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I gave up the life I used to have for my father. Without him, I have absolutely nothing. No family. No home. No support. No money since the assets he was hiding have been discovered and now frozen.
Nothing except a lot of regrets and a lot of memories. And this library.
Arthur Worthing moves quietly through the periphery of my days, always busy with his own comings and goings and seldom venturing into the foreground of my attention.
He feels sorry for me. That’s why he’s helping me out and letting me stay. That and lingering loyalty to my father. I hate being an object of sympathy, but Arthur never appears to feel anything deeply, so even his pity is probably nothing more than an occasional passing thought.
Gradually I’ve fallen into a hazy emotional stupor that is much more palatable than the wrenching grief and undirected anger that slammed me in the first few days.
This is okay. This is better. At least this lethargic fog doesn’t threaten to consume me.
I can live like this for a while. Maybe a long while. Maybe forever.
It’s better than the roller coaster of my life before.
Late one afternoon, just over a month after the car accident that changed everything, I’m in my normal position behind the big desk, searching for information on the volume of Thomas Carlyle’s essays that sits in front of me. There are thousands of books in this library. For each one, I need to archive the publication information and then do research on the value and provenance of the volume. The Worthing collection includes priceless first editions but also countless books that look old and fancy but are actually worthless reprints.
Arthur doesn’t want to purge the library. He’s keeping everything. But he needs to know which books are valuable and which aren’t.
This Carlyle is only eighty years old—one of those leather-bound editions intended for display on an impressive-looking bookshelf rather than for reading. It’s neither rare nor special, although I do love the feel of the leather under my fingertips.
Oddly, the book reminds me of Arthur. Smooth and cool and dignified on the surface but with messy edges and the occasional page torn from age.
The metaphor amuses me. I almost smile as I stroke the frayed page edges, wondering if Arthur’s too-long, rumpled hair might feel similar.
I wonder why he doesn’t keep it shorter. It’s not like he’s an old man—he was several years younger than my father, so he can’t be older than his late forties—but he exudes dignity and professionalism. The hair simply doesn’t fit the image.
“Is it a good book?”
The voice from the doorway shocks me. I straighten up with a jerk, blushing like I was caught doing something naughty.
“I’m sorry,” he says, striding into the room. He’s wearing dark gray trousers and a blue shirt, well-tailored but open at the collar and rolled up at the sleeves. “Did I startle you?”
“Yes, you startled me! You almost gave me a heart attack. Haven’t you ever heard of knocking?” I sound way too bad-tempered. I’m not even sure where it’s come from. I just don’t want him intruding on my private thoughts.
His expression is surprised but curious rather than annoyed at my implication that he’s not allowed to venture unchallenged into a room in his own house. “You were smiling down at the book. I was wondering if it was something good.”
“Oh. No. Not really. Just a pretentious reprint from the forties. And, sure, Carlyle had a certain sense of humor, but I don’t exactly look to him for comedy.”
“No. I wouldn’t think so.”
I have absolutely no doubt that Arthur has read and is familiar with Thomas Carlyle. He’s not simply trying to look smart. He never earned more than an undergraduate degree, but he’s still one of the most well-read and educated men I’ve ever met.
When I was seventeen, I came here for a visit with my dad, and Arthur had a ten-minute conversation with me about Jane Austen, who I was reading. I came away convinced he was the smartest man in the world, and I nursed a short-lived crush on him because of it.
I had crushes on almost everyone back then, so it didn’t mean anything. The daydreams were quickly drowned by romantic fantasies about younger, better-looking men.
But I get a flicker—just the faintest flicker—of a similar feeling right now as he lowers his long length into the upholstered side chair by the desk. He’s got his hair pulled back at the nape of his neck, but a few strands have come loose and even the ponytail doesn’t look sleek and neat. The thick waves of brown hair are threaded with gray and seem to defy any attempt to restrain them.
He’s got dark hair on his forearms and a big, expensive watch on his left wrist. A large gold ring with an emerald set in an engraving of his family crest. The scar slashing down one side of his face is old. White. Dramatic.
He’s had it from the first time I ever saw him. I wonder how he got it. I used to ask my dad, but he didn’t know and said Arthur never told anyone.
I’m suddenly aware of him as a human being. Not just a figment of my past or an accessory to my father or a one-dimensional figure to be compared to an old book. A real-life, breathing human being. Solid. Strong. Masculine. Deep.
Just as human as I am.
“What’s wrong?” he asks softly.
