The Mysterious Disappearance of the Reluctant Book Fairy (7 page)

“Oak Harbor then,” was Dwayne's next offering, not an unreasonable one as it was some thirty plus miles to the north of Langley with a population among whom one might be able to hide. “Walmart's there. So's Home Depot.”

“Stop thinking about box stores,” Monie cried. “D'you honestly expect that Annapurna is going to be impressed by the presence of box stores?”

“The naval air station? She might meet some officer and fall in love.”

“God. You're … you're impossible,” she said. “I can't come up with where to disappear her on my own, and if you think she'd ever consent to live in some … some completely soulless place, then—”

Wish I could have stayed there forever!
was what struck Monie to silence in the middle of her thought.
I mean, why not? Couldn't it happen? And if you'd seen the mansion, not to mention the piles of food and endless bottles of champagne … and the swimming pool! I swear to God you'd feel the same.
Monie, hearing this and trying desperately not to judge the astonishing butt size of the woman who uttered it—sat up straight in her chair—the eternal posture of the eavesdropper—and picked up further with
I could make him forget Daisy Buchanan in no time flat
, which led Monie to Jay Gatsby first and the miraculous, obvious solution second.

She was afire to speak to Annapurna without delay. She developed an instantaneous headache requiring Dwayne to whisk her home. There, she took an Aleve to reassure him of her intentions not to have a headache when next they met for the necessary culmination of their night of romance, and with a “Give me a half hour to recover, sweetie,” she shut herself up in their bedroom and got on the phone.

She phoned Annapurna first. She said, “Adventure, mystery, crime, or romance?”

“What about them?”

“Just answer. Don't think. Thinking always complicates a situation. Just say it quickly: adventure, mystery, crime, or romance.”

“Who is this, please? My number's unlisted.”

“Who the hell do you think it is, Annapurna? I bet you haven't had a chance to talk to your siblings or your parents in months.”

“Ah. Monie.”

“Ah Monie is right. This is date night. I have thirty minutes before Dwayne expects sex. Let's get down to business. Adventure, mystery, crime, or romance. We're talking books here. Make a choice.”

“It's not that easy.”

“Why?”

“Because I'd have to say at least two of them.”

“All right. Fine. We can work with that. Which two?”

“Probably mystery and romance. They seem to go together, don't they?”

“Main character: married or single?”

“Does it actually matter?”

“For this. Yes. It does. Quite a bit.”

“Married then. If not at first, then ultimately. Why not try something new?”

“Present day?”

On her end, Annapurna thought for a moment. “I've always been partial to the period between the two world wars,” she said. “There was this heightened sense of fashion, a real burst of energy, celebration of one's survival, that sort of thing.”

“Are you sure? The Great Depression and all that.”

“Well, it would have to be the 20s, then, wouldn't it? Or possibly the 30s and in the company of someone who hadn't invested in the stock market.”

“Country?”

“I do love England.”

“Ever been?”

“In books, of course. What else could I ever afford? But not in years. You know I don't travel like that any longer.”

“Really? What a shame. But no matter. It's time to start. Meet me at the old place. You know where. Set your alarm and be there at five. We're taking care of Epic! once and for all.”

“But Mildred will—”

“I'll take care of Mildred afterwards. She's made a pile and she can close up shop and live on her part of the takings forever. You just meet me at 5:00 and have in mind where you want to go.”

“I don't think I can really—”

“Hey! You listen to me, Janet Shore. How exhausted are you? How much do you hate having to talk every Tom, Dick, Jemima, and Audrey into trying
Cold Mountain
instead of
Gone with the Wind
? Has anyone ever asked for
Cold Mountain
on his own? Don't even answer.”

“One woman did want
The Oldest Living Confederate Widow Tells All
,” Annapurna said.

“Fine. Wonderful. I'll send up rockets. See you at 5:00. Do not be late.”

After this, Monie put a call into Mildred. She went for her cellphone because she didn't want to risk having to talk to the woman and since the hour was late, she felt fairly certain that Mildred would have long gone to bed, working on her own beauty rest as she denied the same to poor Annapurna.

“Keep the shop closed tomorrow,” she said into the phone when the message signal chimed. “I'm taking Annapurna off island for the day. She needs a rest. Don't bother to call me with an argument, either. By the time you get this, we'll be gone.”

And that was it. The rest of the night Monie devoted to Dwayne, an occupation that was mercifully swift. He'd always been a slam-her-and-sleep sort of lover. Ten minutes or less and she was generally left to her own devices as he rolled away and commenced huffing and snorting like a dying gladiator.

She eased out of bed and in the kitchen she made her children's lunches. She would not be at home to see them on their way to school, nor would she be there to make their breakfasts. She unearthed the instant oatmeal, some pecans, and a jar of honey. She hulled a large basket of strawberries and she poured milk into a jug and put it on ice. She wrote a note to each child with hearts and x's and o's. She would be there when they returned home from school, she told them. She packed her husband's lunch next and she wrote him a note that told him much the same. She had responsibilities after all, no matter how she desired to escape them. She'd made her choices and she had to live with them. She only hoped that Annapurna would finally make a choice as well.

When four-forty-five rolled around, she loaded her car with what she needed, and she drove to the Langley cemetery, easing her way cautiously along the rolling fields of an old intown farm as she kept her eye out for breakfasting deer. It was still dark but dawn was on its way. She'd seen the apricot light of it beginning to streak the sky across the water above the Cascade Mountains as she'd pulled from her driveway into the street.

She parked as close as she could to the memorial garden for the cremated citizens of Langley. She gathered what she needed and as she was about to set off in the direction of the old potting shed, headlights made the turn from Al Anderson Road and came through the old brick pillar of the cemetery. Within moments, Annapurna had joined her.

Annapurna had, during the long night following Monie's call, figured out what was meant to happen. She wasn't anyone's fool, and the list of Monie's questions had been similar to what she asked people who arrived at Epic! without a clue as to the level of preparation in which they should have engaged prior to making an appointment. So her first comments upon getting out of her car were those of protest. But before she could move from protest, to advise, disagree, or disavow, Monie said, “Really, Janet. It's the only way. And you
are
still Janet Shore, aren't you? Beneath all the trappings of Annapurna? You
know
you are and … Look, I pretty much think you have to say it. Else … I don't think I can help you like I want to. I don't know why but that's how it is. You have to say it.”

“I'm Janet,” she said. “But that doesn't mean—”

“Good,” Monie cut in. “Now come on. We don't have a lot of time. What did you decide?”

Annapurna was silent for a moment and during that moment, which stretched on and on, Monie Reardon Pillerton began to think that her old friend wasn't as ready as she ought to have been to put aside Epic! and the life that had been thrust upon her by Mildred Banfry. But at last she took a breath and wrestled a hard bound book from the carpet bag that she was carrying. She said, “It's a first edition, by the way. Don't even ask how much it cost.”

“And does it fill the bill?”

“It has it all: England, between the wars, mystery, and romance.”

“What about money?”

“Second son of a duke.”

Monie considered this. She'd seen the TV production of
Pride and Prejudice
. She knew Colonel Fitzwilliam's financial state. “But weren't second sons always impoverished? Didn't they all become soldiers?”

“This one isn't.”

“Isn't what? A soldier?”

“Isn't impoverished.”

“You're sure about that?”

Newly-returned-to-Janet nodded. “He has a servant and he drives a Daimler. That's a Jaguar. He drinks fine port. And he's in love with a woman who doesn't have a penny, so he's not looking to pick up funds from a wife.”

“Oh my God! He's in
love
? Annapurna … Janet, that's not going to work.”

“They're not married. He's asked her two or three times but she's said no. Eleven years since they first met and she's
still
saying no. She says yes at the end of this one, but see how long the book is? That'll give me time.”

Those last words charged their way into Monie's heart and gave her incalculable joy. “So you're willing?” she gasped. “Really? Truly? Finally?”

Janet looked around. “I'm tired,” she said. “This can't go on. So, yes. I'm willing and it's time.”

So Monie Reardon Pillerton led her old friend Janet Shore into the darkened potting shed where she had spent so many blissful hours in days of her youth. Together they spread out the blanket that Monie had brought with her while Janet lit a candle and placed it—as she'd done so long ago—within the protection of a hurricane lamp. She sat, then, and began to leaf through the pages of her book. She was going to have to enter the story early. And she was, obviously, going to have to develop a taste for fine port as soon as she got there.

Monie waited. She was, it must be said, exceedingly nervous. She wasn't at all certain this had a chance in Hades of working, but since Janet had become completely cooperative, it
seemed
to Monie that the all auguries were fair.

Monie produced a length of yarn. That it was insubstantial was, of course, the point. While Janet brought a down pillow from her carpet bag and a largish woolen scarf to keep herself warm, Monie fashioned from the yarn a slip-knotted loop. When all was ready, Janet lay on the blanket. She made a final check of the book's relevant page, for it would hardly do to end up in the punting scene in which the heroine's naked face tells the hero all he needs to know about her love for him.
Quelle desastre
, that would be! Something early, on the other hand, something that might stop that woman in her cold, unfeeling, and heartlessly independent tracks … That was just the ticket, Janet thought. Give her that and she would definitely take care of the rest. For this story's hero was no Chadbourne Hinton-Glover. He was a gentleman and over eleven years, he'd not so much as pressed his lips against his lady love's hand. Thus, although he might have been
attracted
to her—for reasons, let us face it, more cerebral than physical—there was no commitment or understanding or promise that existed between the two.

“Ready,” she said to Monie Reardon Pillerton. “You'll be able to tell when my breathing changes.”

Monie nodded and Janet slowly said those words from her childhood, closing her eyes upon the cobwebbed ceiling of the potting shed and upon her old friend, and instead picturing herself at Shrewsbury College in the city of Oxford, within the New Quad, where the Presentation Clock was to be unveiled. The alumnae and resident professors—all of them in their ceremonial black gowns—were just gathering, exclaiming as they saw each other for the first time in years.

Have you seen Trimmer in that frightful frock like a canary lampshade?

That was Trimmer, was it? What's she doing?

“Welcome me—”

Come and get some sandwiches. They're quite good, strange to say.

“—welcome me—”

I saw the election announced somewhere or other, last Christmas or thereabouts.

I expect you saw it in the Shrewsbury Yearbook.

“—welcome me home,” Janet Shore murmured. And then she said those extra super magical words. And then she waited. As did Monie. Monie waited and listened and watched her old friend for the moment when her breathing altered.

The smile came first. Then the eyebrows lifted, in a movement that Monie might have missed had she not been concentrating on Janet's face. And finally, the breathing, which began with a breath so deep it seemed to be something that could burst her lungs. Then she let it out in a slow and heartfelt sigh. Thirty seconds went by till she breathed again. Another thirty seconds and Monie was ready.

Gently she pulled the yarn from Janet's wrist. The knot was so deliberately loose that only a very slight tug sufficed. For her part, Janet Shore felt nothing. She was surrounded by chatting black gowned women on the lawn of New Quad where, not too far away, a table laden with tea and sandwiches waited. To her infinite surprise, she overheard something that was not part of the book she'd chosen. It was a quiet exchange between two women whose sharp gazes were directed at a third, tall, angular graduate just coming across the lawn, a woman whose coolness of expression and dark bobbed hair and eyes filled with the desire of escape marked her identity as pellucidly as a placard hanging round her neck would have done. A graduate near Janet Shore was saying in a hushed tone, “My God. She's here! She's come!” as another declared, “I had no idea she would even … I mean, after the trial and all that” and a third pointed out, “He asked her to marry him, you know, but she turned him down. And more than once, if you can believe it.”