fell in love with a romantic young man.”
Meg tensed, her hands tightening on the purse in her
lap. But she said nothing. In Judith’s mind’s eye, she
tried to picture the thin, haggard woman across the
table as a young girl—the girl in the photograph that
lay between the pages of
“This young man had a vivid imagination,” Judith
continued, “and he wooed her with all the passion of
his creative nature. Unfortunately, the girl got pregnant. Her family insisted on a wedding. Since the
young man had roots in the area, he gave in, and they
were married. His bride made the mistake of believing
he’d keep his vows. She trusted him, even if she
thought his ambitions were out of reach. She couldn’t
understand why farm life in Iowa didn’t suit him. But
he had bigger dreams, and moved on, leaving her behind.” Judith paused, recalling the lock of hair. She
looked Meg right in the eye. “What happened to that
baby, Mrs. Izard?”
Meg sat stony-faced for a long moment. When she
finally spoke, her lips scarcely moved. “He was stillborn. My so-called husband had already left me. I
named the poor baby Douglas, after my father. We
buried him next to Pa in the family plot.”
“I’m sorry,” Judith said softly. “Do you have other
children?”
Meg shook her head. “I couldn’t. Something went
wrong at the time of the birth.”
Now it was Judith’s turn to be silent. The fog
seemed to permeate the kitchen, like a sad, gray pall.
“Your first husband took something else besides your
happiness, didn’t he?” she finally asked.
Meg sat up very straight. “You mean . . . the book?”
Judith nodded. “That’s what you came for earlier
this morning, isn’t it? The book. Your copy of the
book.”
Meg’s jaw dropped, but she recovered quickly.
“That Best woman—she was the one who all but stole
it from us.”
“Not your personal copy, though,” Judith put in.
“Bruno took it with him when he left you, didn’t he?”
“I could have killed him right then and there,” Meg
declared. “Pa’s book was his monument. It was all that
we had left of him, except for the manuscript he never
finished. And no one would buy that one from us.
Foolishly, we let the copyright on
in 1985. We thought, what’s the use? There was never
more than the one printing. Then Bruno . . .” She spat
out his name as if it were tainted with gall. “Then he
used the book to make this big, big movie. Winifred
Best had gotten hold of the rights for him. Walt and I
