The Bookseller (35 page)

They sat quietly, all eyes on the fire, the ballet of orange heat entertaining them for a full minute, the crack and hiss of burning wood and occasional sips of whisky the only sounds.

Claudia sighed and slid to the floor, her back against Hugo's shins. He began to gently rub her good shoulder. Then she looked back at him.

“So why did you take so long to get here? You said Tom would want to hear about it.”

“Yeah, and I'm next with the back rub,” Tom said. “Where the hell were you? If I'd known you were going to be gone two fucking hours, I'd have taken her to bed.”

“Somehow I don't think you'd last two hours with me,” Claudia said.

They laughed, grateful for some humor, and Hugo began to tell them about his trip home. As he talked, Claudia turned so she could see him. The news that Gravois was in custody, and that Hugo had been the one to grab him, set off a round of toasts and hearty, soon drunken, congratulations.

After the fifth or six toast, Tom pulled himself to his feet. “I'll leave you two lovebirds alone. But before you go to bed, please make sure I haven't choked in my own vomit.”

“Delightful,” Hugo said. He pulled Claudia up off the floor onto the couch beside him. She draped her legs over his and snuggled in close.

“You know I couldn't tell you about Durand, right?”

“Of course, please don't worry about it.” They sat quietly for a moment. “I'm sorry about your father, you know that.”

“I do.” She sighed. “He'd be pleased that I have my front-page story.”

“About Gravois? He sure would.”

“You know, I do have something else to write about now. I think that will be a whole book, though.”

“Really? What's that?”

She looked at him. “You're tired, we can wait until tomorrow to talk about it.”

“No, tell me now. What's the story?”

“It's about the Second World War,” she said. “About the Resistance and the men who betrayed our French heroes to the Nazis.”

“Ah, I see.” He played along as she nuzzled him, her eyes closing. Hugo spoke softly. “You sure you don't want to stick to the Gravois story? There are already so many Word War Two tales that have already been written.”

“No, this one has not been done yet.”

“If you say so.”

“I do,” she said. “This one has it all. Intrigue and secrecy, trickery and deception. It features one of the most powerful men in French society, a count from one of the noblest of French families. It's a tale of great bravery and great cowardice, the tale of a terrifying secret that lay hidden for decades in the pages of a very old book.”

“Wow,” he whispered. “That's quite a story.”

“If you're good, you might get a mention in the acknowledgments section.” She settled deeper on the couch and her eyelids drooped.

“And when it's published,” Hugo said, “I want a first edition signed by the author.”

 

This is my first novel, and it has taken the support and encouragement of many people for it to see the light of day. First, I need to thank my family and friends. My father, who passed away this year knowing I was going to be published but without getting to see the final product, was the inspiration behind my main character, Hugo Marston. Hugo gets his moral compass, his nonjudgmental nature, his humor, and his all-around decency from my dad. And beside my father, always, was my mother, who believed in my ability and never wavered in her support and encouragement, who read and critiqued my writing, and who may not have known that the best compliment ever was “this reads like a real book.” And much love and gratitude to my brother, Richard, and sister, Catherine, always happy as clams when their brother does well, who have been supportive and eager to share this long and bumpy journey to publication.

I am particularly grateful to two fellow writers, Jennifer Schubert and Elizabeth Silver, for their tireless help and support and for their honest and invaluable critiques. Knowing you are there whenever I need support or a critical eye has been a godsend; you are both irreplaceable. And I'm grateful, too, to other writer friends who took the time to give me feedback as I was creating Hugo: Meredith Hindley, Cheryl Etchison, Vanessa Absalom-Mueller, J. E. Seymour, Todd Bush, Ken Hoss, Elena Giorgi, Ann Simko, and David Kazzie. And many thanks to these established authors, people far more talented than me, who were never too busy to give advice to a fledgling: David Lindsey, Jennifer Hillier, Steven Sidor, Carol Carr, and Bill Landay.

My thanks also to Glenn, of the rare booksellers Peter Harrington in London, for his help and advice on rare and used books.

Thanks, also, to my nonwriting friends who were as excited about this series as anyone and have been urging me on for, literally, years: Ryan Pierce, Conor Civins, Laura O'Rourke, Lisa Hobbs, Jessica Ghazal, Mark and Sheila Armitage, Todd and Allison Finch, Andy Baxter, Judge Mike Lynch, David Grassbaugh, Stephen Willott, Aaron Mueller, and two very gifted friends, the artist Donna Crosby and musical man Johnny Goudie.

Continuing thanks to Ann Collette, my agent, who has believed in me as a writer, in this novel, and in this series, from the very start. My small offerings of chocolate are in no way representative of my gratitude, they are but small tokens of my recognition of how hard you worked to knock Hugo into shape and then find a home for him.
Merci beaucoup
.

Likewise, to my editor Dan Mayer: thank you for plucking me from the pile and putting faith in me and in my writing. This is something of a new beginning for us both, a new journey, but long may it last.

To my three wonderful children, Natalie, Henry, and Nicola, who accompanied me on countless trips to the library or missed out on seeing me because I was there alone: I thank you for your patience and understanding. And, when you are old enough to read them, seeing one of my books in your hands will be a supreme delight, a reward in itself for all my work.

And, finally, my wife, Sarah, to whom this book is dedicated. There has been no stronger champion of my writing, no greater believer in me. No one has worked harder to bring Hugo to life than you. Year after year you gave me unqualified support and encouragement and you labored willingly and uncomplainingly through extra chores so that I had time to write, vacuuming around me, and just smiling when I failed to hear your question about dinner because I was lost in Paris with my imaginary friends. And because you are so unselfish in all things, you probably don't even know how brilliant you've been. Thank you, my love.

 

 

Mark Pryor is a former journalist from Hertfordshire, England, who now lives in Austin, Texas, with his wife and three children.