The Book That Matters Most (35 page)

On that long-ago morning so many lives had been ruined: two lovers planning a new life, a woman scraping batter from a frying pan, a little girl reading a book beneath the shade of a tree.

Maggie finally broke the silence. “But it was an accident,” she said, so matter-of-factly that Ava answered without hesitation:

“Oh, it was. A terrible accident.”

When she looked at Hank, she saw tears in his eyes.

“How I wish my mother had realized that before she took her life,” Ava said softly.

“Yes, well, there are some things we cannot change,” Beatrice said brusquely.

Ava watched Hank watching her aunt.

“That's true,” Hank said. “And then there are things we can change.”

“Profound, Hank,” Beatrice said. “Perhaps you'll become a philosopher in your retirement.”

“Oh, no,” he said. “I'm still a detective.”

Maggie

Maggie, cross-legged on the bed, studied her mother's face: her brown hair just starting to streak with gray, her freckled chest above the scoop neck of a black t-shirt. She noticed for the first time that her mother's ring finger was bare, and the sight of that made Maggie's heart heavy. But the nails were still cut short and square, and her hands still moved with the same quick efficiency they did everything—comb tangles from hair, zip a snowsuit, touch a forehead to check for fever.

Her mother paused and cocked her head toward Maggie. “What are you looking at?” she asked.

“You,” Maggie said, her voice cracking. “My beautiful mother.”

“Oh, baby,” her mother said, and just like that she was at Maggie's side, those hands rubbing her back the way they had when Maggie was a little girl needing comfort from bad dreams or fits of loneliness.

“I want to take you home with me,” her mother said.

Maggie shook her head. “I need to do this myself. To stay here and make my own life. To not mess up this time.”

“I'll worry,” Ava said. “Every minute.”

“How could you not?” Maggie said. “You have no reason to trust me. But you'll see, Mom. I promise.”

Her mother sighed and returned to folding a nightgown, and placed it in the suitcase.

“What will you tell Dad?” Maggie asked her.

“That I saw you and you seemed well. And happy.”

Maggie smiled. “Thank you.”

“Don't be mad at him, Maggie.”

“He ruined your life!”

“Our lives are our own to ruin or not, I think. No one can do it for us.”

Her mother zipped the suitcase shut, then turned and pulled Maggie into a hug.

When her mother got into the taxi, she leaned out the window as it pulled away and yelled, “You will be fine, Maggie! I love you!”

Maggie stood beneath the umbrella her mother had given her, blowing kisses, even after the taxi disappeared in the traffic.

She took a deep breath.

Today, she thought, my life is starting.

Hank

Hank stood near the Musée de la Poupée on avenue Parmentier, watching the bookstore. The Musée de la Poupée was a doll hospital, and the window was filled with decapitated doll heads and random limbs. Unnerving. But he knew that eventually Charlotte would appear, and so he waited. Everything he'd learned from being a cop told him Beatrice was lying. Everything he knew in his gut told him she was lying. He was determined to stay and find Charlotte, no matter how long it took. Of course, he didn't tell Ava any of this. He pretended she'd been right all along, and allowed her to look smug and self-satisfied. Maybe,
he thought as he stood in a light drizzle, maybe she was even relieved. Because what do you do with a mother who you have believed was dead for most of your life? Forgive her? Hate her? Let her in?

T
hree days and no Charlotte.

He was missing something. Something important.

In his hotel room the next morning—three o'clock! Would he ever sleep through the night again?—Hank went over every detail about his time inside the shop, every detail about Beatrice. He closed his eyes and imagined the crowded aisles, the layout of the store, the back room. And then the upstairs apartment, he could see from the back stairs.

The room. Those beat-up sofas. The cluttered desk. The shelves of extra books. The file cabinets.

Out the window, there had been a yard.

Hank opened his eyes.

There had been a yard.

He smiled. And finally he slept.

T
he rue Deguerry was a small street that ran behind the avenue Parmentier, and the back of the bookstore faced the rue Deguerry.

When Hank finally woke up—after noon! He'd never slept that late in his life—and had his coffee, he did not go to his usual spot near the Musée de la Poupée. Instead, he went around to the rue Deguerry, where he stood facing the fence that bordered the backyard of the bookstore. That fence had a gate that opened
onto the street. And Hank knew that Charlotte was going to walk through that gate.

He leaned against a small wall across the street, and waited.

After only fifteen or twenty minutes, he heard footsteps coming down the street. He turned toward them.

An older woman was approaching. She had a kerchief over her white hair. A beige raincoat, belted at the waist. A purple scarf around her neck. She had on silver boots that stopped at the ankle. One of those net bags everyone here carried their groceries in, and from the top of that bag poked leeks and carrots. A worn leather satchel had papers practically spilling from it. The papers were all marked up in her own handwriting, like the pages of
From Clare to Here
that he'd seen so many years ago.
So she is still writing
, he thought as he watched her.

The woman saw him and stopped.

They looked at each other without saying anything for what seemed a lifetime.

Then she said three words: “Hank. At last.”

Ava

“Do you want me to tell them?” Cate asked Ava as they walked up Benefit Street to the library.

“Yes,” Ava said. “But I have to do it myself.”

When they walked in, Ava saw the sign Emma had made that read:
WELCOME TO PROVIDENCE, ROSALIND ARDEN!!!
with a copy of the cover of
From Clare to Here
in one corner and a quill pen drawn in another. Maybe Cate should tell them afterward. Maybe Ava could slip away.

Even worse, there was champagne and strawberries dipped in chocolate and a brie that was properly runny rather than hard and cold.

John came up to Ava almost immediately with a glass of champagne for her.

“She arriving on her own?” he asked.

“Not exactly,” Ava said.

Luckily, Cate started asking people to take their seats.

“Can you believe it?” Cate began. “Our year of The Book That Mattered Most is actually coming to an end tonight. We've traveled from Prague to East Egg, from Brooklyn to a small town in Alabama, from Russia to Victorian England, from New York City to Dresden to South America. What a wonderful year of books!”

They all applauded, even Ava. Cate was right. They had traveled far, and Ava knew that despite her rocky start, this group, these books, had changed her this year, just when she needed it.

“I want to announce our theme for next year, and of course get a commitment from you that you'll be back in this very room, the second Monday of every month, talking about books with me.”

“Excuse me?” Jennifer said. “Where's our special guest?”

“Ava will get to that as soon as I announce our theme for next year,” Cate said.

“Drum roll please,” Honor said.

Luke tapped out a drum roll on his chair, and everyone laughed.

“In 1888,” Cate said, “a French newspaper referred to Alfred Nobel as ‘the merchant of death' because he had invented dynamite. His intention was for it to end all wars, but instead it was viewed as a deadly product. Therefore, when he died, he left nine million dollars for the establishment of a prize given in six areas to those who conferred the greatest benefit to mankind. The first awards were presented in 1901, so you have a long
list to choose from for next year's theme: Nobel Prize-Winning Literature.”

Some people oohed and aahed.

“I've already got mine,” Diana announced. “Alice Munro.”

“Emma has a list of the winners for each of you,” Cate continued. “When we meet next month, you'll tell us your choices. Except Diana, of course. Who has already chosen Alice Munro.”

More laughter.

“We know that we have one spot to fill with the sad loss of Penelope Frost,” Cate said. “And to that end you can email me recommendations. I must ask, please raise your hand if you'll be returning next year.”

Everyone's hand went up immediately. Except Ava's. Would they still want her in the group when they heard what she had to say?

Ava stood and walked to the front of the room.

“Do you want me to stay up here with you?” Cate asked her.

“No,” Ava said. She squeezed her friend's hand. “This is for me to do.”

When Cate sat down, Ava cleared her throat, and let her eyes settle on each of them before she began.

“You probably noticed that Rosalind Arden isn't here,” Ava said with a nervous laugh.

She took a breath.

“Rosalind Arden died in 1971,” Ava said. “I thought I could find her, and I went all the way to Paris on a hunch someone had that she had staged her death and was living there. But Rosalind Arden is dead.”

“That's all right,” John said. “You didn't know. You tried.”

“But you told us back in January that she'd agreed to come,” Jennifer said.

“I know,” Ava said. “I shouldn't have. I was desperate. To be here. To fit in. To reread the book that truly did matter most to me.”

To Ava, the quiet in the room seemed louder than any noise.

“But the book,” Monique said. “
From Clare to Here
. It's a treasure. A gift you've given us.”

“It is?” Ava said.

“The underground, where she finds her dead daughter, represents its own unique thing for each of us. Do we choose darkness? Or light? To go on? Or to give up?” Diana said. “This book touched me in ways I can't even articulate.”

“It's about all the big themes. Life or death. Love and sacrifice. Grief and hope,” Honor said.

“At first,” Ruth said, “I wondered if a mother could actually do that. Leave her child behind and choose death. But I was ultimately convinced by the writing, and by the character of the mother. Her guilt over the death of her child prevented her from continuing as a mother or wife. She had no choice in a way, did she?”

“And her guilt was unfounded,” Kiki said.

“But when someone dies,” John said, “we blame ourselves, even when we are blameless. Why wasn't I home with her? What if 911 had been called sooner? The would haves, could haves, should haves can drive you crazy.”

“You all liked the book?” Ava said.

“I'm sorry the author died,” Luke said. “I had a list of questions for her. Like how did she know grief so well? And guilt?”

“I can answer that,” Ava said. “Rosalind Arden is a pen name for my mother, Charlotte North. In 1970, my little sister Lily fell out of a tree in our yard and died. My mother wasn't home, and she'd left Lily and me in the care of our aunt, who was in the
kitchen washing dishes when Lily fell. I tried to get Lily to come down. She'd climbed too high, and I was afraid of heights so couldn't go up after her. And just like that, Lily fell.”

“And where did you say your mother was?” Diana asked.

An image of Hank Bingham young and handsome in his uniform flashed through her mind.

“She was at work,” Ava said softly.

“And she wrote
From Clare to Here
?” Monique was saying. “That's remarkable.”

“She wrote it because she did it,” Ava said. Her voice grew stronger. “She wrote the book as a way, I think now, to explain to me why she would leave us and take her own life.”

“Oh, Ava,” John said.

Cate came up to Ava and put an arm around her shoulders.

“Thank you for sharing all of this with us,” Cate said.

“Yes,” Ruth said. “Thank you.”

And then they were clapping, all of them, even Monique, even John.

“I need a glass of that champagne,” Ava said.

“Great idea,” Diana said.

Emma had poured a glass for each of them, and as they all moved to the table, Diana raised hers.

“To Rosalind Arden!”

“Hear, hear,” a few people said.

Ava looked around at these people who had brought her into this group, who had watched her struggle and try and fail and, finally, stand here with them, more confident. Even, she realized, hopeful. She imagined the year ahead, watching movies at Kiki's and bringing in snacks one night and helping Diana through radiation after her surgery. She imagined books, dozens of them,
piling up on her shelves, growing dog-eared and worn, read and reread, highlighted and scribbled on. She imagined books and this book group getting her through whatever was coming next.

“Emma,” Ava said, “I need one of those lists. Of the Nobel Prize winners.”

Cate's eyes met Ava's.

Thank you
, Ava mouthed. She saw tears in Cate's eyes, but Cate quickly looked away.

The door opened then, and surprised by the intrusion, everyone looked toward it.

Hank Bingham walked in, looking big and uncomfortable. No longer that young handsome detective, still Ava could see what women had seen in him once—the way he held himself, the bright eyes and strong jaw, the easy smile.

Behind Hank was a white-haired woman, with a bright purple scarf around her neck and short silver boots on her feet.

“I haven't been in a library since tenth grade,” Hank said. “But this is where Ava North's book club thing meets, right?”

“Hank?” Ava said, confused. “What are you doing here?”