“Of course, of course. Welcome to my shop, Miss Parr. May I help you in any way?”
“Yes, please. I’d like to buy something for a friend. Sam Howard. I know he comes in here often.”
Another smile. “Oh, yes. I’m very fond of Mr. Howard.”
“I’m not sure where to begin. I was thinking he might like a novel, something new, but he also likes poetry. I wish I had a better notion of his taste in books.”
“Why don’t I have a look in my files? I keep a record of everything I sell, and he’s a member of the lending library here, too, so that should help to narrow things down.”
“You don’t mind?”
“Not at all. Why don’t you have a look around, and I’ll see what I can dig up.”
Straightaway she knew she would be coming back after Christmas to find something for herself. The shop was a treasure trove, with surprises waiting on every shelf. In less than five minutes she’d come across a Kelmscott Press translation of Beowulf, an early edition of Daniel Deronda, and a bound volume of Japanese woodcuts; with enough time, heaven only knew what else she might discover.
The bell above the entrance rang, and when she looked over to see who had entered, for she was a little nervous of bumping into Sam, she recognized Hadley Hemingway’s husband. She smiled at him and was gratified when he returned the gesture.
He went over to Miss Beach and spoke to her, the two of them laughing at some joke he made, and then he came over to Helena.
“Hello,” he said. “You look familiar. Didn’t I meet you at Miss Stein’s the other week?”
“You did. I was there with Sam Howard.”
“Of course,” he said, and they shook hands. “I’m Ernest Hemingway.”
“I’m Helena Parr. I came in to look for a present for Sam, though I’m not sure how I’ll make up my mind. It’s like Aladdin’s cave in here.”
“What were you thinking of getting him?”
“A novel, I thought. Or some short stories. You have a book of stories published, don’t you? Sam told me about them. He said he thought you are a very fine writer. Perhaps I ought to buy him your book.”
“That’s a fine idea,” Mr. Hemingway said, evidently delighted by the compliment. “I’ve two books out. Let me talk to Sylvia.”
He was back a few minutes later, shaking his head. “She’s sold all her copies of Three Stories and Ten Poems, and Howard already has the first two volumes of in our time. Sorry about that.”
“Don’t apologize. It’s grand that you’re such a success.”
He looked back at Sylvia, who had prepared a parcel of books for him. “I’m sorry, but I must go. I’m taking my wife and son to Austria until the new year.”
“Good-bye, then. Do wish Mrs. Hemingway a happy Christmas.”
“I will, and the same to you.”
She resumed her search, never quite finding the right thing, and then, standing slightly proud of its fellows, she spied a slim volume with the words Al Que Quiere! on its spine. Some instinct urged her to pull it from the shelf, though she didn’t speak or read Spanish, and when she did the book fell open to a short poem titled “Danse Russe.”
She read it through, and it was unlike any other poem she’d ever seen, and so she lingered over it, all but memorizing the lines where she stood. “I was born to be lonely. I am best so!”
She could buy it for herself, but it was the only copy in the shop, and she felt, somehow, that Sam would like it. She took the book over to Miss Beach, feeling apprehensive as she held it out. What did she know, after all, of poetry and fine literature?
“Ah—William Carlos Williams. I do love his work. He’s been overshadowed by Eliot in recent years, but these earlier poems are striking.”
“Do you think that Sam will like them?”
“There’s no way to tell. He won’t find them boring, though, and that’s the most important thing.”
ON CHRISTMAS DAY, étienne and Sam arrived at one o’clock, each bearing gifts: Sam had a bouquet of hothouse lilies for Agnes and a sweet little posy of violets for Helena, while étienne had brought a bottle of Russian vodka for them all to share. This latter offering pleased her aunt to no end, and she ordered it put on ice immediately so they might enjoy it with their first course.
In the dining room the table had been set for four, and though it had been reduced to manageable dimensions there was still a baronial gap between each of them when they sat down for lunch.
They began with oysters, which Helena secretly detested, though she managed to gulp down two with the help of some champagne; she had thought it prudent to refuse the vodka. Foie gras on toast, smoked salmon on tiny buckwheat pancakes, and grilled herring with mushrooms followed; the latter, according to Agnes, had been Dimitri’s favorite dish.
For the main course, Agnes’s cook had managed to find a turkey, which was served with chestnut dressing, haricots verts, and pommes de terres soufflés.
“Helena told me how you miss your American foods from home, so I thought it would be pleasant if we had one of your roast turkeys. Is it prepared properly?”