Chapter One
Literature is not the business of a woman's life, and it cannot be.
Letter from Southey
to Charlotte Bronte, 1837
If only Simon weren't such a practical joker!
The other booksellers with whom she dealt were not given to joking about their profession—as one of them gloomily put it, peddling the printed word to a nation of semiliterates was no laughing matter—and Simon, of all people, ought to have been free of that weakness. He specialized in rare antiquarian books and resembled a romantic novelist's conception of a dignified elderly European count. But the last time he had summoned her to Baltimore with breathless hints of a fantastic discovery, the treasure had turned out to be the complete oeuvre of Barbara Cartland.
"But," said Simon innocently, as Karen sputtered with outrage, "that's your field, isn't it? Women novelists?"
Their friendship was strong enough to survive such episodes; in fact, the ongoing debate between them, marked by withering sarcasm on Simon's part and heated argument on hers, lent an element of charm to a relationship that was inherently improbable. In every way, Simon was Karen's exact opposite. He was in his late sixties or early seventies; she was almost forty years younger. He was tall and lean, she was five-five and—to put it nicely—well-rounded. Simon was a self-proclaimed male chauvinist, her academic specialty was women's literature. She had her doctorate and an assistant professorship at a women's college; Simon had never mentioned attending a college or university. Yet he was one of the best-educated people she had ever met. He had at least a nodding acquaintance with hundreds of subjects, from baseball to Bartok, politics to Plato, dogs to dendrochronology. He and Karen did not agree on any of the above—except, possibly, dendrochronology. It was hard to start an argument about tree-ring dating.
What was it that had drawn them together and preserved an affection that grew ever stronger, despite infrequent contact and violent differences of opinion? Karen pondered the question as she drove along Route 70 toward the Baltimore Beltway. Traffic was light, and she had been over the route so many times she could have driven it in total darkness.
It was dark enough, though the morning was only half advanced. Clouds blustered across the sky, their swollen surfaces pewter-gray. Karen had already switched on the headlights. It wouldn't dare snow, she thought. Not in April. Not even in Maryland. At least she hoped it wouldn't dare. The distance from Baltimore to her home was almost a hundred miles, some of it over winding mountain roads, and she had a full schedule of classes and conferences the following day. But she could no more have resisted Simon's tempting hints than she could have refused food after a month of fasting. He had been typically, tantalizingly vague. "No, I can't possibly describe it. You'll have to see it for yourself. But if I'm right—and I always am—this is the find of a lifetime for you."
What the devil could it be? A few tentative snowflakes melted against the windshield, and Karen switched on the radio, hoping for a weather forecast—a futile gesture, for there was nothing she could do about the weather anyhow, and she had no intention of turning back. If Simon was pulling another stunt like "the Cartland Collection," she would murder him.
Her finger paused in the process of punching buttons as the strains of "Eine Kleine Nachtmusik" reached her ears. That was one answer to the question she had asked herself about her friendship with Simon. Music. Before she met him, she had never cared for the classical composers, but if you spent time with Simon, you hadn't much choice. He always had music playing in the background—or, at times, loudly in the foreground, when he raised the volume to hear a favorite passage. Simon considered Mozart the greatest composer who had ever lived, with John Lennon a close second.
What else? Simon's sense of humor, of course. Even at his most outrageous he was funny. His sardonic view of the world as a planet-sized insane asylum helped steady her whenever some fresh example of stupidity or cruelty sent her adrenaline soaring.
There was another element. She had acknowledged it early in their acquaintance, with some surprise; it had never occurred to her until she met Simon that the attraction between male and female could be an abstract quality, unrelated to age or any other practical factor. He had never done or said anything to make her feel self-conscious or defensive. She knew he never would. It was only a game, a game he played with enormous skill, and one whose archaic rules she had learned to enjoy, though she would never be as good at it as he was.
And, of course, there was their shared passion for books.
Who knows whence such passions derive? Karen sometimes felt she had been born with hers. She had never been more than temporarily distracted by television; she read while she walked to school, while she brushed her teeth, while she dusted and vacuumed. She favored baths over showers, because it was impossible to read under a waterfall. She read the back of the cereal box at breakfast, when her mother refused to let her bring a book to the table. She loved the smell of books, the feel of books, the look of them on a shelf.
Simon felt the same. Unlike some booksellers, he was as interested in the contents of his wares as in the volumes themselves. The Cartland Collection had been an aberration, a joke he could not resist; on several other occasions he had supplied her with books of genuine interest.
What could it be this time? Karen hit the brake as a tractor trailer lunged into her lane. She was nearing the beltway, with its heavier traffic; she had better concentrate on her driving and stop dreaming about fantastic discoveries—the missing, probably apocryphal, chapters of Charlotte Bronte's last novel, or an unknown poem by Emily Dickinson. Such things did turn up,
