“Isn’t the charade exhausting?”
Bobbie looked incredibly sad. “Of course. But when it’s over, Stan’ll be gone for good. I’ve got a kid in college and a kid in grad school. Pretty soon, it’ll just be me in the house.”
“Rent the garage apartment to a library intern. Or invite visiting professors to stay with you,” Nora suggested. “They’d love to break bread with the great and powerful Roberta Rabinowitz. At least Columbia’s smart enough to know what a gem they have in you.”
Bobbie scowled. “Oh, people have tried to get rid of me a dozen times over the years, but I wouldn’t have it. That library is my third child, and no one fights budget cuts like a mother protecting her child.” She laughed. “Not to brag, but the blue bloods on the board know better than to mess with me. I’ve helped too many scholars complete their research, secured hundreds of thousands of dollars in gifts, and doubled our holdings. I’ll be there until I draw my last breath. I want to meet God smelling of parchment, lampblack, and the vanilla mustiness of old books. God will smile when he smells the perfume of my library.”
A comfortable silence followed this pleasant image. The women looked at each other, grinned, and then laughed out loud.
“Man, I sure hit the roommate jackpot freshman year,” said Nora. “Only in my wildest dreams would I be matched with a book person, but I was. Not just a reader, but a book enthusiast. Someone who wanted to learn about their history and construction. How to preserve and restore them. How to archive, collect, promote, and immortalize them. Remember those crazy lists we used to make?”
“Which three Jazz Age authors we’d sleep with? Which Romantic poets? Shakespeare characters? Gothic villains were my personal fave.” Bobbie raised her glass. “Best six years of my life.” Deflating suddenly, she lowered her glass. “Six years. We haven’t talked for the same amount of time it took us to earn two degrees.”
The weight of those years hung between them. The air in the room changed. It felt like a thick thundercloud hovered over the women’s heads, smothering their merriment.
Back in college, Nora would have searched for a literary quote to express her current mood. It was how she and Bobbie dealt with bad grades, disappointing dates, or other woes.
To address her current feelings, Nora might repeat Lewis Carroll’s statement that he couldn’t return to yesterday because he was a different person then. Bobbie might respond with the CS Lewis quote, “You can’t go back to the beginning, but you can start where you are and change the ending.”
But they weren’t college students anymore. They were middle-aged women with gray hairs and cellulite. They were battle-scarred and world wise. And this wasn’t the time for literary games.
“How did you figure out that it was me?” Nora finally asked.
Bobbie leaned back in her chair and sighed. “Seriously? A sheriff from a small, remote North Carolina town contacts me to see if I can identify a page from an old book. Puh-lease. Librarians know me. Historians know me. Collectors know me. Book people know me. But how would a small-town sheriff come to hear of me? That’s the first question I asked Sheriff McCabe.”
“Ah,” said Nora.
“If you really wanted to hide, why use your maiden name? You were already borrowing from Ibsen, so why not be Nora Helmer?”
Nora shrugged. “I always liked my maiden name, and I regretted my decision to give it up when I got married. It made me happy to reclaim it. But let’s get back to you. After McCabe told you my name, you packed a bag and boarded a plane? Just like that?”
“I asked the sheriff to describe you first, but yeah, that’s what happened,” said Bobbie. A humorous glint reappeared in her eyes. “I think he has the hots for you. When I asked for a physical description, he gave me the standard cop answer. Mid-forties, five foot eight, brunette, et cetera. But he didn’t stop there. He also said that you’re smart and caring, and that your bookshop is the heart and soul of the town. I knew this brilliant book woman had to be you.”
“So you called in sick and drove to LaGuardia?”
“Newark, actually. And I didn’t need to call in sick. I have a billion vacation days saved because I don’t go anywhere.” Bobbie cast a mournful glance at her empty wineglass. “Family trips and romantic getaways are a thing of the past. I’ll do a girl’s weekend every now and then, but I never miss work.”
Nora walked into the kitchen and rummaged around in the pantry. When she pulled out a wine bottle, Bobbie cried, “That a girl!”