“Fifteen hundred,” he said, pursing his lips. “That’s less than what I paid for it.”
What made him think that she could afford a rare book? she wondered. Her old boss, Kevin Jennings, used to make fun of her fancy Princeton words and expensive clothes. Now and then, when she walked into shops, the salespeople thought she was a rich Japanese. Was that what Joseph thought, too? That she waited at an Upper East Side bus stop alongside the young heiresses on their way to jobs at auction houses, reading old novels and wearing showy dresses—of course, he must have thought she had money to spare. If she could spend a couple of hundred dollars on shoes, why couldn’t she buy a rare book?
No one had stopped by the store since she’d been there. The white-haired man had been kind to her, talked to her about books. She knew what it was like to have to make a sale.
“All right,” she said quietly. What she ought to do, she thought, is call Hugh Underhill and ask him to help her get an interview for a banking summer job that would pay a lot more than the market research job. But the Kearn Davis investment banking program would have been filled by now—it had to be. It was already May.
Casey plucked out her charge plate from her wallet, the one that had a two-thousand-dollar credit left. This would have been impossible to do in college, when she’d had to pay for things by cash or check. Curiously enough, Casey had never bounced a check, because that seemed like lying to her. She handed it to him.
“Oh, I’m so pleased,” he said. She’d gotten a wonderful deal. He liked the idea of her having it. Joseph wrapped the book in thin brown paper.
Casey took the package. “Thank you,” she said.
“I hope you will visit me again,” he said.
“Yes, and I’ll look for you at the bus stop,” she said.
Joseph checked her face. She didn’t look happy.
“Are you all right?” he asked, concerned.
“Yes, of course,” she answered. “I’d better be off.”
Outside the shop, the sharp ridges of the concrete pavement dug through the soft soles of her shoes. Casey hailed a taxi. She’d use her lunch money, because she didn’t want to be late. When she got to work, her manager, Judith, greeted her coolly. During her lunch hour, Casey went to Sabine’s office as usual to eat a cup of yogurt, and sitting there, she half listened to Sabine talk about the fall collection. Privately, she resolved to return the book to Joseph. Perhaps he would understand.
But the next morning, Casey left the book by her bedside table, and when her bus drove past the shop, which was closed on Sundays, she recalled how Joseph had walked over to the shelf to pick out that book for her. During the week, she went to school, and on Saturday morning, she spotted Joseph at the bus stop. He looked so jolly. They sat together on the bus until he got off across the street from his shop. He admired the hat she was wearing and told her funny stories about his wife, Hazel. She’d been crazy about hats and gloves. Casey couldn’t bring up the book.
The following Monday morning, Casey phoned Hugh Underhill at the office.
“Well, darling, hello there,” he said. “It’s good to hear your voice.”
“Hello, Hugh. . .” Casey laughed. He was indefatigable, impossibly buoyant. The last time she’d seen him was at her Kearn Davis send-off at Kuriya. Back in September, before school really got started. They’d spoken a few times since then but hadn’t gotten together as they’d planned. “Can you get me an interview for the banking program?” she asked.
Hugh laughed out loud. “Well, please don’t waste time on the niceties. How are you, Hugh? How’ve you been? The wife and kids? How’s your summer shaping up?”
“You don’t have any wife and kids,” she said.
“Maybe I got some. It’s been a while since we last saw each other.”
“It hasn’t been that long.”
“It’s been”—Hugh toted up the months in his head—“almost nine months! See, I could have a child.”
“You must have missed me enormously to carry on this way.” Casey counted the time elapsed herself, and he wasn’t off. Was it possible that he’d gotten married? The idea that Hugh could marry at all was just too implausible. “Anyway, can you let me know if you can or cannot help?”
Hugh paused. In his head he counted eight Mississippis—his lucky number. Women hated being misled, and they hated waiting. He wanted to torture Casey. Just a little.
“It’s kinda late, don’t you think?” he said. “Tell me, did hubris strike again? Is that why you didn’t call sooner?”