Chapter 13
That stopped her, late or not. “I don’t understand.”
Yannis laughed. “I had a bit of a struggle myself.”
“But your father, he looked so frail. I was worried. . . .”
“I was, too. He didn’t say a word while we picked up the worst of the mess. Even Mr. Henderson was worried. My father insisted
on helping, but he looked so tired, I locked up and took him home. I felt like I must be such a disappointment to him.”
Celia touched his arm. “I’m sure he doesn’t believe that.”
“I’ll say. He was so quiet on the way home. I kept asking him if he could make the walk, he didn’t say a word until we were
on the sidewalk outside our apartment, then he pulled the door open, told me to stop treating him like a senile old man. That
he was fine, just disgusted, not only with the thugs but with himself. Then he practically ran up the stairs. By the time
I caught up, he had awakened my mother, and had pulled her into the parlor in her night robe and braid.
“Oh God, Celia, I was afraid he intended to pack and leave that night.” Yannis chuckled.
Celia began to worry about his state of mind.
“What he said was that they had lived in fear back home, and he’d be damned—at which my mother punched him in the arm—if they would live in fear in America.”
“See, he didn’t blame you.”
“Only for begging his forgiveness, at which point he really let me have it. Said he had no intention of leaving, they liked
it here, but he wasn’t going to sit by and let what’s happening in Europe happen here. He knew about all of it—you, the Farmers,
Ivan, the others who use the press for political purposes.” He shook his head. “He even knew about my novel.”
Of all the things that Yannis had just thrown at her, the last surprised her the most.
“You’re really writing a novel?”
“Yeah, really. But don’t ask me what it’s about.”
She grinned. “All right, but I’ll find out.”
“No, you won’t. Do you have anything more that needs printing?”
“Not yet. I took what I had down to the settlement house today. I told them I lost my printer.”
“Well, you didn’t. I’ll finish printing the job that was cut short Wednesday. Can you pick them up tonight?”
She nodded. “But it will have to be quick. My knitting group doesn’t meet until tomorrow.”
He grinned at this and they both stood there grinning until Celia remembered she was late.
“Gotta go. See you tonight.” And, feeling as if her world had suddenly righted itself, she ran the last few feet to the Arcadia.
Daphne was just ringing out a gentleman when Celia entered the shop. The customer lifted a large wrapped tome under his arm, and Celia paused to hold the door open for him. Celia closed the door, then turned to find Daphne standing in her way.
“I know I’m late. But Yannis came out to tell me that everything was fine at his shop. I was sure you and Olivia would not
want me to be rude.”
Daphne didn’t say anything, but Celia knew exactly what she was thinking. She had heard it often enough. “How was shopping?”
“Fine, I saw the most ravishing blue—” Daphne must have remembered that she was mad at Celia and cut off confiding what the
ravishing blue thing was. Carefully back to nursing her slighted feelings, she added, “I had lunch with Ronnie Parsons.”
“Your friend from school? How is she?”
“She mainly complained about standing on her feet all day. But it looked pretty cushy to me. So where did you go today?”
The change of subject caught Celia by surprise. And with chagrin, she realized she hadn’t bothered to make up an answer. “Oh,
here and there.”
“Where?”
“Let’s see . . .” Celia said, thinking furiously.
“Let me help. I saw you go into the subway.”
Celia busied herself with a stack of nearby books. “Just running some errands.” A glance at Daphne told her she didn’t believe
her. “I ran into some friends.”
“What friends? I didn’t know you had friends.”
“Everybody has friends. I just don’t see mine very often.”
“What did you and your friends do?”
Celia hesitated. This was certainly beginning to sound like an interrogation. “Talked, watched their kids play, and I came home.” Well, that was sort of the truth. “Where’s Olivia? How did the morning go for her?”
“Fine, I guess,” said Daphne. “She had an appointment earlier.”
“With Mr. Starling?”
“I wish. It was some short bald guy from out of town.” Daphne sighed. “He was leaving when you came in.”
The entrance door opened and several customers entered, putting an end to their conversation. Daphne went to attend to them.
And Celia slunk gratefully away, but feeling disappointed she’d once again missed a chance to enjoy being a sister. Sisters
were supposed to confide in each other, share their dreams, squeal together over the ravishing blue whatever it was.
But not the Applebaum sisters. Sometimes it seemed the only thing that connected them was the bookshop. As to confidences,
Celia’s whole life was a series of prevarications and sneakiness.
Yannis would do anything for his family. But if Celia had to choose between family and her work for Margaret or someone like
her, she knew which one she would choose. And what kind of person did that make her?
It was close to four o’clock, when the elevator rattled to the first floor and Olivia stepped out, dressed not in her usual
business suit, but a finely tailored day dress that she kept for special occasions. She was carrying their father’s old leather
briefcase.
“I’ll be gone for the rest of the day,” she said without preamble. “You may have to close up the shop and make dinner on your
own.”
“Where are you going?” Celia blurted. The sight of that briefcase had suddenly set off all sorts of memories and worries.
Olivia leaving each morning going to “her work” at the Met.
Arguments with their father when she came home later than “any decent girl” would.
Accusations doubting her loyalty to her family.
Calling her ungrateful. It all came rushing back.
And now Olivia was hurrying off again. With the briefcase.
Hoping against hope the manuscript fragments were not inside but were still locked in the safe upstairs, knowing her sister would never risk moving them, didn’t ease Celia’s anxiety in the least.
At first, she didn’t think Olivia would answer; she wasn’t in the habit of advising her younger sisters on anything. But she
said, “There’s a big auction next Thursday. I want to get some advance knowledge of what will be included.”
Somehow the thought of an auction only increased Celia’s fears.
She followed Olivia to the door, then stood at the window and craned her neck to see her sister hurrying up the avenue. As
she passed by, a man who had been looking in the shop window turned and strode quickly away in the same direction. He looked
vaguely familiar, but not as familiar as the man who cut across the avenue and was striding after him.
Celia hurried out to the sidewalk to get a better view. She could just see the top of Olivia’s head, but she clearly saw the
stranger who was keeping an even distance behind her. And keeping an even distance behind him was Joshua Starling.
Olivia hurried to the corner of Fourth and Fourteenth Street to the taxi stand.
She didn’t dare take the subway with what she was carrying.
She didn’t have an appointment, as she’d hinted to the girls.
She would never get in the door if she attempted to make one.
Not with the way she had left things. No.
Surprise was the only way to deal with this, and damn the consequences.
She climbed in the first cab and gave the driver her destination before she could question the wisdom of what she was doing or her motivation.
And before she was ready, she was being let off at the steps of Metropolitan Museum of Art.
Even then she considered telling the cabbie to take her back to Union Square. But she’d come this far. She couldn’t lose her
nerve now.
It took every fiber of her determination to climb those steps; the past, the heartbreak, her final acceptance of what her
future held echoing with each step.
Through the heavy doors. The first thing that hit her was the smell. Not musty forgotten books but the welcoming atmosphere
of history, captured for all time in marble statuary, paintings from great masters, artifacts, pottery. She walked through
the relics of the past and felt a little germ of exhilaration take root within her trepidation.
Through a set of double doors, then another, then a right turn. Past the patron entrance and down the long corridor to a warren
of offices, out of view of the public. Past those offices to the rare-books library. She took controlled, calming breaths,
as a longing for what was over fought with the challenge that awaited her with every step ahead.
She bypassed the reading room, which she would be barred from entering. She no longer had the credentials necessary for use
of the materials there. Nor even to be in this part of the museum. But she had spent too many late nights at the museum after
it had closed for the day not to know how to circumvent the security to the last bit of hallway that led to tiny airless offices
that housed some of the country’s brightest rare-books specialists.
There was a time when she had almost been one of them. She slowed as she came to the last narrow corridor. She could turn around and leave—no one was stopping her. Only herself. And by now she was powerless to stop.
She did stand for a few moments before the heavy oak door that she knew so well.
She took a breath. Rapped twice, quietly but with some authority, she hoped.
There was no voice telling her to enter. Of course, what made her think she could just show up after all this time. Madness.
She turned to go. The door clicked open.
Olivia swallowed, turned back. “Hello, Max.”