The St. John’s College Library loomed large before me, a square brick building trimmed in white that had once been the Maryland Hall of Records. Now extensively remodeled, the dark, claustrophobic lobby of the old state archives had been transformed by an atrium that suffused the building with light. A grand staircase bisected the atrium, where counters of variegated granite contrasted attractively with warm cherrywood shelves. Interior windows offered glimpses of the main reading room and portions of the book collections just on the other side of the wall. I felt marginally cheered and decided it wouldn’t be such a hardship to work at St. John’s full-time.
I nodded to the circulation assistant on duty, then passed through the glass-enclosed office of the assistant librarian, through a workroom, and into a room they had assigned me in the southeast corner of the building. There the Bromley books lay stacked on carts and strewn about on a round gateleg table. From overhead, light fixtures like ice cube trays cast a stark, white light over my project. I draped my coat over a chair and decided to see what I could find out about childhood sexual abuse. I tapped the terms into the library’s online catalog, but got no meaningful results, unless you count an obscure book about a case of child abuse in the eighteenth century, a handful of books about Sigmund Freud and something by Piaget. Not surprising for a college whose curriculum is based on concentrated study of the classics, like Aristotle, Copernicus, and Descartes, in their original texts.
I launched Netscape instead, typed the terms into Lycos.com, and sat back in my chair, stunned by the enormity of it all. I needed some way to narrow down this mountain of information. I needed an expert, is what, someone to sort through all the gobbledegook, but I didn’t know any experts and I didn’t feel like waiting around for Paul to locate Iris Templeton.
I was resting my chin on my hands, staring at a bronze bust of Dante Alighieri on a tall cabinet and thinking how little he resembled my son-in-law, Dante, when a student aide poked her head through the door. “Coffee’s fresh.”
I looked up, startled. “Thanks, Laurie. I’ll get some in a minute.”
“Done!” She held out a mug of steaming coffee.
“You read minds?” I set the mug on a folded paper towel so as not to spoil the finish on the antique table.
She chuckled. “Daily.” She took several seconds to look around the cluttered workroom. “So, tell me what you’re doing.”
I turned away from the computer, blanking the screen almost guiltly, and pointed to the books.
“Well, first I sorted them by publication date, but the British, German, and Japanese editions of any particular title all came out in different years, so that got messy. Finally, I decided to put them in alphabetical order by English title, but that wasn’t easy either.” I picked up two books, one in each hand-Tangled Web and A Talent to Deceive. “Look. Here are two editions of the same novel.” I waved the British edition in the air. “You wonder what could have been wrong with a title like Tangled Web that would compel Bromley’s American publisher to change it.”
“You got me.” Laurie pivoted on her heel and headed toward the door. “Well, back to work. I live to shelve!”
I looked closely at the book in my hand. Tangled Web, I noticed, had first been published in 1949. On the cover a raven-haired beauty appeared caught in a giant spiderweb, her hand splayed palm out before her face, her mouth a bright red “O.” Oh, lady. I know just how you feel. I turned the book over. Pictured on the back, in a casual pose with a Jack Russell terrier, was Ms. Bromley. She had been a handsome woman in ’49. I wondered if she still wore her hair in that postwar bob, brushed back from her forehead and curled softly around her ears.
The next book on the cart had hit the best-seller list thirty years later-Triple Jeopardy. It was the sailboats pictured on the cover that first intrigued me. I turned to the jacket flap, curious if the boats had anything to do with the plot or were just some illustrator’s fantasy:
When Tony met Amy on a package tour of Mexico, he thought he’d found the girl of his dreams. How could he know, when she became his bride three months later, that he’d married Lisa and Veronica, too. Soon Tony’s quiet world was turned into a nightmare of doubt and suspicion when her memories of a troubled childhood, long suppressed, threatened not only his marriage but his life.
There was more about an illegal adoption and a missing will, but it barely registered. I skimmed quickly through the pages. Amy believed she had been sexually abused by her uncle. It wasn’t until after the poor man committed suicide that Amy and the reader learned it wasn’t true. I sat and digested that bit of cheerful news. I wondered if the novel had been based on a true story. Ms. Bromley was famous for her meticulous research. She’d often spend months gathering background material before she began writing. If this Amy character was anything like Georgina, maybe Ms. Bromley could offer me some real-life background information or point me in the right direction. I decided a visit to Ginger Cove was in order.
When I telephoned, saying I wanted to talk to her about her books, Ms. Bromley surprised me by inviting me to join her for lunch. Thanking my lucky stars that I didn’t have to punch time clocks anymore, I hurried out Riva Road, turned left at the big Greek church, and wound down the narrow road that led to the waterfront retirement community.
Ms. Bromley’s apartment was on the second floor of building eight. When I knocked, she opened the door so quickly I thought she might have been standing just behind it, waiting. She was of average height and wore a simple dark blue skirt and a pink turtleneck. A colorful silk scarf was held together at her breast by a silver slide. Her hair was a little shorter than in her book jacket photo, slightly curlier, and almost entirely gray.
“Ms. Bromley?” I extended my hand.
She grasped it firmly. “Delighted to meet you, my dear.” Behind her I glimpsed a small, comfortably furnished living room. Just beyond was a dining nook, where dozens of flowering plants hung on hooks or were arranged on racks under an enormous bay window. A cheerful kitchen was on my left. I was puzzled that the counters were spotless, with no sign whatsoever of lunch being prepared.
Ms. Bromley opened a closet and pulled a gray wool cardigan from its hanger. “Let’s talk over lunch. I’m starved.” She followed me into the hall, pulled the door behind her, and jiggled the knob to make sure it locked. “Don’t know why I didn’t move here years ago,” she confided as we strolled down the hall. “A certain number of meals in the residents’ dining hall come with the price of admission,” she told me, a smile spreading across her face. “I can cook or not. Mostly it’s not.”
We continued down the carpeted corridor to an elevator, which carried us, with excruciating slowness, to the ground floor. When it finally disgorged us, I sprinted ahead to hold the door, more out of politeness than any need to assist Ms. Bromley, who was the spriest eighty-two-year-old I had ever seen.
She breezed past. “When it rains, I can get to the dining room through the corridors of the building.” She waved a hand. “They’re all connected. But it’s so beautiful out today.” She stopped and turned her face full into the sun, eyes shut. “Ahhhh! I can’t wait for spring.” She resumed her purposeful pace over the sidewalk that crossed the croquet field, and I scurried to keep up. “I discovered people are either summer people or winter people. Which are you, Mrs. Ives?”
“Call me Hannah, please.” I paused for a moment, considering her question. “Summer,” I said. “Definitely summer. In fact, if anyone ever tells you that I’ve retired to Maine, you will know that aliens have come and taken over my body.”