Late on Monday morning Daisy was in her office working on an outline to submit to Mark John about a proposed article when he poked his head around the door. His mouth was set in a thin line and his eyes flashed.
“What’s wrong?” Daisy asked. She didn’t feel like dealing with one of Mark John’s moods just then.
“Brian’s here,” he hissed. “I don’t want to see him.”
“So what do you want me to do about it?” she asked. She was pretty sure she knew what he wanted.
“The receptionist buzzed me to let me know even before he was fully in the vestibule. She didn’t even wait to see what he wants. Would you talk to him?”
“We’ve tried that, Mark John. You do this all the time. He wants to talk to you, not me.”
“Please, Daisy. Just this one last time. If he doesn’t give up, I’ll talk to him the next time. I promise.”
“All right,” Daisy said with a sigh.
“Thanks.” Mark John disappeared before Daisy had a chance to change her mind. She pressed the button on her intercom to talk to the receptionist.
“Can you send Brian Comstock back here to talk to me?” she asked. She didn’t know whether to hope Brian would talk to her or wouldn’t talk to her.
“I’m sending him back,” the receptionist replied a moment later.
There was a knock on her open door and Brian stood in the doorway. He had a package in his hand. Daisy invited him into her office and he sat across her desk from her.
“What brings you here, Brian? I’m sorry Mark John isn’t available to talk to you right now.”
Brian crossed his legs and fixed Daisy with a resigned look. “I actually came here to see you today, Daisy. It’s become obvious to me that Mark John is avoiding me and that he has no intention of talking about the diary.”
It took you this long to figure it out? Daisy wondered, trying to keep her eyes from rolling.
“I’m afraid I can’t speak for him, Brian. I found the diary fascinating.”
Brian nodded and cleared his throat. “I thought so. That’s why I brought along something else I thought you’d like to see,” he said, sliding the package across her desk. It was wrapped in brown paper and tied with a red and white string.
“What is it?” Daisy asked, accepting the package and reaching into her desk drawer for scissors.
“It’s called a dime novel. The Library of Congress has a huge collection of dime novels, probably the biggest collection in the world, and I know how fascinated you are with library collections. Being an anthropologist and all,” he added.
“I know a little something about dime novels. They were popular around the turn of the twentieth century,” Daisy said.
“I believe that’s correct.”
“And where did you find this one?” she asked.
“This one is on its way to the Library of Congress collection and I thought you might like to get a look at it first.”
“Thank you. It was nice of you to think of me. I would love to read through it. When do you need it back?”
“Take your time. I’ll make sure it gets to the proper place when you’re done with it.”
Daisy removed the string from the package and slid the book from its paper wrapping. One of the first things she noticed was the date on the cover of the novel—1910. Before touching it she reached into the desk drawer and drew out a pair of white gloves just like the ones at her apartment. Brian watched her curiously.
“These are so the oils from my skin don’t get on the paper and degrade it,” she explained, noting his questioning look. “I always keep a pair nearby just in case.”
“Excellent idea,” he said.
Daisy pulled on the gloves and gingerly touched the cover of the dime novel. It was orange with black print. It looked almost like newspaper print. There was a small pen and ink sketch on the front and several titles down the left side corresponding with page numbers on the right.
“Dime novels were the forerunners of today’s paperbacks,” she said.
She turned the cover to reveal the first page in the book. It was an advertisement for the company that published the book, Adams and Sons, a New York City firm that had been a popular publisher of dime novels.
“From what I understand, the paper the publishers used to print the books was very poor quality, so that’s why relatively few dime novels exist today,” she continued.
“This is the only one I’ve ever seen,” Brian said.
“It’s a shame they were printed on such lousy paper because more dime novels could have been preserved if the paper had been higher quality,” Daisy said, rubbing her thumb across the print on the page. She picked up the book and smelled it.
“Why did you do that?” Brian asked.
“Just to see if I can detect a musty odor. If there is one, that means the book has been exposed to mold or mildew. In that case, I would tell you to take it over to the Library of Congress right away so they can start putting the book on microfilm before it’s destroyed, but luckily I don’t smell anything but paper. Old paper.”
She continued sharing with Brian what little she knew about dime novels. “Of course, the appeal of the dime novels was that they were cheap—about a dime apiece, hence the name ‘dime novels.’ That’s how the publishers were able to get them into the hands of so many readers, and particularly young women and the poor. That wouldn’t have happened if the paper had been more expensive.”
“I just thought you might find this interesting,” Brian said, standing up. “Once you read it give me a call and tell me what you think of it.” Daisy’s mind was working furiously. Should she ask him about losing his job? About how he felt when he found out Walt had spilled his secret to the administration?
She opened her mouth to say something, but she couldn’t bring herself to ask about it. Instead she said, “I will. Just don’t expect a call too soon.”
She watched Brian leave and noticed that he turned toward the main reception area instead of heading in the direction of Mark John’s office. Maybe Mark John is off the hook for now. What is wrong with me? Why can’t I just confront him about what he did?
Once Brian left Daisy was able to immerse herself in work again until she looked at the clock and was startled to see that it was after five. She stood up and was packing up her tote bag when Jude walked in.
“Don’t you ever knock?” Daisy grumbled, half to herself. Jude appeared not to have heard her.
“I came in to see if you’d like to go out for dinner. Somewhere nearby,” Jude said.
“Oh. Well, um,” Daisy hesitated, frantically trying to come up with an excuse not to go anywhere with Jude. But she was flustered and couldn’t come up with anything fast enough. “What restaurant did you have in mind?”
“There’s a nice place not far from here called Tom Collins. It’s a bar, but they have yummy food and a great happy hour. We could go there.”
“All right,” Daisy said, suppressing a sigh. She had replaced the paper cover on the dime novel and slid it into her bag between two notebooks. “Let’s go.”
The two women didn’t say much as they walked to Tom Collins. Daisy couldn’t imagine what had possessed Jude to want to go out after work. It wasn’t like they were friends.
Tom Collins was dark inside. Polished wooden columns reached upward toward a high ceiling and several chandeliers giving off muted light hung far above the space. Dark wooden paneling, combined with oil paintings and slim wall sconces, lent a somber yet elegant tone to the room. People, mostly men, sat at small tables spaced a discreet distance from each other, speaking in hushed tones. “Classy place,” Daisy whispered. Didn’t Jude ever go anywhere casual?
Jude led the way to a marble-topped bar on the far side of the room. The bartender, a young man dressed in old-fashioned bartending garb, complete with black vest, black armbands, and a bow tie, greeted them. “What can I get you?” he asked.
“Ginger ale for me,” Daisy said, shuddering when she recalled how much white wine she had consumed on Saturday.
“Napa Valley Cab, please,” Jude said. When the man had brought their drinks, they looked around and found an empty table where they could sit down. Jude led the way and nodded to a table nearby set up with happy hour hors d’oeuvres. “Are you hungry?” she asked.
“Always,” Daisy replied with a grin. “I’ll check out the food and be right back.”
She helped herself to a plate of roasted vegetables and horseradish dip as well as some cheese and crackers. She returned to the table, where she offered to share with Jude. Jude declined. Daisy hadn’t expected her to share—she was so slim that Daisy figured Jude didn’t eat too much.
“So what’s up?” Daisy asked. It would be better to get right to the point of this outing, she figured, than stall all evening.
“I need your advice.”
Daisy had been raising her glass to her lips and stopped in mid air. “You need my advice? What for?”
“It’s Mark John. He’s getting more serious and I don’t know if I’m ready. You know him, so I wanted your opinion.”
“I don’t know if I can give an opinion about your relationship just because I work with Mark John. You work with him, too, and you know him far better than I do.”
“I know, but you’re so level-headed. I figured you have pretty good intuition when it comes to people.”
“I’m not so sure about that, Jude,” Daisy said, thinking about how long it took her to realize Jude and Mark John were dating.
“Just hear me out and tell me what you think. I won’t hold you to anything, I promise.”
“Isn’t there someone, a close friend maybe, who could give you better advice than I can?”
Jude shook her head, looking over Daisy’s shoulder as she spoke. “Not really.”
Is it possible I am her best friend? Daisy wondered in amazement. How could that be?