That afternoon, when he introduced himself to my roommates as “Miss Shepherd’s driver,” I’d had enough. I made him hand over the checkbook and go wait in the car. I thought it was a perfect solution—I’d fill out the checks and he could sign them somewhere far away from me. Then I caught sight of him smiling his little smile and suspected that I had been outmaneuvered. It occurred to me—fleetingly—that he might be aware of how reluctant I was to have him see my humble digs.
I spent two hours at my apartment, writing checks with such gay abandon that I broke out in a cold sweat at one point and had to call Willis, Sr., to get his okay before I could go on. When I finished, I gave my roommates my share of the rent, outlined the situation for them, and asked them to forward any calls or personal mail to the mansion until I returned. Since I got about as many phone calls as a Trappist monk, it didn’t seem a lot to ask.
It took me twenty minutes to pack. When I finished, I sat down on my mattress beside my beat-up old canvas bags. The late afternoon sun filtered through the blinds, bathing the room in a muted gray light. The apartment was very quiet and my room looked very bare.
I didn’t want to come back here. I would never admit it to Bill or to anyone else, but I didn’t want the fairy tale to end. I wanted that ten thousand dollars so badly I could taste it. It would give me a chance to escape from the grind, to look for a real job, maybe buy some decent furniture. But if it came to a choice between earning the money and fulfilling my mother’s request, I knew what I would choose. Ah, well, I thought, with no conviction at all, I had gotten used to doing without. I could get used to it all over again.
My gaze wandered the blank walls and came to rest on the closet door. Instantly, I was on my feet. I rescued Reginald’s shoebox from the floor of the closet and looked in fondly at the ragged bits of pinkish-gray flannel.
“Mom says hello,” I said softly. I reached in to touch a hand-stitched whisker. “Yes, Reginald, you’re right. Things could be worse. At least both of my ears are still attached.”
I put the box in my carryon bag and went down the stairs and out into the first golden rays of sunset.
*
I also made time for a visit to Stan Finderman, my old boss. He lived in a restored eighteenth-century town house near the Gardner Museum and I found him at home, where he’d been working ever since his university office had burned to a crisp. “Lori!” he boomed, standing on the doorstep. “How the hell are you and how’s that punk who kidnapped you?” Stan had not approved of my move out of state. “Who’s this?” he added, catching sight of Bill. “You finally get rid of that lunkhead husband of yours?”
Dr. Stanford J. (“Call me Stan”) Finderman wasn’t what most people thought of when they pictured a curator of a rare book collection. He was smaller than Mount Everest, but not by much, and his white hair was cropped in a no-nonsense crew cut. Like Willis, Sr., he was in his early sixties, but he could have snapped Willis, Sr., in two with one thumb and a finger. Nothing tickled Stan more than the fear-glazed eyes of less robust scholars (“pasty-faced wimps”) who were meeting him for the first time.
They soon found out that Stan’s brain was as imposing as his brawn. He had served in the Navy during World War II, gone through college on the GI Bill, and left the rest of his class squinting in the glare of his brilliance. If people wondered why he had gone into the rare book field—instead of, say, weight lifting or alligator wrestling—they had only to see him cradle a book in his meaty paws, and they stopped wondering. Books were Stan’s first, last, and only love.
He seemed in remarkably good spirits for a man who’d seen his life’s work go up in smoke. As we followed him down the narrow hallway, I explained the change in my marital status—“Best damned decision you ever made!”—and introduced Bill, then asked him about the tragedy.
“Best damned thing that ever happened,” he bellowed. “Sued the company that made the damned machine, the bastards settled out of court, and now I’ve got more damned money than you can shake a stick at! Look at this!” He waved us into his box-littered living room. “Been trawling all winter and hauled in some beauties. Should be able to move ’em onto the shelves by next spring—if the goddamned builders get off their goddamned asses.”
He gave Bill a measuring look, then leaned in close to him. “What do you know about books?” he demanded.
“Not a thing,” Bill replied cheerfully.
I held my breath, anticipating an explosion. My old boss had no use for nonbibliophiles, and no reservations about telling them so, emphatically. I tensed when Stan poked Bill in the shoulder, then watched dumbfounded as Stan’s face broke into a wide grin.
“I like a man who knows his limitations,” said Stan. “You want a beer?”
“Love one, Dr. Finderman.”
“And you can cut that crap. Call me Stan.”