The Bookseller's Secret

by Michelle Gable

  “Just a beer?” Katie says as the waitress walks off.

  “It’s early.” Simon glances at his watch. “I’ll eat after I catch up on work tonight. Yes, Katie, work. Can’t have the parents thinking I slack off this close to the holidays.”

  “Very funny,” Katie says, and looks away.

  Somebody scores a goal on television, and they both feign interest. Simon smiles at Katie, and Katie smiles at Simon, and she’s now more worried about holding a conversation than ending up dead. Katie makes a comment like, “That was a nice shot,” and is about to excuse herself to the ladies’ when, thank God, the waitress returns.

  “Here you go,” the woman says. As she sets down their drinks, her gaze jumps to the left and to the right. A funny expression wiggles across her face, as though she’s trying to puzzle out what’s happening between this strange short-tall pair. Katie gives her a look that says, I know what you mean.

  “Well,” Katie says, after the waitress swishes off. She hoists her drink. “To, uh... Nancy Mitford?”

  “To her missing manuscript.”

  Katie touches her glass to his.

  As she takes a sip, Katie feels a rush of happiness, or sentimentality, or something else she cannot name. She studies her beer, lifting it up to the light. “This is good,” she says. “Really, really good.”

  “You are very upbeat,” Simon notes.

  Katie wipes a drop of foam from her lips. “I’m surprised by how much I like this. I didn’t anticipate needing to choke it down or anything, but I’m not really a beer person.”

  “Interesting that you would order one.”

  “This is giving me...warm feelings?” Katie says as something begins to form in her head. “Beyond the alcohol.” Suddenly, the picture locks into place. “My grandmother! That’s what—who—I’m remembering. This beer reminds me of going to NFL games together. She was big into tailgating. Whooping it up. Talking all kinds of shit.”

  “Talking shit. Really.”

  “Loads of it,” Katie says. “Have you ever noticed that older people can get away with anything? During one game, a Giants fan called security on us, and the only reason we didn’t get bounced was because I said she’s hard of hearing, and it was all a big misunderstanding. Nanny Carol was so offended, she made me Metro home and threatened to cut me out of her will. We’ll see if she follows through on that.”

  As she yammers on, Simon ogles Katie with a slightly opened mouth.

  “American football,” she says, to help him out.

  “Yeah. I got that. Has anyone told you that you speak very rapidly?”

  “Only all the time.”

  “I must know which team you root for,” he says. “Not the New York Football Giants, apparently. The Patriots?”

  “Wow. Okay.” Katie makes a sound like she’s dislodging a peanut from the back of her throat. “That’s pretty rude to say to someone you just met.”

  “The Cowboys?”

  “Now you’re just fucking with me.”

  Simon mulls this over for several seconds, tapping his foot. “The Eagles?”

  “Oh my God!” Katie cries. “The Eagles? Jesus! If you wanted to call me a criminal, you should’ve just said the Raiders and cut to the chase.”

  Simon laughs. “This is very fun, but I’m out of teams. I reckon your favorite is whichever is in a rivalry with the Eagles?”

  “Can it really be called a rivalry when one team has three Super Bowl trophies and the other only has one?” Katie says. “To be clear, it’s my grandmother’s favorite team. I don’t really care, either way.”

  “Yes, you do seem very neutral about it.”

  “I live in Northern Virginia, outside DC,” Katie says. “Our team is Washington. My grandfather bought season tickets over fifty ago, and Nanny Carol kept them after he died, at first only because she enjoyed Art Monk’s caboose, but then she got into the actual football aspect of it. A little too into it, some might argue. I was the only one willing to go with her. It became our thing.”

  “That’s adorable,” Simon says. “I realize we’ve only just met, but I’d rather like to know your grandmother.”

  “You say that now, but it really depends on the circumstance. She’s about to get kicked out of our fantasy football league for, and I’m quoting here, ‘being a complete bitch.’” Simon’s mouth drops, and Katie waves a hand. “It’s a long story,” she says. “And they’re not totally wrong, but she’s in her nineties, for Christ’s sake. Cut the woman a break! Anyway, we had lots of good fun over the years, when I wasn’t away at school, or living in New York. She gave up the tickets a few years back.” Katie sighs. “After you reach a certain age, doctors don’t want you day drinking, or climbing stairs, or spending five hours in direct sun.”

  As the server swings by with the fish-and-chips, Katie orders a second beer. The woman lifts her forehead as if to say, “Bad idea, but okay.”

  “Would you like a fry?” Katie says, and pushes her plate across the table. “Sorry, a chip?”

  “No, thanks,” Simon says. “Tell me, Katie, what do you do for a living? I don’t think you’ve mentioned.”

  “Oh, not much.” Katie bites into a chip and glances away. There is zero chance she’s telling this Simon character about her flailing authorial aspirations.

  “Not much?” he says, one brow arched. “Are you a woman of leisure? Is that why you had so many questions about personal concierge services?”

  “Ha. No. Not even close. I work in the not-for-profit sector,” Katie says. “Grant writing, on a contract basis. Eventually, I’d like to make my way into a leadership role.”

  The words tumble out, and only after she’s finished does Katie cringe at her tall tale. She did work with not-for-profits at one time—though not in the past two years—and did envision titles like “Senior Vice President, Climate Change,” when she worked at the World Wildlife Fund. But this was years before her first book came out, and Katie’s done nothing since, other than to quit a job she liked very much.

  “Admirable,” Simon says, and Katie thinks she might throw up. “What clients are you working with now?”

  “I’m between gigs. I’ll be looking for something when I get back.”

  This much, at least, is true.

  “Back in the shop, when you said your life was ‘up and down,’” Simon says, “is this what you meant?”

  “Oh. That. Yep!” Katie says, and takes a gulp of beer.

  “Well, Katie Cabot,” Simon says, lifting his glass again, “cheers to moving forward, and more ups than downs.”

  * * *

  After ordering another beer, Simon reaches into the knapsack dangling from his chair. He pulls out a book marked with flags and plonks it onto the table.

  Love from Nancy

  THE LETTERS OF NANCY MITFORD

  Edited by Charlotte Mosley

  “That’s so funny,” Katie says. “I looked for the ebook version earlier, but it doesn’t exist. I even emailed my local indie to see if they can order the paperback. All this was before I ran into you, so don’t get excited.”

  “But it’s so hard to contain myself,” Simon says as he opens the book. “Why were you nosing around about Nancy Mitford?”

  “Remember, she was the subject of my senior thesis,” Katie says. “I’ve admired, idolized her for decades. Plus, you know, it’s one of those things that falls into the category of general hobbies and interests.”

  Simon smirks. “I deserved that,” he says. He stops on a page and looks up. “It’s interesting you idolize Nancy Mitford. She’s a phenomenal writer, but wasn’t she...kind of mean?”

  “Mean!?” Katie squawks. “That’s outrageous! It’s called a sharp and biting wit. I thought Brits were known for a dry sense of humor.”

  “I’m not referring to her wit,” Simon says. “People were act
ively afraid of the woman. Her sisters complained that being beastly was her favorite sport!”

  Katie flicks her hand. “Such a sisterly thing to say.”

  Simon chuckles. “What drew you to Nancy Mitford in the first place?” he says and, without asking, snakes one of her fries.

  Katie stares, and Simon says nothing about the fry, and she is forced to consider whether she’s seeing things. As he takes a bite, she understands she’s not.

  “Uh, um, well, her voice,” Katie says, still tripping over her shock. “In my opinion, she’s never gotten enough credit for her humor. I also like her spirit, the way she bucked convention.”

  “Is it bucking convention, though, to leave one’s country, one’s family, to follow a lover to Paris?”

  “Was it about the lover?” Katie says. “Or Nancy having the money, and therefore the freedom, to do what she wanted? She’d been fantasizing about Paris forever. Thanks to the war ending, and the success of The Pursuit of Love, she finally had her chance.”

  It’s every author’s dream to write a book that’d change everything—like winning the lottery, but with more work and crying involved. Katie wonders where she’d be, and what she’d do, with Pursuit-level success.

  “Freedom, huh? I never really thought about it that way,” Simon says, though he remains visibly skeptical. “I have a confession.” He slaps a hand on the open page. “This ‘personal project’ is more personal than I’d let on.”

  “I knew it!” Katie sings.

  “You’re quite the sleuth.” Simon playfully rolls his eyes. “Are you familiar with the work Nancy Mitford did with refugees?”

  Katie thinks for a moment and reaches for the book. Before the war, Nancy accompanied her husband to France, where they helped with the hundreds of thousands who’d fled the Spanish Civil War. Katie flips back a few pages from where Simon had been and finds a letter Nancy wrote to her mom in May of 1939:

  If you could have a look, as I have, at some of the less agreeable results of fascism in a country I think you would be less anxious for the swastika to become a flag on which the sun never sets.

  “She went to Perpignan, right?” Katie asks, catching the location at the top of the page. “With Prod?”

  “Yes, but the refugees I’m talking about came later, during the Blitz. Turn to October 1940.”

  Katie ticks forward, pausing on a portrait of Nancy and her sister Diana. Most of the Mitford girls were known for their blondeness, their beauty, their piercing “Redesdale blues,” a color so remarkable servants’ uniforms were dyed to match. Nancy, on the other hand, stood apart with her dark hair and unusual green eyes. Though Diana was deemed the prettiest sister, Katie finds Nancy more striking.

  Simon directs Katie to a letter written to Violet Hammersley, a family friend. In a paragraph three-quarters of the way down, Nancy declares her refugees are “being awfully good,” and “no kind of person could possibly in any way be nicer.” A footnote explains Nancy had temporarily relocated to her parents’ house in Kensington, which soon became a shelter for Whitechapel evacuees. As the only Mitford in residence, Nancy took charge of “not only the housekeeping for 50 people, but quantities of other things as well.”

  “Another thing Nancy Mitford doesn’t get credit for,” Katie says, after she finishes reading. “Being a humanitarian.”

  “Humanitarian might be a stretch,” Simon says, and Katie gets the sense he’s not the fan he’s claimed to be. “Any assistance she gave refugees was happenstance, the by-product of something else. The first time, in Perpignan, she followed Prod. This time, the refugees were more or less assigned to her. They had billeting officers who oversaw these things.”

  Simon turns to another letter, this one dated Boxing Day 1940. One of Nancy’s refugees, aged sixteen, is “in the family way,” and Nancy suggested “a tremendous walk a hot bath & a great dose.” Nancy teases that she might have to “wield a knitting needle & go down to fame as Mrs. Rodd the abortionist.”

  Katie lets out a gasp. “Surely she was joking...”

  “Most likely,” Simon says. He closes the book. “Lucky for me, given that sixteen-year-old was my grandmother. The baby was my mum.”

  “Your mom?” Katie’s heart skips a step. “Are you sure?”

  Simon nods. “My grandmother—her name was Lea Toporek—was evacuated to Rutland Gate after her building was bombed during a raid,” he explains. “Eventually, she was transferred to the home of one of Nancy’s friends in Buckinghamshire. That’s where my mum was born.”

  “Your poor grandmother, to be pregnant and alone like that.” Brow furrowed, Katie performs a quick calculation. “So, if your mom was born in early 1941, she must be...”

  “Eighty years old, yes.”

  “How old are you?” Katie asks, and Simon spits out a laugh. “I mean, to have a mom who’s...”

  “Almost forty,” he says. “And she was forty when I was born. She never expected or even wanted children, but I came along and properly botched her plans.”

  “I’ll admit, this is a very cool connection.” If it’s true, she does not add. Sixteen-year-olds displaced during the Blitz must’ve numbered in the thousands. “Where does the manuscript fit in?”

  Katie leans back and takes another swig of beer, deciding that she rather likes this pint-drinking business. Maybe it will be her “thing” when she goes out, instead of mid-priced Cabernet by the glass.

  “The book is a memoir of her war years,” Simon says. “In particular, Nancy’s work with the refugees and at the shop. From what I’ve gleaned, my grandmother features prominently.”

  Katie scrutinizes his face for signs of subterfuge, or mental confusion. Is she letting Simon’s appearance and general affability cloud her judgment? A serious memoir about evacuees does not seem very Nancy-like. This is, after all, a person who wrote a lighthearted romp about the budding Fascist movement.

  “A war memoir,” Katie says. “Huh. And you know this...how?”

  “Nancy wrote to Lea several times between 1942 and 1945,” he says. “Mostly about the book. She even sent along the odd page or two, which my grandmother kept, and my mum now has.”

  “Really?” Katie says, swinging from dubious back to intrigued. “Your family has personal correspondence from Nancy Mitford?”

  “That we do,” Simon says, and he beams.

  “Maybe I will flirt with you after all.” As soon as she says it, Katie looks away. She hasn’t known him long enough to joke like that. “So, why did the letters stop?” she asks.

  “I don’t know why, exactly,” Simon says. “But from what I can tell, Nancy finished The Pursuit of Love and received what she considered a healthy advance. The war ended, and she absconded to Paris, leaving most everything behind, including the memoir, and promises made to my grandmother.”

  “Promises made to your grandmother?” Katie says. “What, like money?”

  “Something like that.” Simon pauses and bites his lip. “But there’s more to it. Lea took Nancy’s disappearance personally. My mum...she, I don’t know, carried on the hurt, even though she was only around five years old when Lea died.”

  “That’s awful,” Katie says. “I’m so sorry.”

  “Never knew the woman,” Simon says brusquely, and picks up his phone. “I have a few pictures, of the letters. My mum has told me about them over the years, but I never really believed her. Emma Mutrie is not the world’s most reliable narrator.” Simon scrolls through several photos. After finding the right one, he rotates the screen toward Katie. “Recently, I was helping her move and stumbled across some,” he says. “This is the start of their correspondence, written about two years after they met.”

  Katie takes the phone and expands the image once, and again, to make out the tight scrawl. As she reads, her heart gallops.

  27 July 1942

  Dear Lea,

&nb
sp; By now I hope Lady Worthington has shared the news that I’m writing a book. It’s about me, and you, and how we both ended up at Rutland Gate, during the Battle of London.

  The tone is more serious than I customarily write, but lighthearted country manor farces don’t seem to agree with me...or with the general reading population, it seems! Ha! So far, I have ten pages down. Don’t laugh—this is a lot! The trick is finding the time. I pray you don’t mind being included. Would you let me know, either way?

  With love

  NR

  “I can’t believe you have a letter from Nancy Mitford,” Katie says, and returns the phone. “You’re positive she wrote this?”

  “It’s signed with her initials, and the handwriting matches what I found online.”

  “Incredible,” Katie says. “Of course, this only proves she started a book. Ten pages isn’t a ton, and not completing things is basically part of the writing process. I mean, so I’ve heard. On podcasts.” Katie tosses a fry into her mouth.

  “There’s another one,” Simon says. “From April 1945. Nancy says the book is finished but she won’t seek publication. Unfortunately, that letter seems to have gone missing. I saw it, at some point, but can’t find it now. I don’t really want to pester my mum about it.”

  “I guess that’s decent evidence,” Katie allows. “But—”

  “Need more? All right. I appreciate a healthy skepticism.” Simon winks. “In a recent interview, the Duke confirmed Nancy wrote an autobiography while working at the shop, but chose to publish The Pursuit of Love instead. Where else would the book be, if not in his possession?”

  “It makes sense,” Katie says. “But why would Felix lie, especially if the Duke has spoken about it openly?”

  “That’s the question, isn’t it?” Simon says. “Felix has been cagey.”

  “Felix? But he’s so nice!”

  “Hmm. Maybe,” Simon says. “But he’s been...odd. At first, he was happy to help, but, when I came in person, he clammed up. I’m positive somebody is hiding something. The question is who, and what.”