toward her, even as she scrolled through her telephone’s address book and dialed.
“Sandra?” she said.
“Who is this?”
“This is Jessamine Bach. May I speak to Sandra?”
“Oh, Jess!” Sandra exclaimed. “How are you?”
The cheerful voice sounded nothing like the Sandra Jess knew.
“I called to apologize,” said Jess as she walked down an aisle of white wire closet organizers.
“What do you mean?” Sandra asked.
“I ambushed you with information about your mother and your uncle. I saw their connection in the McLintock cookbook and I got a little carried away.” Pausing, Jess glanced at the shelves. “I was so proud of myself. I never really considered the effect it might have had on you.”
“Oh,” said Sandra. “Well.”
“I’m sorry,” Jess whispered. “I didn’t understand. I wanted to say that I do understand now. I’m very, very sorry.”
“Stop! That’s ridiculous,” said Sandra. “I’m fine, and everybody’s fine. I haven’t thought about any of that in weeks. Your discovery was worth a lot to me, as I’m sure you know.”
Jess stood before an array of paint chips. “No, I don’t know. I’ve been away. I’m out of town.”
“That’s right, you aren’t working for him anymore. I thought he might have told you. George reassessed the cookbooks after you found the McLintock, and he doubled his payment.”
“He did,” said Sandra. “My daughter got a new lawyer because of that, and she’s settling with her ex for joint custody. We’re getting summers and every-other-weekend visitation.”
Jess plucked out paint samples in shades of blue:
“Well,” Sandra said, “he felt that he’d undervalued the collection. He wanted to give me even more, but I was afraid my uncle would not have liked it. We agreed on donating to the Redwood League instead, toward the purchase of the Dillonwood Grove. Have you heard of it?”
“Yes.”
“The league is buying that tract to add to Sequoia National Park, and we’re making the donation in honor of Tom McClintock’s work on lungwort in the canopy. He was a very important lichenologist, you know.”
“I don’t think … I’m sure George never did anything like that before.”
Sandra answered with some pride, “He said he had never seen cookbooks like mine.”
Emily found Jess outside, crying among the terra-cotta flowerpots. “They’re actually plastic,” Jess said. She lifted a giant faux-stone urn. “Look how light they are.”
“Jess? What’s wrong?” Emily rushed over. “I’ve been looking everywhere for you. What happened?”
“I didn’t know,” Jess said.
“How could you have known? Dad wouldn’t tell us who she really was. He tried to prevent us from finding out.”
Jess shook her head. “That’s not what I meant.”
“I’m angry at him too,” said Emily. “I’m disappointed, but the point is to think about her.”
“I can’t think about her.”
Emily wrapped her arms around her sister. “It’s a shock, but it’s really better to know. We have to know— even if it’s painful. I know you miss her….”
“No. I mean, yes, but it’s not that. I miss George,” Jess confessed.
“George!” Emily dropped her arms, and suddenly her hands were on her hips. “Oh, Jess, don’t tell me that —”
“Please don’t say, ‘Oh, Jess.’ Please don’t be that way.”
“You said it was over. You said that you’re just friends,” Emily scolded. “Why did you lie to me?”
“I didn’t lie.”
“Well, what would you call it then?”
Jess quailed a little before her sister. “Understatement?”
Emily shook her head. “You’re amazing. You go from one totally inappropriate guy to the next. Just one after another.”
“It’s not what you think,” said Jess. “It’s not some motherless daughter thing.”
“Of course it is. How old is he? He’s twenty years older than you, isn’t he?”
“Sixteen years older,” said Jess. “It doesn’t matter.”
“So he’s a very young middle-aged guy? Is that supposed to be endearing? You have no common sense, Jessamine.”
Jess turned on her sister. “Aren’t you the one flying to London to look up long-lost Hasidic relatives?”
“That’s real. That’s our family. What you are talking about is yet another of your infatuations.”
“No,” said Jess. “You’re the one infatuated with Gillian’s memory. Not me. You’re the one chasing a dream. Not me.”
For a moment Emily could not speak.
“You don’t know him, but George is actually wonderful, and funny. He’s musical. He’s … secretly philanthropic.”
“That’s the problem,” said Emily. “You’re part of his philanthropy.”
“No, Emily. No. Not really. He understands me. He reads me. I’m in love with him,” Jess whispered.
Emily sighed at her legible sister.
“I’m sorry I’ve cried wolf so many times. This time I mean it.”
Emily spun around and took her receipt to Security where the Turbo Max snowblower was waiting for pickup.
“Please believe me.” Jess hurried after her.
“If you love him so much, why are you here with me?” Emily asked her.
“Because you need me more right now. You come first.”
“If I come first, why can’t you confide in me?”
Jess was so startled that she couldn’t answer right away. “It … it wasn’t the time!”
“If you love him, then why is it a secret?” Emily asked. “And if you need him, then you shouldn’t be apart.”
“You can love someone even if you’re separated,” Jess answered slowly.
“For how long?” Emily asked.
“Is this some kind of test? For as long as it takes.”
“No,” Emily said.
“What do you mean?”
When Emily answered, her voice was serious and low. “You can’t be apart indefinitely. You can’t keep postponing and expect everything to stay the same. If you keep deferring, everything gets old. Even love, eventually.”
31
George closed Yorick’s at five. He closed the register, and Colm pulled down the metal grille over the front window. No one had come in all afternoon, except for Raj, who had driven over to show off his pristine first-edition
“Oh, too bad,” George said drily.
“But it’s very beautiful.” Raj opened a box, and lifted the cloth-bound novel as gently as a newborn puppy.
“Ooh.” Colm raked his fingers through his thick wavy hair.
“You don’t have a first-edition
