gentle sweetness like early violets.
What was happening to me, I wondered. Was I noticing what a fine man Caldwell was because Francine had laid claim to him? Or was it because I had really let go of Dave? Or was it possibly because Andrew had noticed me yesterday and I realized that I deserved to have a nice man in my life?
I leaned back into my small nest of a seat and watched Francine talk. Her hands flew about the car like a flock of sparrows and her voice, while I couldn’t catch all the words, sounded like a squeaky wheel, slightly raspy but not completely unpleasant. I could see why Caldwell liked her. She brought so much energy and life with her even when she wasn’t at her best. I stood no chance against such an elegant, vivacious woman and I tried to feel happy for Caldwell, but it was hard.
TWENTY-NINE
The Right Book
My first glimpse of Hay-on-Wye was over the Wye River, the town covered in a misty rain, and the old ruins of Hay castle standing stout in the gloom, solid and stony. The atmosphere was muted and brooding—it could not have been a more perfect day to poke around in bookstores.
Caldwell parked by a pub called the Old Black Lion, pointed at it, and said we should all meet there for lunch in two hours. I already knew the bookstore I wanted to start at—the Sensible Bookshop. The name alone was intriguing. I was very clear that I did not want to be a tagalong with Francine and Caldwell. Talk about being a third wheel.
I stepped out of the car, didn’t wait for them to make any suggestions about where to go. I had my bearings from a map I had printed out from the Internet and tucked into one of my guidebooks. I waved good-bye and left them.
When I was a block away, I saw that Francine had still only put one foot out of the car and that Caldwell was leaning over, talking to her, and holding her hand as if ready to help her out of the car. I had seen enough. In two hours I could get some serious shopping done.
* * *
With only a half an hour to go until lunch, I was sitting on the floor of the third bookstore I had gone into, this one specializing in older scientific books. I was looking for a book on flowers for Rosie, preferably with nice illustrations of roses. Her birthday was coming up.
I glanced over a couple of rows and a book title caught my eye: A Manual of Technical Plumbing and Sanitary Science. Dave would have loved that. It had been my habit to buy old plumbing books for him and he had quite a library. When I had first met him, he’d had only a few paperback books in his house. But it was like I always said to Rosie: You can make anyone a reader if you match them up with the right book.
But as I sat and pondered that statement, I saw it might also be true with people—that the match had to be right.
I had tried to make Dave into a man I could love. We had both tried to find ways of being together, of connecting with each other, but we had ultimately been very different. He liked to watch sports and drink a good brew; I preferred listening to classical music, sipping a rich merlot, and reading.
I actually saw reading as a shared activity, having grown up with a best friend who would read next to me on her family’s couch while we ate cinnamon toast and drank hot chocolate. My whole family read together in our living room, flopped in various positions on chairs, couches, and floors. I thought everyone read together.
But Dave saw my reading as a defense against him. He hated it when I read in bed. How had I thought I could marry such a man?
A sadness at the time we had both wasted swept over me and I started to cry. Not a fierce sobbing, but, more like the constant rain outside, a gentle, nurturing cry that ended with a few sniffles and a good nose-blowing, leaving me feeling cleansed and oddly hopeful.
I looked around and realized I was right where I wanted to be—sitting on the floor of a cold and grubby bookstore in Wales, looking at the tattered covers of old books while it rained outside. Even though I was alone, I was happy. I was in a world I knew and loved, the world of books.
Turning back to the shelf that held botanical books, I found a turn-of-the-last-century book with delicate line drawings of roses and other flowers. As I paged through it I noticed that some of the roses had been colored in with notations on the side of those pages, a date, a place. A previous owner had recorded her life with roses. I knew I had found the right book for Rosie.
I turned to the listing on foxgloves, Digitalis purpurea; otherwise known as Lion’s Mouth, Fairy Fingers, and then I saw, Deadman’s Bells. Not Balls.
I stifled a gasp as the significance of Howard’s message sank in, then read on: “The leaves have a slight characteristic odor and a strong nauseous bitter taste. Only the second year’s growth of leaves are used medicinally. They yield the well-known drug digitalin. . . . These leaves, however, are very powerful and poisonous and should only be employed by skilled physicians. They are too dangerous for domestic use or self-medication.”
I bent my head over the book and pondered. What did it all mean? What was I to do? Why had Howard written those words in Winnie-the-Pooh? Had he known what was happening to him?
I had a slight flush of sadness as I thought about Howard. Poor man. What could I do for him now?
* * *
“I think I figured something out.”
“I hope you’re talking about Dave,” Rosie said.
“That too. But listen, I found out that foxglove is called Deadman’s Bells.”
“Oh, that is fascinating,” Rosie said, then waited for me to explain.
I was sitting on the floor, leaning against a shelf of books, tucked in the back of a bookstore where I hoped no one could hear me talking on my cell phone. I slowly went through it all: finding Howard, Winnie-the-Pooh, Deadman’s Balls, deadly foxglove, digitalis, and realizing I had misread what Howard had written—his last words, possibly.
I cleared my throat. “Now I just have to figure out what to do next.”
“You sound funny. Have you been crying?”
“Why do you ask?”
“I can hear it in your voice.”
“Just a trickle. Nothing serious. A feeling sorry for Howard and, I guess, myself kind of cry. What am I going to do?”
“Tell someone.”
“Oh, God, Rosie, but I don’t trust anyone. They all have reason to want Howard dead. Except Francine, and I don’t have a good relationship with her.”
“Even Caldwell?”
“Unfortunately yes. Howard stole his girlfriend away from him years ago.”
“That’s a long time.”
“Sometimes feelings can last a long time.”
“I guess you’re right,” she said, then fell quiet.
“What?” I asked.
“Well, I have
the opposite problem. I’m trying to figure out how not to bolt from Richard.” She took a deep breath, then burst out with, “I really like this guy and that scares me and when I get scared I don’t like to stick around and so I find some reason to not like him and I don’t want to do that.”
“At least you don’t think he might have killed someone.”
“So you like like Caldwell.”
“Um . . . maybe.”
“Well, then you better clear his name. Find out who killed Howard, if you really think that’s what happened. And deal with that French femme.”
“And you hang in with Richard.”
“Deal.”
* * *
When I walked into the pub where we had planned on meeting, only Francine was waiting there. She waved me over.
“I could not stand it,” she said. An empty plate sat in front of her with a half-finished cup of coffee. “I do not like these shops filled with books I do not want to read. Besides, being dark and dirty, they are very smelly, like unwashed clothes. I was hungry and so I came here and ate some sort of fried fishes.”
I sat down, tucking my bag of books under the table. I thought of arguing with her about the smell in the bookstores—which I found much more like a favorite old sweater—but maybe we were describing the same fragrance.
“I understand,” I said though I didn’t at all. “Where is Caldwell? Have you seen him?”
“I left him back there in the bowels of a store. He was being devoured by the books. That man,” she said, shaking her head. “He doesn’t really seem to live in the real world.”
I nodded, but I was getting a little angry with her. Here she was with the nicest man in the world and she was complaining about him.
“I’m going back to London,” she announced.
“How?”
“There is a bus leaving. The man at the bar told me. Please tell Caldwell that I have departed.” Francine stood up and gathered her belongings.
She couldn’t desert Caldwell like that, without saying anything. My voice rose in spite of myself. I came close to screaming at her in a very loud whisper. “Aren’t you going to wait and tell him yourself? How can you treat him like that, when he cares about you? Deserting him without telling him why.”
She stared at me. “What are you talking about?”
“I think it’s horrible of you to leave him here. All alone. How do you think he will feel?”
“But you will be here. He’s not alone. He will feel fine.”
I could see that she was choosing not to understand me. “Yes, but it’s not the same. After all, you two are like a couple. He’s counting on you.”
She shook her head. “We’re not a couple.”
“You’re not?”
“But of course not. At one time I thought maybe it could be, but then I saw we are not meant for each other. It would be very bad if we tried to be together. I have too much of the energy and he is too calm. We pull in very different directions.”
“Oh,” I said and sat down. “Being pulled in different directions. I know what you mean.”
“Caldwell is very good to me. We have helped each other out from time to time, but that is all.”
“Before you leave can I ask you a question?”
“Certainly,” she said.
“Do you think Caldwell could kill someone?”
“But of course!”
“You do?” I wondered what she knew.
“Silly question.” She shook her head. “Everyone could kill someone. It’s just the way we’re made.”
“Would he have killed Howard Worth?”
“Certainly not. Why would he kill that old man? Not any reason.”
Suddenly, I believed her, and relief flowed through me like a strong river. How could I ever have thought Caldwell capable of such a thing?
Francine went on. “He liked Howard. In the end he was even glad Sally went away, although it took a while. But now I must go.”
“I’m sorry that you didn’t enjoy yourself,” I said and found I really meant it.
She shrugged. “No, it’s nothing. This town is for you and him. Not for me. That much is very clear. Do you see it?”
I wasn’t sure what she was talking about, but took a guess. “Yes, we both like books.”
“It is not so much about the books.” She pulled on her coat. “I see more. You have a good mind. Employ it.”
I watched her walk out of the pub, swaying on her high heels, pulling her poncho up around her neck. Then she was gone.
I sat still and pondered her words. What had she seen? What was she talking about?
Caldwell walked in a few minutes later, his cheeks rosy and his smile large. He was carrying a very full bag of books. “You must see what I’ve found.”
“I have a few books to show you too.”
“Isn’t this brilliant?” he asked, sitting down next to me.
I was very happy to see him. “Yes, totally and completely brilliant. Way better than I had imagined.”
“I’m starving. Work up quite an appetite shopping. I’d like something warm inside me.”
“Me too.” I noticed he hadn’t asked about Francine. “Oh, Francine decided to catch a bus back to London.”
He nodded. “I’m not surprised. I’m not sure why she insisted on coming in the first place. She wouldn’t listen to me. But sometimes she has to find out for herself. She’s usually a pretty good sport. Did she seem upset?”
“Not particularly. A little cranky.”
“Yes, that sounds like Francine. She can turn into a monster if she doesn’t get her way.” He frowned, then gave me a concerned look. “How about you? Are you ready to leave?”
“Not by a long shot. I could happily spend a week here with you, looking for the right book.”
“Yes, I know what you mean,” he said, looking at me. “That would be heaven.”
THIRTY
Secrets Revealed
We grabbed something to eat and then the rest of that long, luxurious afternoon, Caldwell and I were never more than a bookshelf apart.
He would show me a book, I would nod. I would show him a book, he would shake his head or gleefully take it out of my hands to give it a going-over. Occasionally we would have a short discussion over the pros and cons of a certain book: its age, its condition, its edition. There was never a sense of being bothersome, and always the feeling the other person was available.
I had forgotten how completely comfortable one could be with another person, especially with a man. I wasn’t sure I had ever experienced this level of camaraderie before. In short, Caldwell and I were kindred souls.
I felt a small glow of hope that all could be well in the world. But I also had the tugging sense, as if I was being pulled into a dark current, of what I hadn’t told Caldwell: that I was really a librarian, that Dave had broken up with me, that I had thought of killing him. And then, worst of all, that I had thought it possible he had killed Howard Worth.
If we were to have any kind of real relationship, I had to tell him these facts about myself.
Finally the shop owner in the Book Nook started to make noises that he was closing.
“They shut early here,” Caldwell whispered. “Five-thirty. Must get tea on the table.”
“I can’t believe it but I’m starving again.”
“Well, we’ve been on our feet all day long. This book hunting is hard work. I’d say we deserve a good meal. What do you fancy?”
“I could eat a horse,” I said.
“Since this isn’t France, I don’t think that will be available. How about fish? Might that do?”
“Yes, please.”
“I know the very place. It’s a little early, but I’m sure they’re open.”
We walked to the car, laden with our bags, and stashed our books in the backseat. It was a good thing that Francine had decided to take the bus back to London as I wasn’t sure there would have been room for her. There was hardly room for a toy pood
le.
We walked over to the Three Tuns, a pub and restaurant dating back to the sixteenth century, Caldwell told me. The whitewashed walls and the dark beams had the look of old England about them.
When we were asked where we would like to sit, I spied the Inglenook chimney and saw that there were seats available by it.
“Oh, let’s sit by the fire,” I suggested. I was feeling not only hungry, but cold and tired. Caldwell gave me the seat closest to the fire. I could feel the heat on my back like a massaging hand.
I leaned back with a sigh. “Thank you.”
“For what?” he asked.
“For this,” I waved my arm at the room. “For this whole day. For giving me this seat,” I started, then continued, “For taking me to Hay-on-Wye, for being the perfect host, for helping me find some books . . .”
“Whoa,” he said. “Go no further. This was no obligation on my part. Quite the opposite. This was all a scheme to get you alone and defenseless in the wilds of Wales, and ask you all the questions about being a writer that I’ve been wanting to ask during the whole of your stay.”
“What?” I said, getting a little worried. I had much to answer for. I picked up the menu and held it in front of my face. “What do you think you’re going to have?” I asked. “Oh, look, they have black pudding.”
“It’s quite nice, that,” Caldwell said. “But do you mean you’re not going to try the steamed beef and oxtail pudding? Where is your sense of adventure? That might rival your pork pie of the other day.”
“Stodgy, you think?”
“I’m sure of it. But made for a day like today.”
“I think I will have the fish.”
“Sounds good.”
The waitress came and took our orders. I ordered the sole and Caldwell followed suit. I asked Caldwell to select a beer for me, trusting his judgment, but to make it just a half-pint.
When the waitress came back with our beers, we clinked them together, said, “Cheers,” and then each of us took a healthy swallow. Without waiting for a breath, I dove in, “I have to tell you about me being a writer.”
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