Dear Genie,
Watching Diana drive off felt so horrible. It wasn’t like watching you go, but still … We said all that stuff about staying in touch, but everything’s different from a distance. As you know.
Working at Fontanari’s this weekend was as bad as being back home after everything happened—all that pity. Rosalie kept trying to play matchmaker, pushing me out front every time a single guy walked through the door. I could feel them all worrying about me, and it just made me edgy and irritable.
But the new job starts tomorrow, and I’m looking forward to that. How’d I get so lucky? Everyone else is out there pleading for work, and I get to hang out in a cozy mansion while I consider my next move. I’m sure I could get an editorial assistant position at some other magazine, but after Delicious!, it’s all downhill. I don’t want to just write, I want to write about food. I could always work at Fontanari’s. But, much as I love them all, it doesn’t feel like moving forward. I try to think what you’d do in my place.
xxb
My key still worked, but the mansion was dark as I climbed the stairs and so silent that even my quiet footsteps boomed through the empty building. When Jake said I’d be the one, I didn’t quite get that I’d be the only one.
I could not have imagined these eerily empty halls, the thunderous silence, the vacant offices littered with trash. In the five days we’d been gone, most of the furniture had been moved out, but they’d left broken pieces, and here and there I’d come upon an upturned chair missing a leg or two. Piles of abandoned photographs lay in dejected heaps in every room, and in the halls big plastic dumpsters overflowed with old notebooks, broken staplers, and forgotten office supplies. Piles of unused boxes sat waiting to be filled. The air smelled like damp paper, and hanging over everything was an odd odor of decay.
Most of the office doors were open; crisscrossed yellow tape shouting CHECKED + EMPTY stretched across each threshold. It was dark, so dark. Sammy’s door was closed, but tape with the word UNSANITIZED in huge letters had been posted there, as if vicious germs waited inside, poised to leap out and attack. I walked down the hallway, futilely flipping switches until it finally hit me: Someone had taken every accessible lightbulb.
They’d left a couple in my office, and it was a relief to watch the lights come stuttering on. But, beyond it, Jake’s empty office loomed. I kept listening for Sherman, but of course he wasn’t here.
How could I pretend this was a normal workday? Still, I began to open the mail I’d found spilled across the lobby floor.
“Dear Delicious!,” read the first one. “Is it true that you’ll continue to honor your Guarantee? If so, I would like to point out that there was nothing wild about the ‘wild mushrooms’ in the turkey stuffing featured in your final issue. Shiitake, as you must surely know, are now widely cultivated.… ”
And exactly what would you like me to do about that? I wondered crossly. It turned out that what Mrs. Bowman wanted was a refund because she felt tricked by our “false assertion.”
A flash of rage surged through me. “Dear Mrs. Bowman, you could easily have gathered your own mushrooms and substituted them for the ones called for in the recipe.” I stopped typing. What did I care? I deleted the words one by one.
“Dear Mrs. Bowman.” I was typing more slowly. “I am so sorry that you were unhappy with our mushroom stuffing. If you will send us your receipts, we will cheerfully refund your money. We want our readers to have happy memories of a great magazine. All of us here at Delicious! wish you very happy holidays.”
I sensed my phantom coworkers gathered around me, silently applauding. Then I picked up the next letter. I’d give everyone their money back. Why not?
Tomorrow, I thought, I’ll buy lightbulbs. And some flowers. I’ll bring in a teakettle. It’s not so bad.…
A skittering sound came from the hall, and my heart began to race. I jumped up to peer fearfully into the corridor. Empty. Was that a mouse’s tail disappearing around the corner? Or was it only my imagination? I sat down, trying to calm myself. I was being ridiculous, I knew that, but I needed a human voice to put this in perspective.
I thought about calling Aunt Melba, anticipating the conversation. She’d be sympathetic. She’d say, once again, how much Dad missed me. She’d suggest, again, that I quit the job and come home. No thanks.
As I was thinking that, my phone rang, and I looked down to see that it was Dad.
“Just checking in on you,” he said. “This has to be hard. Things were going so well, and now this. I wanted to make sure you’re still coming home for Thanksgiving.”
“I wanted to talk to you about that. Would you mind terribly if I didn’t come?”
“Yes.” His voice was quiet. “I would mind terribly.” He heaved a deep and audible sigh. “I miss you. I worry about you. I’d like to lay eyes on you. But I would understand.”
“Really?”
“You think I don’t know how you feel?” He sounded almost angry. “You think I don’t understand why you ran away? I don’t like it, but I understand it. And I know why you need to keep us at arm’s length. If you think coming home right now will be too hard, well, you need to do what you think is best for yourself.”
“Really?” I said again, a bit stunned by his generosity. “Thanks, Dad. I love you.”
“I love you too. And I’ll come—we’ll come—as soon as you’re ready. Say the word.”
I hung up the phone and found that I was crying. “Stop it!” I lectured myself. “Just stop it!” I knew that what I needed was the familiar querulous voice of Mrs. Cloverly.
“Is something wrong, dear?” My call had startled her. When I explained that the magazine had closed, I heard a sad, watery little sigh. I knew how she felt; her world had just grown smaller.
“But the Guarantee will continue as before.” I tried to sound jolly.
She sounded hopeful. “I can still call?”
“Absolutely.” I was surprised by how much more cheerful she’d made me feel. “I’ll be here every day.”
But every day the gloomy building grew more neglected, and it was hard to keep my spirits up. I understood that Young Arthur wanted someone there to keep the building from seeming completely abandoned, but by the third Monday, the empty rooms with their yellow tape seemed even more forbidding, and Jake’s dark office was a heavy, reproachful presence. The odd smell I’d noticed had grown stronger, and by Wednesday I was imagining whole families of mice rotting inside the walls. Walking down the hall, leaving for the long Thanksgiving weekend, my foot brushed one of the piles of forgotten photographs. It slithered toward me like a snake, and I went running down the stairs and out the door, slamming it behind me. I was relieved to have a few days away.
Dear Genie,
The Timbers Mansion has morphed into a nightmare, and I can’t tell another soul how horrible it is. Dad and Aunt Melba would want me to come home, but what am I going to do in California? Go back to school? No, thanks; I don’t think I could take it. Sal and Rosalie have offered me a full-time job, but that’s not what I want to do with the rest of my life, and I couldn’t bear to hurt them. You think I should stick it out, right? At least until I figure something else out? I know you do.
I spent Thanksgiving working at Fontanari’s, and afterward we all went upstairs and ate turkey together. It made me think about Sammy. I remembered something he said the first time I had dinner at his house—that he was lucky to know when he was happy. I envied him, but now, looking back, it makes me feel so stupid because, in spite of everything, at that moment I was pretty happy too. It just went right by me. Next time I hope I’m smart enough to recognize happiness when I have it.
Miss you, miss you, miss you.
xxb
On the Monday after Thanksgiving, the Timbers Mansion smelled even worse. I climbed the stairs, juggling coffee in one hand and a bunch of roses in the other, burying my nose in the flowers. In the hallway I kept my eyes straight ahead, trying to avoid the broken furniture, the dumpsters, the tape across the doors. I put the roses in a vase, took a sip of coffee, and sank gratefully into my chair. Then I picked up the phone and called Mrs. Cloverly.
It was pathetic, really, that this crazy old lady in a trailer park had become such a necessary presence, but when I talked to her I could almost fool myself into thinking that nothing had changed. She’d spent the weekend cooking, and her three vile dishes kept us busy for an hour.
But when I hung up, the silence was so thick that I jumped when a board creaked in the hall.
It was not my imagination: Someone was out there, walking toward me. I could feel the adrenaline pumping through my body. I stood up. At least they wouldn’t catch me unawares.
The footsteps stopped outside my doorway and an apprehensive voice called, “Is somebody there?”
I knew that voice! I ran into the hall and threw my arms around Sammy.
“What on earth are you doing here?” he asked. “Are you attempting to terrify me into an early grave?”
“How the hell did you get in?”
“I will have you know that my key still works. And I was sternly admonished to retrieve my personal effects at the earliest possible opportunity.”
“Then why didn’t you come sooner?”
“For this?” He waved a hand, indicating the decrepit hallway in which we stood. “I was high up in the mountains when your missive reached me. I screamed. I wailed. I wept. I returned to Istanbul and began peregrinating through the city like a demented chicken, intending to change my tickets and embark on the next New York—bound conveyance. I was at the airline office when a thought struck: I was behaving like an ass. This was the last waltz, and nobody was about to question my expenses. So I snatched up my tickets, rented a limousine, upgraded myself to the presidential suite, and made reservations in Istanbul’s finest restaurants. Young Arthur be damned!” He looked me up and down and added frankly, “It seems that you should have done something similar, my dear. Whatever you have been up to has done you very little good.”
I put my hand up to my hair, remembering that I hadn’t bothered to comb it this morning. I wished I’d washed my face. I saw nobody during the week, and some mornings I was tempted to come to work in my pajamas. Still, it was humiliating to be caught like this. “Forget about me. What will you do?”
“Dear one, do not waste a moment fretting over me.” He smoothed his tweed suit. “I was in this business before you were born. I know everyone. Now that I have returned, I shall have three offers before the week is out.” He pulled me down the hall. “Come help me pack.”
Sammy sniffed suspiciously and said, “What is that deplorable aroma?”
I shrugged it off. “Dead mice behind the walls, I think. Nobody comes to clean anymore.”
“Hmmf.” Sammy stood in front of his closed door, staring angrily at the yellow tape. “Unsanitized?” He ripped it savagely off. “Unsanitized?” He fit the key into the lock. “What a barbaric notion.” The door swung inward, creaking on its hinges, and I held my breath.
His lovely orchids were dead. They lay shriveled against the wall, mere skeletons now, their fronds groping blindly. But everything else had survived, and I picked up the beautiful copper teapot, happy to find it unharmed. Sammy snatched it from me, running his fingers across the patina as if it were a beloved pet. He looked again at the pathetic plants, then pulled them gently off the wall and deposited them in the garbage. “Ruby—Young Arthur’s secretary, you know—has been leaving daily messages, insinuating that if I fail to clear out my office, everything will be forfeit to Pickwick. But you have yet to explain your own presence here. Wait.” He held up a hand. “Allow me to conjecture. The Guarantee?”
“You’re very perceptive.”
“I take it Mrs. Cloverly continues to be your number-one customer?”
I couldn’t help smiling. “Not anymore. The new crazies put her efforts to shame.”
“Goody.” Sammy sounded delighted. “Tell!”
“I’ll do better than that.” Suddenly feeling lighthearted, I went off to get the most absurd letter of the day.
Dear Sir or Madame:
Is it too much to expect that, despite the magazine’s unfortunate, untimely, and in my opinion utterly unnecessary demise, you will continue to stand behind the Delicious! Guarantee? I certainly hope not, for I have a complaint of an extremely serious nature.
Each year I allow each member of my family to request one special cookie for Christmas. This year Aunt Emma has requested the Nutty Apricot Lace Cookies that you published in the seventies. I remembered them as crisp, chewy, and rather likable. Well, sir, I thought I had lost the recipe, but when I went to my file I had no trouble whatsoever locating it.
I did think that the recipe seemed to be missing some crucial ingredients. But I have enormous faith in your fine cooks, and I followed the recipe exactly as written. Let me assure you that I am being kind when I say that these were horrid little hockey pucks and that I wished with all my heart that the recipe had been lost.
Then I recalled the Delicious! Guarantee. The ingredients were modest—oatmeal is not very dear—but it is the principle, you see. My receipts are enclosed. If you have an alternate but excellent recipe for something resembling a Nutty Apricot Lace Cookie, please enclose that along with the check. I don’t like to disappoint Aunt Emma.
Faithfully yours,
Emmajane (Mrs. Gifford) Janson
Sammy laughed until he was wheezing. When he had finally sobered up, he gave me an incredulous look. “This is how you are currently employed? Responding to women who request refunds for antique recipes?”
“There’s apparently no statute of limitations on the Guarantee.”
He began to laugh again. “I will wager that Emmajane miscopied the recipe. Did you seek the original?”
“It wasn’t in the database.”
“And the recipe index?”
“Jake took his back issues with him.” I hesitated a moment. “I’d have to go to the library to do that. And …” I gestured upward.
“You are loath to venture into that long-locked room. I quite comprehend. Have no fear.” He patted my arm. “I shall accompany you. Have you the key?”
“I bet it’s in one of the drawers in Jake’s desk. The desk is so big they didn’t bother moving it out.”
He linked an arm through mine, leading me into Jake’s nearly empty office. “At one time the library was my favorite room in this entire edifice, but when Jake pronounced it off-limits, I quite forgot its existence. It has been eons … I would appreciate a last look.”
The key was where I’d expected it to be. I snatched it up, and together we climbed the grand, dusty staircase. As we rose, the evil funk grew so strong that Sammy pulled out a handkerchief and held it to his nose. “No doubt it is the stinking corpse of the magazine, rotting around us. The smell! How do you bear it?”
“You get used to it.”
He patted my hand and looked at me, eyes filled with pity. “Oh, my dear.” His voice was soft. “Oh, my dear.”
We walked through the sad shambles of what used to be the art department and stood before the scarred library door. It was a solid piece of wood, but when I put the key into the lock, it sighed softly as it swung inward on its hinges. We tiptoed into cool darkness, the air scented with an ancient perfume that mingled paper, leather, and, oddly, apples. The Persian carpet was so soft that I felt as if I were floating into the long, high, book-lined room. The curtain-shrouded windows provided no illumination, and I fumbled for the light switch. As I turned it on, the room became infused with a soft golden light that fell across heaps of books lying on long oak tables, as if phantom readers had just put them down, planning to return at any moment.
Deep suede armchairs were scattered invitingly around the room; the Tiffany lamps above them gave off a jewel-like glow. A huge, ancient globe, taller than I am, stood in one corner, and in the other a giant dictionary perched regally on a wooden stand. “I had forgotten how beautiful this room is,” Sammy whispered with a kind of reverence.
I walked to a desk in the middle of the room; it was fantastically decorated with inlaid wood, a midnight sky depicting the signs of the zodiac. The chair behind the desk was as tall as a throne, and when I sat down on the dark-blue velvet cushion, it seemed to enfold me in an embrace. I looked at the shelf next to the chair, unsurprised to find that it held back issues of Delicious!
While Sammy went off to explore, I settled into the chair, leafing through the back issues in search of Nutty Apricot Lace Cookies. If the recipe had been there, I would certainly have found it, but by the time I put down the December 1979 issue, I was positive that Mrs. Gifford’s recipe came from some other magazine.
“Come here!” Sammy’s voice was muffled, as if it was reaching me from a great distance. I stood up, but I could not see him. “I am in the nether regions of the library. Make haste!”
I followed the sound of his voice, but when I reached the back wall, Sammy was still nowhere to be seen. “Where are you?”
“Are you standing beside the very last shelf?” His voice was coming from behind the wall.
“Where are you?” I repeated.
“Go around to the end of the bookcase and give it a hearty shove.” I walked to the edge of the shelf, put both hands in front of me, and pushed. It vibrated a bit, moved forward an inch, then rocked back into place.
“Do not be delicate. Harder!”
This time I put my whole body into it, and the shelf rolled sideways, revealing a small doorway hidden in the wall. Sammy’s head suddenly appeared, like a turtle from its shell. “Please join me.” He was obviously thrilled that he’d surprised me, and he gave me a delighted grin before his face vanished.
The narrow doorway was about four feet high, and as I squeezed through I wondered how Sammy had managed it. I found him standing in a small dim room, the size of a child’s bedroom, illuminated by a single lightbulb. Floor-to-ceiling shelves covered all four walls, and they were absolutely stuffed with papers. “What is this?” I whispered. “Did you know it was here?”
“I could not be more astonished.” Sammy’s face was filled with wonder. “I was poking through the shelves when I discovered an extremely rare travel guide from the 1860s. I dropped it—you know how maladroit I am—and when I bent to retrieve the book, I saw the wheels on the bottom of the bookcase. And”—he stopped dramatically—“where there are wheels, there must be a reason. So I pushed. Voilà! A secret chamber, replete with hidden treasure.” He gestured toward the shelves. “Letters!” He pulled a file from the shelf. “Thousands of them, correspondence extending all the way back to the dawn of Delicious!”
“But what are they doing here? Why are they hidden?”
Sammy opened the file. “I have absolutely no notion.” He took out a sheet, which crackled with age. “But I will hazard a guess that they were squirreled away years ago and simply forgotten. It is possible that no living soul knows of their existence.”
“So weird.”
“The mystery of Delicious!” Sammy sounded thrilled. “Is it not glorious? We have uncovered a secret; with any luck it will prove to be deeply sinister. However …” He held up the paper in his hand, and I could see that it was covered with clear, legible writing. “I am not very sanguine on that score. This one, it appears, was penned by a young girl, a mere child.”
I looked over his shoulder as he began to read:
“ ‘November third, 1942, Dear Mr. Beard—’ ”
“Why is she writing to James Beard?”
“I suppose it was because he was a regular contributor to Delicious! If you will allow me to continue, I am certain we will discover the reason for this letter.” He cleared his throat and began to read again:
Dear Mr. Beard,
On the radio last spring, President Roosevelt said that each and every one of us here on the home front has a battle to fight: We must keep our spirits up. I am doing my best, but in my opinion Liver Gems are a lost cause, because they would take the spirit right out of anyone.
So when Mother says it is wrong for us to eat better than our brave men overseas, I tell her that I don’t see how eating disgusting stuff helps them in the least. But, Mr. Beard, it is very hard to cook good food when you’re only a beginner! When Mother decided it was her patriotic duty to work at the airplane factory, she should have warned me about recipes. You just can’t trust them! Prudence Penny’s are so revolting, I want to throw them right into the garbage.
Mrs. Davis from next door lent me one of her wartime recipe pamphlets, and I read about liver salmi, which sounded so romantic. But by the time I had cooked the liver for twenty minutes in hot water, cut it into little cubes, rolled them in flour, and sautéed them in fat, I’d made flour footprints all over the kitchen floor. The consommé and cream both hissed like angry cats when I added them. Then I was supposed to add stoned olives and taste for seasoning. I spit it right into the sink.
Mother looks so tired when she comes home, and I just couldn’t give her salmi for supper. So I buried it in the backyard and made her some fried eggs. I know that waste is wrong, but I had no choice. Tomorrow I’m going to try again; I have my eye on the Peanut Butter and Lima Bean Loaf from a cookbook Mrs. Davis gave me, which she says is a “model of thrift.”
That is why I am writing. Mr. Beard, I know you could do better. Don’t you think it would be a good idea if you wrote a cookbook for people like me who are just learning to cook?
That could take a while, but in the meantime I have a question. We’re baking cookies at school to send to the soldiers, and I refuse to waste my sugar rations on anything out of these silly books. So could you please, please, please send me a recipe I can trust?
I’ll be checking the mailbox every day.
Sincerely yours,
Lulu Swan
“I wonder if he wrote back?”
“Judging by the date,” Sammy was holding up the next letter, “he must have answered by return post.”
Dear Mr. Beard,
I didn’t know you were at Fort Dix, or that the editors had forwarded my letter, but if you don’t mind my saying so, you would be much more useful to the war effort helping people like me. I’m not trying to flatter you, but Uncle Sam is wasting your talents. (Oh, yes, the answer to your question? I am twelve, but I will be thirteen soon.)
Thank you for the pamphlets from the Department of Agriculture. I had my doubts, but you’re right: They surely beat Prudence Penny. Yesterday I took their advice and made green tomato mincemeat; they said it was a good way to use up the last tomatoes sitting on the vine.
I wish you could have seen the kitchen when I was done: It looked like a hurricane had blown right in the door! But I cleaned it all up, and when Mother came home the whole house smelled warm and spicy, Bing Crosby was singing “White Christmas” on the radio, I was wearing a clean apron, and she called me her “little homemaker.”
What would you think about tomato mincemeat cookies? I bet no one else will think of that! Mr. Beard, if you’ll help me figure out a recipe, I promise to never bother you again. Cross my heart.
Sincerely yours,
Lulu Swan
“Green tomato mincemeat does not strike me as particularly toothsome.” Sammy put the letter back in the folder.
“Thrifty, though,” I said. “And it was nice of him to send those pamphlets.”
“He did more than that.” Sammy held up another letter and then slowly lowered himself to the floor. “What is the point of remaining upright when being seated is so much more agreeable?” He patted the floor beside him and I sat down toọ.
NOVEMBER 29, 1942
Dear Mr. Beard,
Mother said it was “presumptuous” of me to change your recipe, but I knew you wouldn’t mind, because I made it better. I added some nuts, just to give the cookies what Tommy Stroh calls “that old pizzazz.” I gave them a new name too; I didn’t think very much of Crybaby Cookies. They have become Magic Moments. So much better, don’t you think?
Mother likes to say that a fair exchange is no robbery, so I’m enclosing a pot holder as a thank-you. I made it myself. I was trying for the shape of a maple leaf, but it turned out more like a squirrel, so please pretend it’s soft and fuzzy.
Your friend,
Lulu
P. S. Mother says I must ask if you are sincere when you say that you’d like to continue our correspondence. Are you? May I ask for more recipes?
Sammy was laughing softly. “Who on earth could say no to this child? Certainly not James Beard. And from what I have heard, he was extraordinarily generous to his fans.” He was rooting through the file. “Here is another one!” He triumphantly held up a crinkled yellow sheet of paper.
Dear Mr. Beard,
Thank you for your letter. I read Mother the part where you said it’s good when people change recipes to make them their own. She says that you are a very wise man.
Last week our whole school gathered in the auditorium for the cookie wrapping. First we popped gallons of corn to pack them in, and then we traded the cookies around so we could taste them all. Tommy said mine were the best, and although I don’t want to sound conceited, he was right. I knew you’d send me a wonderful recipe!
Tommy and I put on a radio play to entertain everyone while they packed their cookies. It was about a girl who saves up money for a prom dress, but at the last minute she says, “It’s only clothes,” and buys war bonds instead. The play was a big success, and my whole school pledged to buy war bonds, which should have made me happy. But it gave me a queer feeling; it’s easy to write propaganda when everyone agrees with you. Do you understand? I think I’d rather bake cookies; it feels more honest.
Your friend,
Lulu
Sammy looked down at me. “A girl after your own heart!” he said. “In my experience it is a rare female who can say, ‘It’s only clothes,’ and mean it.” His face grew pensive. “You know, my mother used to say that when the war came, you discovered who you really were. Women changed. Children grew up overnight. I wonder what happened to this one.” He opened the folder, thumbing through the pages until he found another letter from Lulu.
Dear Mr. Beard,
I’m sorry to write again so soon; Mother says I mustn’t bombard you with letters. But I sent my Magic Moments off yesterday, and that made me think of you.
I hope the cookies will show Father that here on Lookout Avenue we are always thinking about him, always praying that he will land his plane safely. And I hope they’ll remind him of our life here in Akron. Or maybe I should say what life used to be, before the war changed everything.
I haven’t heard Mother laugh since she began building airplanes out at the Airdock. She always used to sing along with the radio, but yesterday she made me turn it off when “Cow Cow Boogie” came on; she said it gave her the jitters. She never used to get angry like other mothers either, but now every little thing upsets her. Today she yelled at me for cutting the bread too thick; she said it was wasteful. When I said it served the government right for making that stupid rule about not selling sliced bread anymore, she made me go to my room and think about all the soldiers who have no bread. I wish the war was over and Father was home and Mother back in the kitchen, singing with the radio. Is life ever going to be normal again?
Thank you for being my friend,
Lulu
I knew how it felt to wish life could go back to the way it used to be. Was it different during wartime, when it was happening to everyone at the same time? Was it easier when you didn’t feel so alone?
“What do you remember about the war?” I asked Sammy.
“How decrepit do you think I am?” he snapped. “I will have you know that the war drew to a close long before I entered this world.”
I could feel my face get hot. “Not to worry.” Sammy patted my hand. “I brought that upon myself, nattering on about what Mother used to say about the war. But I believe those were the happiest years of her life.”
“Wait, she was happy your father was gone?”
He leaned back against the wall. It was cozy in here, sitting on the floor in the murky light of the room, Sammy next to me and all that paper rustling around us. “On the contrary. But during the war she managed a gas station, and she adored everything about it—mucking about with the engines, changing oil, pumping fuel, washing windows. She was rather miserable when the war ended and she was obliged to resume the housewife’s role; I remember her banging furiously around the kitchen, heaving pots and pans about. She said the house felt like a prison, closing in around her.” Sammy stopped himself. “I am making my mother sound like a gorgon, which she was not. But she was not destined to do housework.” He looked down at the folder, eager to end this conversation. “Let us hope for another letter.”
DECEMBER 18, 1942
Dear Mr. Beard,
The telegram man came today. I saw him walk up Lookout Avenue, through our little white gate and go under the grape arbor, and the whole time he was walking up the flagstone path to our door, my heart was pounding. When he rang the bell I didn’t want to answer it.
Father is not dead, but the secretary of war regretted to inform us that he’s missing in action. When I was finished crying, I went into the kitchen, splashed water on my face, and used up all my meat points for a hearty stew. Mother will need it to keep up her strength and her spirits.
She knew right away, the very minute she came in the door, that something was wrong. She saw the telegram in my hand. “Is he …?” she asked. And when I shook my head no, she hugged me hard and went to wash her hands. I don’t think she wanted me to see her cry.
Mother says we must prepare for the worst. But where does that get you? Besides, I do not believe for one minute that Father is dead. The world would feel lonelier without him, and it still feels the same. I know that one day he will get my Magic Moments.
I was going to send you some for Christmas, but Mother says that you have no use for cookies from a little girl in Akron who can hardly cook. (She always underestimates me, but that is my cross to bear.) So I am sending you another pot holder. It comes with my very dearest wish that your holidays are happier than ours.
Your friend,
Lulu
“Are you crying?” asked Sammy.
“Of course not.” I was grateful the room was so dark. Picturing Lulu alone in her kitchen had made something twist inside me. “Do you think her father ever got the cookies?” I asked. “I wonder if he survived.”
Sammy held up the next piece of stationery. The handwriting was not Lulu Swan’s.
“Aren’t we going to find out what happened to her father?”
Sammy pointed to the shelves. “Thousands of letters are filed away up there, and I would wager good money that there are more from Lulu. That girl is not a quitter.”
“But how’re we ever going to find them?” I looked at the fat folders, with their acres of crumbling pages.
“You are a resourceful young woman,” he said briskly. “I am certain that you will think of something.” He was silent for a moment and then, as if the words were coming to him as he spoke, he said, “ ‘Dear James Beard’ would make a lovely article. If there are enough letters, it could even be a book.”
“You knew about the letters, didn’t you?” It hit me that he’d lured me up here to provide me with a project.
“I beg your pardon?” Sammy looked so genuinely astonished that I knew I’d been wrong. “I am sorry to disabuse you of this remarkable notion, but I am flabbergasted by this find.”
“Flabbergasted! What a wonderful word.”
“Please consider writing the article. It is an excellent notion.”
“I will. I’ll think about it.”
“Well, do not cogitate for a protracted period. The Timbers Mansion is worth a king’s ransom, and in due course Young Arthur will attempt to sell it. The market is in momentary decline, but that will surely change. If you want to unearth Lulu’s letters, you had best do so with celerity. And that, my dear, is the end of the speech.” He unfolded himself from the floor. “I need to perambulate and get my blood flowing.”
Sammy held out his hand and pulled me to my feet. We ducked through the door, pushed the bookcase back in place, and made our way through the golden light to the library door.
As it closed behind us, the stench of the building attacked us anew, stronger than before. But it didn’t bother me much. Something had shifted. Lulu was in the library, sharing the Timbers Mansion. I was no longer alone.