The Book of Speculation: A Novel

“Do you do this kind of thing often? Track down families of people who used to own your books?”


“More often than you’d think, Mr. Watson—Simon. May I call you Simon?”

Blood wells from the bottom of my foot, a dark red bloom mixes with the coffee and sugar. I must have stepped on a piece of the mug. “If you like.”

“Wonderful. I just last year came across a lovely edition of Scott’s The Lady of the Lake. It had a beautiful padded and embossed cloth binding. Inside there was a pressed violet that was forty years old if it was a day. A little piece of magic. The owner, Rebecca Willoughby, had written her name on the inside cover. Rebecca was deceased, of course, but I managed to find her niece, who was delighted to receive a book that her aunt had obviously treasured as a girl. She said it was a bit like meeting her aunt all over again. I’d hoped to have a similar experience with this book. Has it stirred anything at all?”

The conversation has jostled memories, but not pleasant ones. “You found me, so you must know my parents are dead.”

There is an awkward cough. “I’m terribly sorry. I apologize if I’ve caused any unpleasantness.”

“It’s been a long time.” I exhale. And the book is fascinating, and somehow connected to someone with an interest in my grandmother.

“If you don’t want it, I understand. I’d just ask that you send it back to me rather than disposing of it—I’ll happily pay the shipping. It’s just such a pretty book, and so old. I suppose I can convince Marie to let me keep one more.”

The thought of disposing of something that has survived so much is abhorrent. “No, I’ll hang on to it. And I’m perfectly capable of keeping it safe. Weirdly enough, you’ve sent it to the right person. I’m a librarian. I work with archives.”

“How perfectly apt.” Churchwarry laughs, and I begin to understand some of his delight in passing books on. There’s a certain serendipity, a little light that’s settled in my sternum.

He asks a favor of me, gently, as though expecting my refusal. “Will you let me know if you find out why your grandmother’s name is in it? It’s not important, of course, I just love to know my books’ history. A quirk of mine.”

I will look into it, not because he’s asked, but because I should. Too much of my family has been lost to the haze of time and forgetting. “I will,” I assure him before hanging up.

My hands feel large and clumsy. I stick a Band-Aid to my foot, shove on my shoes, and watch the sun climb over the water. I don’t mop up the coffee or the sugar mess. Later. An hour passes after hanging up from Churchwarry and the unsettling conversation. How I spend it, I can’t say.

*

Closing the door requires an abrupt tug, surprising it into shutting, another side effect of an aging house and slipping-away land. I’ll have to rehang it. Maybe Frank can angle it with a lathe. I toss the book onto the passenger seat, then wince. It’s a crime to abuse anything this old.

The drive to Grainger Library runs the long way through Napawset, through the three-block historic district, where all the houses are from the Williams family—colonial boxes built by brothers who divvied up the town in 1694—curving around the harbor road, past the marina and fiberglass boats Frank hates, winding through Port and the captains’ houses that tourists call charming. Port is packed with cars lining up for the ferry to Connecticut, and the big boat, huge jaws open, is swallowing sedans and sports cars. The harbor road climbs a hill crowned by a monastery, then dips down, following the salt marsh before turning toward the center of the island and a flat stretch of land, in the middle of which is the Grainger.

Leslie and Christina at the circulation desk confirm I’m late. No one is ever in first thing in the morning and the children’s reading groups don’t start until ten o’clock, but the ignominy of lateness is still present as I walk past the director’s office to my desk in reference. I hear the hollow thudding of Janice Kupferman’s heels pacing her office. Yes, she saw me.