Illuminated (10 page)
Authors: Erica Orloff
“But why would your son do that?” I asked. “You didn’t do anything to him.”
“Maybe I did.” She smiled ruefully. “I couldn’t protect him from his father’s plans for him. He expected so much of James. He was a rather cold and ruthless father. And all my interventions came to naught.”
I thought of my father’s plans for me. I wondered if my mother hadn’t died of cancer, whether she would have been able to protect me from his controlling ways.
“Worst of all, I wasn’t able to find any hard proof that the book belonged to Astrolabe before the divorce proceedings started. I’d never been able to prove that my suspicions were correct.”
“Miriam,” I asked, “do you feel sure the book belonged to Astrolabe?”
“I do. There are words that speak of his parents’ love affair, of their near destruction of each other. And they very nearly did destroy each other until they found the intellectual side to their relationship again in later life. After the sexual side had been stolen from them by Fulbert. And now no one will ever know that it’s Astrolabe’s book.”
“We know. And we can get the proof,” August said, a passion in his voice. “We can trace the history.”
“And you could help us, Miriam,” I chimed in.
She seemed to brighten. “Well . . . the obvious place to start would be with Etienne, but I am certain he has never forgiven me for not writing back.”
“You never did?” August asked.
“No. What could I say?”
“But we have to try, Miriam. How can we get in touch with Etienne?” August asked.
“He lives in Paris. He knows the original bookseller, the original owner’s family. Or, he did. It’s been a few years.”
“Then we have to go to Paris,” August said firmly.
I stared at him. Paris. Us? “Yes!” I practically squealed. More than anything I wanted to go to Paris with August, and follow the trail of A. But . . . Uncle Harry, my father. Would they even let us go? I tried to stamp down the doubts creeping into my head and concentrate on the adventure ahead of us.
“Miriam . . . you should come, too,” August urged.
“Yes, come with us.”
“Full of hope, aren’t you?” She smiled. “Good. All girls your age should be. But no, I think I will stay here. My chance at love—and the book—have passed.”
I wanted to argue with her, but I felt August squeeze my hand. Maybe it was better—for now—to leave it alone. But I was certain if we were able to find Etienne, I would tell him in person that Miriam still loved him. That he was her soul mate.
9
The night wind speaks her name.—A.
M
iriam called the ferry service. No ferries would leave that day . . . or night. The storm raged on. I dialed Uncle Harry from my cell and told him that August and I were staying the night at Miriam’s.
iriam called the ferry service. No ferries would leave that day . . . or night. The storm raged on. I dialed Uncle Harry from my cell and told him that August and I were staying the night at Miriam’s.
“How convenient,” he teased. “Now listen to me, if your father had any inkling you were out there on Long Island in a beachfront house without supervision, with a sexy college student, he’d have my head. With good reason. So behave. For my sake. And yours.”
I sat on a bed in one of Miriam’s guest bedrooms, tracing the outline of pale blue on a quilt.
“Well, unless you want me to swim home, we’re stuck here. I practically hurled my coffee on the ferry on the way over here. I just didn’t think the weather was going to be this bad.”
“And now you’re stranded, with the smart and devilishly handsome August, in a secluded beach house. I can just imagine what your father will say.”
“Shut up,” I whispered, hoping the walls weren’t so thin that August could hear. “First of all, Miriam is here. It’s not like there’s no adult here. And my father doesn’t have to know.”
“Behave yourself, Calliope.” I could hear his “stern” voice.
“All right, you’ve made your
point,
” I snapped.
point,
” I snapped.
“I’m responsible for you this summer.”
“I said . . . zip it.”
“All right, but tell me what you two learned about the Book of Hours.”
“Miriam thinks A. is Astrolabe.”
“Heloise and Abelard’s son?”
“You know who he is?”
I heard him laugh. “Yes, Callie. I’m an illuminated manuscript expert, but I was a history major in college, and . . . my master’s and PhD are in medieval history. I know who Astrolabe is, even if no one knows what happened to him. He’s a historical footnote. A cipher. So this A.—
our
A.—is Astrolabe?”
our
A.—is Astrolabe?”
“Miriam thinks so.” I recounted the entire story, almost word for word.
“Incredible!”
“I know.”
“Wait . . . is that you sounding excited about a manuscript? One of those old goat-skin things from the freezing cold and boring auction house?”
“Yes. That’s me being incredibly excited. I never knew it could be this exciting. But to know for sure, August thinks we have to take a trip.”
“Someplace good?”
“Yes.”
“Passports required?”
“Yes. Paris.”
“The City of Light. Score one for romance! Of course, we’ll have to get
that
past your dad, too.”
that
past your dad, too.”
“He just
has
to let me go. Please, Uncle Harry. Talk him into it.”
has
to let me go. Please, Uncle Harry. Talk him into it.”
“I’ll try. You know how he is . . . Callie?”
“Yeah?”
“If this really is Astrolabe’s book . . . it’s the find of a lifetime. It’s something I’ve been waiting for my whole life.”
“I know.” I smiled. The idea of Uncle Harry stumbling onto something so special made me smile. “You deserve it.”
“Thanks, sweetie. You have a good night. But not
too
good. Give Miriam my best.”
too
good. Give Miriam my best.”
“She’s really great, Uncle Harry. It makes me sad that she’s been through so much.”
“It would be nice if we could somehow get the book back to her.”
“I know.”
I closed my cell phone, got up from the bed, and walked downstairs to the kitchen. Miriam was preparing pasta with basil, garlic, olive oil, and tomatoes. Her hair was wet.
“I wasn’t expecting that this would turn into a slumber party,” she said, laughing. “I keep a kitchen garden out back. Brought in plum tomatoes and basil. Should be delicious.” She chopped at a cutting board on the island in the kitchen.
“I’m so sorry about this,” I said. “I feel terrible us putting you out like this.”
“Nonsense. I don’t get company too often.”
I bit my lip.
“What?” She looked at me.
“Nothing. I . . . I guess I just wondered if you ever get visitors from your old life?”
“My daughter comes occasionally, unbeknownst to her brother and father. With her father gone, I expect that we’ll see each other a little more. And I have several old, dear friends whom I go to the city to visit from time to time. We go to the Metropolitan Museum of Art. And in summer, of course, I get a few visitors for the beautiful beach. But to be honest, I like the solitude, though I am certainly glad for your company.”
“Can I help you with anything?” August asked, as he walked into the kitchen.
“No. You and Callie just go over to the table and sit. I like having people to cook for. I used to cook all the time, you know. Other wives in our social circle had personal chefs. But I liked cooking. It was the one connection Thomas and I kept. I cooked for him even when he was awful to me. It was a way, I suppose, to keep our marriage alive. To spoil him a little.”
“I cook for my dad,” August said.
“Professor Sokolov?” she asked.
“You know him?”
“Know of him. He’s . . .” She left the comment hanging there.
“He’s the one who doesn’t leave the house.” August smiled sadly, like he was used to people knowing that about his father.
“Yes.” Miriam turned to face him. “He doesn’t leave the house. But he’s absolutely brilliant. I own all his books.” She looked directly at August, her eyes bright, warm. I liked her even more for her kindness to August just then.
“That smells great,” I said, watching as she fussed over a pan.
“And tell me,” she said. She tossed garlic into the olive oil. “How long have you two been involved?”
I felt my cheeks turn bright red. “We’re not really . . . involved. We just met a few days ago.”
“Yes, we are,” August said. “It’s like fate this summer. A. brought us together.”
Miriam sighed. “I remember that feeling of fate. I felt it once with Thomas. But I was wrong about him. I only experienced it one other time, with Etienne.” She paused before putting the tomatoes into the sizzling oil.
“It’s not too late, Miriam. Come to Paris with us,” I urged.
“Yes!” August said. “Come with us.”
She shook her head. “I think I’m meant to just live out my days alone. But I can be happy for you two on the hunt of this great find.”
She finished cooking. I felt so horrible for her. Love wasn’t supposed to be that way.
The three of us sat down to eat. Miriam lit a candle. The storm continued to howl.
Miriam asked us about school, our hobbies and interests. She asked about my parents.
“My mother died of cancer when I was a little girl. I don’t really remember her.” I had some memories, but they were all mixed up with Harry’s stories. “I know . . . I know she and my father weren’t happy with each other. And that he and Uncle Harry fought for a long time after she died. I think Harry really would have loved to raise me. Especially since my father travels a lot. And he’s really not terribly cut out to be a dad. But now they have an uneasy truce. Dad works all the time, and I spend summers with Harry. One week of the summer, my grandmother on my mother’s side flies in from Toronto, where she lives with her husband. I don’t know him well at all; they just got married about four years ago.” Really, I’d met him once or twice, and that was it. “So I still have ties to my mom, and her family. And Dad . . .” My voice trailed off. “My dad and I . . . we avoid each other. He’s currently with girlfriend I’ve-Lost-Count and contemplating getting engaged.”
“Do you think he will?” she asked gently.
“He’s gotten engaged three times and never gone through with it.” I laughed slightly. “The breakups are always ugly. But no, I don’t know that he will get married to this one. Why ruin a perfect record? Plus it’s not like he cares what I think.”
“Maybe your mother was the love of his life?” Miriam suggested.
“I don’t know. It doesn’t sound like they had a single thing in common but me.”
“Love can be a mystery,” she said. “I often think of Heloise and Abelard. Their love spanned decades and morphed and changed, faced tragedy . . . and produced a child, and still endured.”
“I don’t know,” I said. “I think people do crazy things for love.” I thought about August. How from the moment I set eyes on him, I felt this crazy connection. Love made no sense.
“It does seem to render most of us temporarily insane,” she said, shaking her head. “Now, listen, you two came here to find out about the book. But you must promise me that you will come back when it’s sunny and beautiful, for no other reason than to go to the beach, and find sea glass, and swim.”
“Promise,” I said. “I love the beach but don’t get to go often.”
We ate our supper quietly, when the lights suddenly flickered. Then the power went out completely. We were illuminated only by the candle.
“My . . .” Miriam said. “A hazard of living on this island. I don’t think they’ll be on again before morning. Not with the storm.” She stood and walked to the cabinets and retrieved more candles and flashlights.
She lit several more vanilla-scented candles and placed them throughout the kitchen and the living room. After dinner, we sat and watched the night storm through the tall living room windows. The rain continued to lash, and leaves and tree branches were blown to the ground.
“It’s almost like a movie,” I said. “Look at it.”
“I usually love the rain,” Miriam said. “But this . . . this is a tad scary. I’m sorry you two are stuck here, but I’m grateful for the company.”
I looked over at August. “Me, too.”
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