“Faulkner said, ‘The past isn’t dead. It isn’t even past.’ I think you would be fascinated by these stories because you would recognize everything in them and you would see how these characters dealt with the same struggles you have. You must know, Congresswoman, how tied our present is to our past. We’ve each gotten to where we are now through our past.”
“It’s been a hard road,” she said.
“Just think how decisions you’ve made in your past affect your present,” Charles said.
“Mr. Beale.” She had returned to her hardest expression. “I don’t know what that statement means. What exactly does it mean?”
“It was a general statement about all of us. I’m sure we’ve all made mistakes.”
“Are you trying to say something specific about me?” She wasn’t showing any emotion, just extreme attention. There was a short pause of measuring each other.
“I didn’t mean to be, and I didn’t mean to give any offense.”
“I’m not taking offense. I’m just trying to understand what you mean.”
He answered carefully. “I mean that I prefer mercy over justice.”
She thought carefully. “Then I do, too.”
“And my point,” he said, picking up the speed of the conversation, “is that authors like these have explored that conflict. As I said, you might be fascinated by the ways they resolve it.”
She joined the quicker flow. “I might just have to wait for the movie to come out,” she said with her standard smile. “Did you really just want to meet me because I was a friend of Derek’s? Was that the only reason?”
“Was that the only reason you let me come?”
“Let’s say yes, Mr. Beale, to both of those.”
“Let’s do.” He placed the books back on the shelves. “I had an interesting visit the other night. Pat White. He mentioned your name.”
She frowned, but only some. “We’ve been good friends for a long time. I feel very sorry for him.”
“Now, is that a case of injustice, or mercy losing to justice?”
“That, Mr. Beale, would be a very long answer, and I think I must have taken up quite a bit of your morning already.”
“I’m sure your time is much more valuable than mine,” he said. “I also met John Borchard.”
She crumpled the name into a wad and tossed it back to him. “That would be another long discussion.”
“Then let’s not have it,” he said, smoothing stiff creases out of the air. “Instead, Congresswoman-I wonder if you might want to look at something that isn’t a struggle. Something peaceful instead.”
“What do you mean?”
“A book that’s just for looking. A very special volume.” He crossed the corner to a shelf that was built tall to hold many sizes of books and took a small volume from it. “This was printed in 1892 in England. It’s called a Wisdom Garden. They were a popular type at the turn of the century.”
She opened to the middle.
“Oh,” she said, and in a moment everything had changed.
“I was just remembering your waiting room. All the flowers.”
Her mouth was still on oh.
Charles smiled. “The plates are engravings of English gardens.”
“They’re beautiful.”
“Now this is how the book was used. You set it open on your desk and simply notice it from time to time throughout the day. It’s meant to be calming.”
“That’s why I love flowers.”
“And the captions are from Proverbs. I’d like to loan it to you. Would you mind?”
“You’d just let me take it?”
“I’d be honored if you would. This is how cultured ladies of a former time dealt with their stress.”
“I could use less stress and more culture.” She lingered over the page for a moment. “I’ll be very careful with it.”
“That’s fine. That’s all it needs.”
The telephone rang, and Dorothy picked it up. “Alexandria Rare Books.” She listened. “No, we close at two on Saturday,” she said. “But we’re open until seven through the week.”
“And it’s noon now,” the congresswoman said. “I am so glad I came. And I know I will enjoy this book. When should I get it back to you?”
“Just when you’ve had time to look through it.”
“I’ll keep it for a few days and send it back. Thank you for our talk.” She opened the door. “We might want to talk again.”
“Whenever you’d like,” he said.
And finally, she was gone.
“What do you think?” Charles asked.
“I’m impressed. She’s a very strong personality.”
“Is she authentic? Sincere?”
“I think so. A force for good.”
“Corrupt?”
“I don’t think so.”
“What would happen if that paper became public?”
“I hope it doesn’t.”
“Does she think I know about her past misdeeds?”
“I think she wonders, Charles. You led her right up to that conversation.”
“She was there waiting for me.”
“Do you think you’ll see her again?”
“That’s up to her. We’ll see if she returns the book herself or just sends it back, like she said.”
EVENING
Charles waited.
He was in the front room of his house, in his comfortable chair. The clock on the mantel chimed six times.
He was in a gray suit, with a flamboyant red tie. Just waiting.
Then a door closed above and there was a rustle on the stairs. He jumped to his feet to watch.
Down she came! All in pale blue, like a quiet sapphire. Closer-and he got very close-the dress was damask textured; elegant from a distance, but intimately intricate. Her face was an exquisite cameo in a silver setting.
“You look so wonderful,” he said.
“And you are quite debonair.”
“We are made for each other.”
“I told Wilhelmina we’d be there in fifteen minutes.”
“You gather the mice, and I’ll bring the pumpkin around.”
“And now, ladies and gentlemen.” The voice flowed like quiet thunder across the ballroom. “It is my pleasure to present to you our director, Mrs. Elizabeth Roper.” Applause echoed back from the forty banquet tables.
“Thank you.” The woman was tall and thin, and her silver dress matched her silver hair. “Thank you.” The applause waned politely. “Before I begin my remarks this evening, I would like to introduce the board of directors of the FitzRobert Foundation. Our chairman, Mr. Thomas Grenville, of McMurty, Grenville and Cole. Stand up, Tom.”
More applause. “Mr. Hamilton Kite of Alexandria Federal Bank. The honorable Mrs. Wilhelmina Stratton. Mrs. Dorothy Beale.”
Dorothy stood, as the others had, but far more splendidly.
“Our special thanks to Wilhelmina and Dorothy for all their work on our banquet this year. And Dorothy dear,
