After Ted Shriver slammed the door in her face, Norah looked down at the book in her hands, her heart still racing. The meeting wasn’t what she had hoped—there had been no meaningful connection, no spectacular moment she could hold on to for the rest of her life—but she had seen him, spoken to him, looked into tired eyes the same shade of blue as her own. And he had given her this strange book. What did it mean?
She ran her hand over the surface. It was a musty relic, bound in leather, with the words Guest Book stamped on the cover. She carefully opened it and saw that it was a collection of signatures from famous literary figures, most of whom had belonged to the group that made this hotel so famous.
Norah closed the book and held it to her chest as she leaned against the wall, disappointment rising like a fever as she played back her few moments of face time with Ted Shriver. She knew it was naive to have thought there would be an immediate connection, but still. She had assumed that fate would intervene and create some special bond. Maybe she had never admitted it to herself in exactly those terms, but now that she had actually seen him, Norah understood that deep inside she had believed that something about her would spark a flame.
She made the decision quickly. She would take it back to the room Didi had booked for her, study the signatures, and figure out Ted Shriver’s connection to these people. Tomorrow she would go to see him again, and she’d be armed with a conversation starter. He would be resistant at first, but he would invite her in and they would talk and talk and talk. She would tell him about the scene in Dobson’s Night that moved her the most, the one where the father and son are walking to the wedding. Most people said it was too long, but she knew it wasn’t. If anything, she wished it was longer. She could have read the dialogue between those two forever. It was desperate and tender and beautiful and real. And of course, she would ask him The Question. The one unanswered mystery of that haunting story.
After that, she would call Didi and give her a full report, explaining all she had learned about Ted Shriver’s remarkable heart. There would be a pause as Didi took it all in. Then she would say something like, Sounds like you made a hell of a connection with him, sugar. Why don’t you go ahead and make the pitch? If anyone can sign him for the show, it’s you.
Norah headed toward the elevator and pressed the button. When the doors opened, a stocky, dark-haired man in a hotel uniform got out and offered a tense smile. Then he saw what she held and stopped. She tried to move around him, but he blocked her. His name tag said Angel.
“Excuse me,” he said. “This book—where did you get it?”
She held it against her body. “Someone gave it to me.”
“Please, miss. It belongs to the hotel.”
She looked at the cover again. Of course it belonged to the hotel—that made perfect sense. But why was it in Ted Shriver’s room? She didn’t want to let it go.
“I just need to spend a few hours with it,” she said. “I’ll give it back to you in the morning.”
He looked over his shoulder and then back into her eyes. “I’ll get fired, miss,” he whispered, then shook his head. “Why did I make the delivery?”
Norah was torn. She didn’t want to relinquish the book, not yet. But this poor man—he seemed serious.
“Will twenty dollars—”
“No, please. I must put it back. You understand?”
“But I can return it tomorrow. Surely no one will come looking for it tonight.”
“It is my first day, miss. If someone notices, I lose the job.”
His eyes looked so sad, so earnest. How could she possibly deny his request? And yet, this book could represent everything she had spent a lifetime thinking about.
Angel reached into his pocket and pulled out a wallet. He opened it to a picture and turned it to face her. “Ana Sofia,” he said.
She glanced at the photo of a baby girl with shiny black hair and large dark eyes, her mouth in an O as if mimicking an adult’s expression of surprise. She wore a pink-striped bib. It reminded Norah of her own baby picture—the one where she’s in the high chair, looking into the camera, while a hand holding a spoon hovers to the left. Her mother’s hand.
Norah swallowed against a hardness in her throat. “Your daughter?” she asked.
“Eight months old,” he said.
At last, she held out the book. She meant to release it, but somehow she couldn’t quite relax her grip.
“It will be downstairs,” he said, “in the Blue Bar. You can see it when you wish.”
“What was it doing in . . . the man’s room?”
“I delivered it there,” he said. “The . . . the lady. She asked me to.”
His eyes went wide. “You seen her?”
Norah nodded.
“He talked to her?” Angel asked.
“I suppose,” Norah said. “They seemed like old friends.”
“She is nobody’s friend, miss,” he said, pulling at the book again.
“Why did the lady want him to have this?”
“So she can talk to him.”
“I don’t understand.”
“Me, too,” he said, and gave one last tug, pulling the book from her hands. Then he disappeared into the stairwell with Norah’s best hope at connecting with Ted Shriver.
—
Back in her hotel room, she ignored the four voice-mail messages from Didi and tried to sleep, but everything conspired to keep her awake—the disappointing meeting with Ted Shriver, the missed opportunity of the puzzling guest book, the mysterious woman in a hat. Who was she and what was her connection to the book? Most of all, Norah wondered why Ted Shriver had given her the book . . . and why it seemed less like a gift and more like a curse—something he needed to get rid of.
Another hour passed and Norah realized her efforts to sleep were futile. She rose and got dressed. She simply had to go downstairs and look at that book again.
At four a.m., the only light in the deserted Blue Bar was a dim wall sconce illuminating a small shelf. Norah approached it to see that it shone on a glass case that held the strange book. She opened the lid, removed the heavy tome, and carried it to the nearest table, where she sat down to scan the names again. They were almost all famous writers, most of whom had been members of the Algonquin Round Table, the legendary group of wits who started their daily lunch just yards from where she sat. Norah knew all about them because her college roommate, an English major, had been obsessed with these people. Her enthusiasm was infectious and Norah read a good deal about them herself.
Norah paused to let it all sink in. She laid her hand upon the book and closed her eyes to picture them seated around her. She imagined Robert Benchley coming in from the rain and closing his umbrella. I need to get out of this wet suit and into a dry martini, he would remark as he lowered himself into a chair.
Norah opened her eyes to discover she wasn’t alone. The small woman who had been in Ted Shriver’s room was seated at the bar, smoking.
“I didn’t hear you come in,” Norah said. She left the book at the table and approached her.
“I’ve mastered the art of sneaking around,” said the woman.
Norah took the barstool next to hers and introduced herself.
“Dorothy Parker,” said the woman, extending a hand. “Charmed.”
Norah opened her mouth and closed it. Did the woman just say her name was Dorothy Parker? Norah looked her up and down—taking in her wardrobe—and the light came on. She was a look-alike, hired by the hotel to act the part of the famous writer when she was in her prime. PR people could be so clever. Of course, that didn’t explain what she was doing in the famous writer’s room.
“How do you know Ted Shriver?” Norah asked, hoping she could get the actress to break character.
“He interviewed me for Atlantic Monthly in 1967.”
So that’s how it’s going to be, Norah thought. But she could play along, especially since she seemed to remember reading the interview in a collection of Shriver’s essays.
“It was right before you died, wasn’t it?”
“He was one of my last visitors.”
“And now you’re a ghost, haunting the Algonquin?”
“That depends. Do you believe in ghosts?”
“No,” Norah lied. The truth was, she never forgot the visitation she had had from her mother on the night she died. Norah was only fourteen, and had been asleep, when she felt someone hovering over her. She opened her eyes and saw her mother out of her wheelchair, standing tall and strong, and Norah bolted upright. In an instant she knew her mother had died and her spirit had come to say good-bye.
“You’re not leaving, are you?” Norah pleaded.
Her mother tilted her head and smiled, as if to say it was all okay.
“No!” Norah said. “You can’t go.”
Her mother put her hand to her chest in apology, and Norah wanted nothing more than to grab on to her. She felt so young. Not like a teenager at all, but like a little girl desperate for her mother.
“Mommy, please.”
At last the spirit spoke. It’s okay, she said, and Norah knew it was meant to comfort her, but she wasn’t ready.
“Don’t go!” she cried, but it was too late. The spirit vanished, and the words Be strong, love floated in the air, and then disappeared along with her.
“Tell me, dear,” said the woman, “what is your interest in Ted Shriver?”
Norah shrugged. She didn’t want to reveal too much. “It’s personal.”
“He’s a difficult man.”
“I’ve noticed.”
The look-alike nodded toward the table with the book. “You should return that to him.”
“I don’t want to get anyone fired.”
“Ah, you must have spoken to the nervous fellow who gave me his cigarettes.”
“Surely you spoke to him. Dark-haired chap—name tag says Angel.”
“How did you know?”
“It’s his first day so he doesn’t realize it, but the book goes missing all the time.” She paused to take a drag of her cigarette and flick the ashes. This was a woman who looked as if she was never in a hurry. Norah thought it was quite an act.
“They all think it’s carried off and replaced by ghosts,” the woman continued. “But of course, ghosts are the only ones who can’t carry the damned thing.” She exhaled, and the smoke wafted into Norah’s face.
She’s taking this a little too far, Norah thought as she fanned the air around her face. She stood. “I should go to bed.”
“I thought you wanted my help.”
“No offense, but I’m not sure there’s anything you can do for me.”
“I can tell you how to get Ted Shriver to talk to you.”
Norah paused, holding on to the back of the barstool. “And I suppose you’d want something in return?”
“Naturally.”
“And what would that be?”
“I need you to steal that book.”