She leaned to read the invitation without reaching for it. “The Bower Room, as you’ll see on the plaque by the entrance, was the private library of millionaire Joseph Winthrop. Most of his books still reside on his handcrafted shelves. The leather chairs and desk were also his. Beyond that door is another world. One captured in time. Where you stand now was the foyer, living room, and dining hall of the great mansion he built in 1888.”
“Winthrop. The same Winthrop of Winthrop Industries on the Upper West Side?” The family were college donors. Renée mentioned them from time to time.
“One and the same. Do go on in. Make yourself comfortable. There are many first editions, signed, on Joseph’s shelves.”
“I don’t understand. Why did I get this?” Jett waved the card at her. “Just to view the books?”
She smiled with an expression that calmed Jett in some deep interior place. “Go on in. Discover your story.”
She gathered her books and disappeared behind a door marked Private.
Discover your story? What was she talking about? More intrigued than bothered by this mystery, Jett headed for the door marked The Bower. Maybe he’d find some first editions. Or discover an author history had forgotten.
Then he’d head home. Fall asleep on the sofa watching Monday-night football. Since the divorce, he rarely slept in their bed. At first it was too painful, then just a reminder of his stupidity.
The Bower was as she said. Another world. Crossing the threshold, Jett entered the nineteenth century.
The ambient glow of wall sconces flickered as if true gas flames. Breathing in, he caught a hint of pipe smoke and brandy. And the ever-pleasing fragrance of bound books.
Stepping farther inside, he could almost hear the echoing voices of the men and women who must’ve graced this space.
The room wasn’t large, more rectangular than square. The western-facing windows brought in the setting sunlight along with the sights and sounds passing along Sixth Avenue.
As in the main library, the walls were constructed of book-laden shelves.
A circle of chairs graced the center. Five in all. Jett dropped his backpack into the nearest armchair and moved to the plaque on the wall by the window.
The library is all that remains of Joseph Winthrop’s Gilded Age mansion. Walls were removed between the formal living and dining room to create the main library. The restrooms are in the same location as the original water closets. You are standing in Joseph’s personal library, the Bower Room, where he shelved first editions and held literary, political, and religious discussions on a weekly basis.
Teddy Roosevelt, Franklin and Eleanor Roosevelt, Calvin Coolidge, and the prince of Wales were among his guests. But his favorites were the authors of his day. Mark Twain, Virginia Woolf, C. S. Lewis, and Gordon Phipps Roth.
GPR? Jett swung around almost expecting to see the tall, lean, bearded man awaiting him in a shadowy corner. He imagined what kind of debate he’d start.
“Who was greater, Twain or Tolstoy?”
He moved toward the bookshelves and read the spines. Dickens, Whitman, Muir, Yeats, and Woolf. Gold-leaf first editions.
“I’ve gone to heaven.”
Behind him, on the front wall, was a writing desk next to a white stone fireplace, where a small wood fire burned. A bit warm for a fire tonight, but Jett liked the ambience it created.
Opposite the desk stood an upright cabinet containing china and several old pictures.
Easing down in his chair, Jett grinned. Heaven. At least his version of it. He just wanted to sit and take it all in as the weariness of the arrest, the pressures of his job, the failure of his novel faded away.
The room enchanted and inspired him. Eyes closed, Jett listened again for the voices of the past. Perhaps Gordon would speak.
“Absurd! I’d never use a ghostwriter. I am who I am.”
Jett sat forward, eyes opened. Of course he never used a ghostwriter. Such a ruse would ruin his reputation, his name, his work.
Gordon had lectured all over the world. His stories had inspired millions for more than a hundred years.
Jett slapped his palm against the leather arm. This room could be his new haunt. He’d stop by on his way home from the college, rest among his “peers” before heading home. Maybe he’d work on his manuscript about Gordon in this very room. He had time Thursday afternoon.
“Excuse me. Is this the story society?”
Jett launched to his feet as an exquisite woman with bone-china features and blonde waves twisting over her shoulders stepped inside.
“Um, yes.” Move, man. Don’t just stare. “I’m Jett Wilder.” He offered his hand.
“Coral Winthrop.” Her velvety-smooth hand shook his. “What’s this all about?”
She tossed her hair over her shoulders as she dropped her bag into one of the chairs. It was probably Jett’s imagination, but it seemed the flames in the fireplace kicked a bit higher for a better look of this beauty.
This weird story society was looking more and more intriguing.
“You tell me.” He pointed to the wall mount, gathering his wherewithal to act like a normal, decent man. He’d seen beautiful women before. Married one in fact. “Winthrop? Same as on the plaque? On buildings and billboards?”
“Joseph was my great-great-grandfather. I assume you sent the invitation. I don’t really know why I’m here. I just, I don’t know . . .” She gave the bookshelves her attention.
“Actually no. I received an invitation as well.” Now she looked at him.
“I asked my father if he knew what was going on, but he didn’t have a clue. I haven’t been in here since I was a girl.” She smiled for the first time and tucked her hands into the pockets of her flowing slacks.
“This is my first time. I may never leave. What do you know about your grandfather’s collection of—”
“Story society? Sorry I’m late.” An older gentleman with deep-set blue eyes and a thick shock of salt-and-pepper hair entered, carrying a bulky black case and holding up a cream-colored invitation. “Got waylaid at work. I’m the superintendent for my co-op and—” He glanced at Coral, then Jett. “Guess you don’t care to hear about my job. Do I take any chair?” He cut through the ring and chose a seat opposite Jett.
“Jett Wilder.” He extended his hand. “This is Coral Winthrop. Her ancestors built this place.”
“Nice to meet you.” He shook Jett’s hand and nodded at Coral before sitting with the box on his lap. “Ed Marshall. Who’s in charge?”
“We have no idea.”
The old man made a face. “Look, I got a story to write and when I got this here invitation I wondered if all the saints and angels were telling me to get moving. But if this is just a waste of time—”
“What kind of story are you writing?” Jett said, feeling his way, using his expertise in the world of words and story to engage the man. He was sweet. Almost innocent.
“Did you send the invitation?” Ed snapped open his case to reveal a circa 1920s Underwood typewriter.
“No, I’m as flummoxed as you, Ed.” Jett leaned to see the ancient machine. “You know they make electronic typewriters now. Call them computers or laptops.”
Coral snickered behind her hand. Ed scowled as he set the case on the floor next to his chair.