The Silence Of The Library

NINE

“Celebrate?” What was he talking about? Did this mean he had finally asked Alexandra Pendergrast to marry him? We had all been expecting this for months now.

“I know what you’re thinking.” Sean shook his head. “No, Dad, I haven’t asked her yet. I’m talking about the state bar exam.” He popped the cork on the bottle.

Of course. How could I have forgotten? Sean had taken the Mississippi bar in February, and the results were expected this month.

“You passed,” I said. I had never doubted he would. My son, I could say without boasting, was an extremely bright young man.

“I did.” Sean stuck the cigar in his mouth and picked up two champagne flutes. He filled one and handed it to me before filling his own.

“To Mississippi’s newest legal eagle.” I raised the glass and smiled. “I’m proud of you, as always.”

Sean beamed back at me as he raised his own. He drew on the cigar and expelled the smoke. We watched it waft away in the breeze coming through the screens as we sipped the champagne.

“Thanks, Dad.” Sean downed the rest of the amber liquid. “How about a refill?”

“No, thanks, one glass is enough for me,” I said.

Diesel sat in front of him and chirped. Sean glanced down and smiled. “Sorry, big guy, but I don’t think champagne is good for cats. Dad might have a fit if I give you any.”

The cat’s head turned in my direction, as if to ask my permission. “No, boy, Sean is right. No bubbly for you.”

Diesel made a rumbling noise—his method of signaling irritation when he didn’t get his way. Sean and I shared a chuckle over the cat’s behavior.

“I’m sure Alexandra is pretty excited about the news.” My son had been working with her and her father, the legendary Q. C. Pendergrast, as an assistant. Q.C. had promised to make Sean a partner when he passed the bar. I figured the old man was getting ready to ease off on his legal practice and let the youngsters take over.

“I haven’t told her yet.” Sean’s expression turned serious. “I wanted to tell you first, Dad.”

Suddenly a lump in my throat made it difficult to speak. A year ago my relationship with my son had floundered, with me clueless as to the reason. We resolved the problems between us, however, and these days I felt closer to Sean than I had since his childhood.

Diesel warbled, and I had to smile. He always sensed when my mood shifted suddenly. I rubbed his head to reassure the cat. “Thank you, Son. I’m glad you did. Hadn’t you better tell Alexandra now?”

“I will, tonight at dinner.” Sean looked away from me and focused instead on the backyard. He drew on his cigar and expelled the smoke.

Judging by his tone, he didn’t sound all that eager to talk to Alexandra. Had there been some rift between them that I didn’t know about?

I kept my tone nonchalant when I queried him. “What’s wrong? Have you two had a fight?”

Sean glanced back at me. He shook his head. “Not a fight, merely a strong disagreement.” He had another sip of champagne. “It’s this plan of her father’s to turn over the firm to Alex and me. After we’re married.”

I sat on one of the wicker sofas, and Diesel jumped up beside me. He stretched out, with his head and front legs on my lap. “Do you feel like he’s trying to push the two of you into marriage? Is that what’s bothering you?”

Sean shrugged and smoked in silence for a few moments. I kept quiet and stroked Diesel’s back.

“I want to marry Alex.” Sean’s tone was clipped as he deposited ash into the ashtray on a nearby table. “She knows that, even though I haven’t asked her yet. Q.C. knows I’ll get around to asking her eventually. I just don’t want him to hand over his practice because I’m married to his daughter.” He stuck his cigar back in his mouth and drew hard. He looked angry as he blew smoke toward the screen. “I have money saved. I can buy into the practice on my own.”

I should have realized before now that this would be an issue for Sean. He had always been proud, insistent on being independent. He wanted to earn whatever he had, and I in turn had always been proud to have reared such a self-reliant son.

“Have you expressed any of this to Q.C. and Alex?”

“When the subject first came up.”

Sean’s wry delivery of that line didn’t fool me. There had probably been a heated discussion. Sean had a bit of a temper—slow to ignite, but fiery when it burst forth. He took after me in that respect.

“What did Q.C. say when you told him how you felt?” I kept my tone mild as I continued to rub Diesel along his spine. Happy warbles repaid me for my attentions to His Majesty.

“Nonsense, my boy. After all, we can’t have you working for your wife. What would the folks around here have to say about that?” Sean did a fair imitation of Q.C.’s deep voice and broad drawl.

“And how did you respond?” Temperately, I hoped.

Sean cut a sideways glance at me. “Politely enough, despite the fact that I was blazingly angry. Insisted I didn’t want to be a partner on those terms, but he didn’t pay any attention to my objections. I figured there was no point in arguing, so I dropped it. For the time being.”

“Do you think he’ll start pushing again when he finds out you’ve passed the bar?” Perhaps I should have a word with Q.C., explain how proud Sean was, and ask him to back down. No, I decided after a moment’s reflection, if Sean ever found out I did that behind his back, he would find it hard to forgive.

“Probably.” Sean laughed, but there was no mirth or joy in the sound. “As long as I don’t propose to Alex, though, he won’t go through with it.” He paused. “At least, I don’t think he would.”

That was another trait Sean inherited from me—stubbornness, occasionally to the point of folly. I worried that he would break up what had so far been a happy and loving relationship. I understood his position, though, and I couldn’t blame him for resenting Q.C.’s high-handed behavior.

“Don’t worry. I know what you’re thinking. I am not going to screw this up. Alex is the best thing that ever happened to me, and I’d be a world-class idiot to let her get away.”

“You’ll work it out somehow, I’m sure.” I gently moved Diesel from my lap so I could stand. “If there’s anything I can do, you know all you have to do is ask.”

“I know.” Sean dropped his cigar in the ashtray and came over to give me a quick, fierce hug. “Thanks, Dad.”

That lump was back. I swallowed hard as Sean stepped away to pick up his cigar.

“I have things that need doing,” I said, my voice a little hoarse. “So Diesel and I will leave you to it. Come on, boy, back in the house.”

Diesel followed me, but I opened the door this time. As Diesel ambled through, I glanced back at my son. He stared out at the backyard and smoked. I sighed as I closed the door.

Time to box up the books I was lending for the exhibit of juvenile series books at the library. The cartons I needed were in the utility room, and while I was there, I added some dry food to Diesel’s bowl and rinsed out his water bowl and refilled it. I pulled two medium-sized cartons from the shelf and left Diesel noisily crunching as I headed for the stairs.

Happy to note that I wasn’t breathing all that hard by the time I reached the third floor, I decided I wasn’t in such bad shape after all.

Moments later, when I squatted in front of the shelves to retrieve a few books from the bottom, I revised my opinion. My knees creaked, and I had to grab on to an upper shelf to pull myself up. I moved stiffly as I put the books in a carton atop the bed.

I turned to examine the shelves and let my eyes roam over the spines. Where are the Cherry Ames books? I wondered. I finally spotted them in the upper left corner, against the back wall of the bedroom. I couldn’t reach the books without an uncomfortable stretch, so I retrieved the upholstered ottoman from its place in front of an old easy chair.

I stepped onto the ottoman and tested my balance. Confident that I could reach up without straining, I retrieved a couple of the volumes from the shelf—one of the older ones with a dust jacket and the green-spined final book in the series, Cherry Ames, Ski Nurse.

When I pulled the latter book down, I spotted what looked like a scrapbook at the end of the shelf. What is that doing here? I wondered. It seemed out of place. I reached for it and tugged, but the cover had stuck to the varnish of the shelf. I set the two Cherry Ames books on the shelf and reached with both hands to prize the darn thing loose. No telling how many years the scrapbook had been there, adhering to the wood.

Finally, with a forceful effort, I loosened it. Bits of the vinyl cover stuck to the shelf. I would have to try later to remove them. I scooped up the Cherry Ames books with my free hand and stepped down from the ottoman. Once again I set Cherry aside and turned my attention to the scrapbook.

I fanned the browned pages, and as I did, I could see that a few of the newspaper articles Aunt Dottie had pasted in were loose and about to flutter out. With more care I examined some of the pages and found to my delight that the items were apparently all related to children’s books. I spotted clippings from magazine articles along with the newsprint. Mildred Wirt Benson, who late in life finally gained long overdue recognition for her role in creating Nancy Drew, was featured heavily. I wondered whether Aunt Dottie had managed to find anything on Electra Barnes Cartwright. I didn’t have time now to delve thoroughly through the scrapbook, and with some reluctance I stuck it in one of the cartons and turned back to my task of choosing books for the exhibit.

Ten minutes later, satisfied that I had a representative selection of both well-known and nowadays obscure series books, I stacked one carton atop the other and carried them downstairs. I had to move with care because I couldn’t see my feet. I made it safely enough to the second floor and took the cartons into my bedroom. Since I hadn’t planned to take them to the library until tomorrow morning, they could stay here for now.

My cell phone rang while I headed down to the kitchen, and I pulled it from my pocket as I reached the first floor. According to the number that appeared on the display, Teresa was calling from her office at the library.

I barely had a chance to say “Hello” before Teresa burst into speech. “Charlie, can you come back to the library right away? Mrs. Cartwright’s daughter called. She and her son are on the way here to discuss Mrs. Cartwright’s fee for next week.”

I knew Teresa had no money in her budget to pay an author for appearing at an event. Neither Mrs. Cartwright nor her daughter had broached the subject when we visited them. What could we do about this? Especially after we’d already advertised on the library’s website that Mrs. Cartwright would appear.

I assured Teresa I would be there in a few minutes. “We’ll figure something out.” I tried to sound confident, but unless Mrs. Marter was reasonable about the amount, we would have to cancel.