“Leaves of Grass. A first edition.”
Laura inhaled. She knew that a missing book might be considered by some as fairly inconsequential. After all, there were thousands upon thousands of copies of the poetry collection available in bookstores around the world. But a first edition of one that had gone on to become an American classic meant more than that: It was a piece of history, the closest example of the author’s intent. And quite valuable, in the case of Walt Whitman’s masterpiece. “Where from?”
“We’re trying to figure that out. It looks like it was last requested in the Stuart Room a week or so ago, but I’m afraid we can’t be sure exactly when it went missing.”
Unlike a lending library, the Fifth Avenue branch did not allow books to be checked out. It was a research library, where tomes and volumes remained on-site at all times, under the watchful eye of the librarians. The purpose was to keep the items safe from loss or damage, yet still allow the public access.
“The library has been overflowing with crowds,” Jack explained. “A good thing, certainly, but it means we’re not running as tight a ship as we should be. The librarians have assured me and Dr. Anderson they will be stricter with their oversight, and that two will be on shift at all times, so that when one has to retrieve a book, there’s another always there to keep watch. It’s a terrible, terrible loss.”
“What does it look like?” she asked.
“It’s got a gilt-decorated green cloth cover, and is quite fragile.”
“I’ll keep an eye out.”
“Thanks, love. They’ve brought in the library’s detective to assist in our search, a man named Edwin Gaillard. We don’t want this to become a habit, losing books, so it’s all hands on deck. I’m going to take a look around the Stuart Room.”
“This late?”
“It’s easier when everyone is gone. I don’t have to worry about upsetting the patrons or the staff.”
She offered to join him in the search.
Jack unlocked the door to the Stuart Room with the heavy set of keys he carried around with him at all times. When they first moved into the library, Harry had liked to shake them and burst into “Jingle Bells.”
The Stuart Room wasn’t nearly as large as the Main Reading Room, but it had generous dimensions all the same, filled with two rows of polished oak tables and brass lamps, a rectangle of skylight above. This was where scholars could study the more valuable objects in the library’s archives, including a Gutenberg Bible from the 1450s and Thomas Jefferson’s own copy of the Declaration of Independence. Not to mention a Shakespeare First Folio.
Together, they searched as best they could, the only sound the soft scuffing of books against each other, or the opening of a desk drawer.
As Jack went through the librarian’s desk for the second time, Laura looked over his shoulder and gave him a nudge. “You know the librarians were probably up in arms when it was discovered missing. I’m sure they’ve checked their drawers.”
He stood unexpectedly, pulling her close. The lamps had been lowered, but his eyes still picked up the reflection, shining brightly at her. “Cheeky girl. I’d like to check your drawers.”
She burst out laughing. “You have got to be kidding. Do you really think a line like that would work on a girl like me?”
“I see, now that you’re in graduate school, my lowly sense of humor no longer thrills?”
“To be honest, it works like a charm.”
They kissed like they used to, before the kids were born, before they’d wed, when kisses were pleasures to be stolen. This was one aspect of their relationship that hadn’t faded with time. He could still touch her in a way that left her gasping out loud, praying that her cries wouldn’t wake the children, just as he had when they were first intimate.
If only her family saw in him what she did. That he was a good, solid man. Maybe not a wealthy financier, but a good man nonetheless. Money wasn’t everything, although her father would certainly disagree.
She had finally gotten up the courage to introduce him to her parents at a Sunday luncheon, with a full warning to Jack that her father might be difficult. From an early age, he’d pointed out the travails of marrying a poor man, usually in front of her mother, who’d purse her lips and turn away. After the panic of 1896, his admonishments increased. While they’d suffered losses, they certainly weren’t poor in the true sense of the word. After all, Laura always had food to eat and a roof over her head, even if that roof was in dire need of fixing. Yet Laura knew better than to point out the water stains creeping along her bedroom ceiling.
After the crisis, Laura’s mother had been put on a strict allowance by her father, one that they squabbled over every Sunday evening. He expected a full accounting of how she’d spent the money, and Laura again knew better than to mention the hatboxes and other deliveries that came during the day while her father was at work and were quickly shepherded up to her mother’s suite.
The afternoon that Jack met the family, over a meal of fish soup and mutton, Laura was bursting with the happiness of having him by her side, of formalizing their situation. But her father had cut right to the quick.
“What field are you in, Mr. Lyons?” he’d asked without looking up from his soup.
“I plan to be a writer,” Jack replied.
“A writer of what?” He put down his spoon and motioned for the maid to collect the first course, even though the rest of them hadn’t finished.
“Literature.” Jack launched into the idea for his story, and Laura cringed inwardly. When he’d recounted it to her, over a picnic in the park, it had seemed brilliant, inspired. But now she saw it through the lens of her father’s judgment, and Jack’s fervor came across as boyish exuberance. Her mother, though, stepped in and began asking questions. The two laughed over writers they both disliked and purred over others they adored. Her mother, once again, saved the day.
That evening, they’d first made love, at his apartment in Morningside Heights. She’d been waiting for the moment for what seemed like ages, and now that her parents—or at least one of them—were on board, there was no need to wait any longer. He’d been careful and kind, and even though it hurt like the dickens, before long her body had craved him constantly, each moment they were apart only feeding her appetite more.
Up in the Stuart Room, Jack pulled her into another kiss, lifting her up onto the table and raising her skirts.
“What if someone sees?” Her head dropped back as he ran his hands along the insides of her thighs. Even through her stockings, her skin tingled at his touch.
“The night watchman doesn’t come up here until eleven.”
“And that means?”