Bookman's promise

and a Supreme Court justice from that one graduating class in college.”

“High school, actually,” Archer said. “Lee and I have known each other forever.”

“We graduated from a tiny high school in Virginia,” Lee said. “Our graduating class had twenty-two boys and twenty-two girls.”

“Isn’t that romantic?” Miranda said. “I just love that.”

“That’s because you got somebody’s guy,” Arlene said. “You’re so evil, Miranda.”

“Yep. I love to think of the poor, weeping wench, doomed to a life without Lee.”

I said nothing during this light exchange, and it went on for a while before the inevitable swing to books came, at around ten-thirty. “So,” Miranda asked privately at one point, “how do you like Mr. Archer?” I told her I had always loved his books and prepared to let it go at that. The Westons left in the next hour, and then we were six. Miranda had sensed the spontaneous hostility between Archer and me, and now she did her heroic best to overcome it. “Cliff has been a big, big fan of your books forever, Hal,” she said, but this only made things worse. Archer’s comment, “How very, very nice of him,” was a startling breach of etiquette, too pointed and caustic even for him. He barely saved himself with a weasely “of course I’m kidding” smile, but the private look that passed between us told the real story. How dare I pass judgment, good, bad, or indifferent, and who the hell needed my approval anyway?

Normally at this point I would take off my kid gloves and bring up my own verbal brass knucks. I almost said, And listen, Hal, that was even before I knew what an accomplished asshole you are …now I’ve got two things to admire you for. I would have said this with my pleasantest smiling-cobra demeanor, and then, into the shocked silence, I’d have had to say, Yes siree, Hal, you’re way up there on my list of favs, right between Danielle Steel and Robin Cook. Damn, I wanted to say that. I wanted to say it so badly that I came this close to really saying it. In my younger days I’d have let it rip instantly, in any crowd. I caught the eyes of Erin d’Angelo, who still seemed to be reading my mind from afar with a look of real mischief on her face. Go ahead, say it, I dare you, her look said. But I had my host to consider. I gave a little shake of my head, and Erin rewarded me with a soft laugh that no one could hear and only I could see.

Then she mouthed a single word and pulled me into the screwiest, most extended repartee I have ever had with a stranger. I couldn’t be sure, but the word looked like coward.

I gave her my Tarzan look, the one that said, A lot you know, sister, I eat guys like him for breakfast.

She made a show of her indifference. Glanced at her nails. Looked away at nothing.

I stood up straight, my face fierce with my savage cavemanhood.

I had the feeling she was laughing at that; I couldn’t be sure. In another moment, people would begin noticing what idiots we were, and I looked away, cursing the darkness.

Round one to her, on points.

We were in the library by then and Bonnie was ogling the books. Suddenly Archer said, “My goodness, Lee, don’t you ever show anyone your real books?” Lee seemed reluctant, as if this would be much too much ostentation for one evening, but the cat was out of the bag and down the stairs we all went. We came into a smaller room that was also shelved all around, the shelves glassed and containing books that were clearly from another time. Archer stood back while the rest of us marveled at pristine runs of Dickens, Twain, Kipling, Harte, Hawthorne, Melville, so many eminent Victorians that my head began to spin as I looked at them. There wasn’t a trumped-up leather binding in the room, and the sight of so much unfaded original cloth was gorgeous, inspiring, truly sensual.

“This is how my book fetish started,” Lee said. “I inherited these.”

“From his good old grandma Betts,” Archer said. “Ah yes, I remember her well, what a dear old gal. Show them the Burtons, Lee.”

And there they were, the greatest works of their day. With Lee’s permission, I took each book down and handled it carefully. Archer talked about Burton as we looked, and his own zeal lit a fire that spread to us all. He seemed to know everything about Burton’s life, and at some point I figured out, at least in a general sense, what the new Archer book was going to be. You can always tell with a writer: he gets that madness in his eyes whenever his subject comes up.

The room had gone quiet. Then I heard Erin’s soft voice.

“There aren’t any men like that anywhere in the world today.”

I gave her a challenging look. She rolled her eyes. I said, “He’d go crazy today,” and she cocked her head: “You think so?” I said, “Oh yeah. Ten minutes in this nuthouse world and he’d be ready to lie down in front of a bus.” She said, “On the other hand, how would a man of today, say yourself as an example, do in Burton’s world— India, Arabia, or tropical Africa of the late 1850s?” I said, “It’d sure be fun to find out,” and she looked doubtful. But a few minutes later she slipped me a paper with a telephone number and a cryptic note, Call me if you ever figure it out.

Round two to me, for brilliant footwork.

It was one o’clock when I left the judge’s house. All my annoyance with Archer’s arrogance had dissolved and I was glad I hadn’t retaliated at his stupid insult. I felt renewed, as if the pressing question in my life—what to do now?