Library walls covered half the interior of the Laraway gallery. Several shelves held Gwen’s books, but mostly they belonged to her niece: rare books, out-of-print books, favorites, first editions. By the age of four, Isabel went about opening a new book the way a connoisseur tastes wine. Child eyes wide as plums, she inspected every detail of a new book—cover, binding, title page—before pulling the book to the tip of her nose and inhaling deeply as she thumbed through the pages. Gwen suspected it was the scent of fresh ink and new paper that appealed to little Isabel’s olfactory sense.
“What do you smell?” Gwen would always ask.
Considering the Laraways had made their fortune in the paper business, Isabel knew at an early age that paper comes from trees. Gwen had repeatedly explained the steps involved in making paper, never mind that she had added the part about elves having a hand in the process.
“I smell the trees,” Isabel would say, her smile tiny, her nose upturned, so that she herself resembled an elf. “I can smell the whole forest. Here, Aunt Gwen, you smell!”
On cue, Gwen would open the book, take an exaggerated whiff, and agree that, yes, she could indeed smell the bark and blossoms of the trees from which the elves had made the paper.
Accepting her aunt’s agreement as a confirmation of magical workings in the paper forest, Isabel would then giggle and scrunch her shoulders as though overcome by the sudden chill that magic brings. After she handed Gwen the book, she’d climb into her lap, and together they’d open to the first, crisp page and begin a new story.
So many, many stories ago.
To this day, her niece would never begin reading a new book without first poking her nose in the pages. Only twenty-eight years old, Isabel already had expertise in ephemera. If it was made of paper, she could tell you everything about it, whether it was printed yesterday or during the seventeenth century. But when she wasn’t poking her nose in a book, managing her feral-cat colony, or helping her father run the company, she was busy poking her nose in Gwen’s business.
Isabel was kind and loving, but her caretaking, worrywart ways annoyed Gwen. Knowing her niece meant well, Gwen managed to mask her annoyance, but she did often wonder where those worrywart genes came from—certainly not from the carefree Laraway side of the family.
Gwen only wished that Isabel would fall in love one day soon and have someone else to worry about. Of course, Isabel hadn’t had a date since her high school prom.
Throughout college and graduate school, Gwen had never observed her taking an interest in anyone of the opposite sex. When Isabel was born, Gwen had been with Jean, and it wasn’t until Isabel was fourteen that they split up. During those years they’d never hidden their relationship from Isabel, and Isabel had grown up perfectly comfortable with same-sex couples. Still, Isabel obviously wasn’t comfortable with herself. Not once had she ever hinted at being straight or gay, and Gwen never pushed the subject. She could only hope that an appropriate suitor would happen along in the near future, male or female, to awaken desire in this sleeping beauty and sweep her off her feet.
Gwen flipped a switch on the wall, adjusted the dimmers, which controlled the showcases, and folded her arms beneath a white sweater draped loosely over her shoulders. Lighted showcases stood everywhere, the warm glow accentuating the artful treasures they contained. Strolling through the cool gallery, she made her way around the mahogany table and opposing love seat in the center of the room, and then over to a lit wall unit containing her prized Rookwood pieces.
“Aunt Gwen?” A voice echoed in the hallway.
Gwen heard approaching footsteps and the jingling of dog collars. She rolled her eyes. “In here, Isabel.”
With a five-bedroom house, two guest cottages, and six acres of land, the Laraway estate was large enough that, theoretically, the two of them—more, if you counted Rosa, the resident housekeeper, and the indoor pets—should have gone about their respective business without seeing each other for days at a time. But wherever Gwen was, there was Isabel, nearly bumping into her at every turn. And wherever Isabel was, the animals weren’t far behind so that, all in all, they lived in relatively cramped conditions. Even Rosa, who occupied a cottage in back, had become so much like a sister that she’d lost all boundaries and didn’t think twice about dusting right across Gwen’s face when the urge to clean struck. Only late at night did Gwen find the solitude she so enjoyed.
“You’re off the phone?” Isabel asked.
“Mm-hmm,” Gwen said, peering into the showcase with her back to her niece.
“Were you able to help her?”
“I was. Would you believe she has my blue seated rook?”
“Really? Wherever did she find one?”
“A yard sale, of all places. She wants to make a match.”
“Oh, I don’t know, Aunt Gwen. It’s always been one of your favorite pieces.”
“True,” she said, turning to face her niece, “but perhaps it’s time someone else enjoyed it.”
Despite her small stature, Isabel had a commanding presence. Her dark hair was straight, parted on the side and cropped stylishly above her shoulders to frame perfect features and light-brown, almond-shaped eyes—another gene that didn’t come from the tall, blond, blue-eyed Laraways, but from a Latina mother born in Brazil.
A red-nose pit bull and a black Scottish terrier appeared alongside her, Loosey Goosey and Blue. They peeked in the doorway, smiling their dog smiles, wagging their tails, waiting for an invitation.
“Hi, girls,” Gwen called, inviting them in.
Loosey Goosey, fondly known as the Goose, was Isabel’s constant companion of five years, a happy-go-lucky dog who carried around stuffed animals the way children carry teddy bears. She loved everyone and everything, especially if it included hiking, swimming, or going to the office with Isabel every day.
And then there was Blue, who had been hit by a car on the bitter cold night of a blue moon. With broken teeth and a concussion, she’d been left for dead until a Good Samaritan called animal control. But the Scottie had been vicious—pain-aggressive, as Isabel called it—and when her owners never claimed her, Isabel received a call from a friend at the shelter who knew too well that aggressive dogs could not be put up for adoption. It had taken two weeks before Gwen or Isabel could touch her, but she was now an affectionate and loyal dog with an over-inflated image of herself and a highly evolved sense of humor to match. A poker-face comedian she was, sometimes to the point of silliness. But Blue was as discerning as she was silly; her sensory perceptions were extraordinary. As Rosa the housekeeper put it, Blue had the sight, and that was cause for an immediate bond between Gwen and the dog, a bond that extended beyond intelligence and into the realm of spiritualism.
Isabel looked around and sighed. “Remember when I broke the other rook playing Frisbee with Alley in the living room?”
Gwen frowned halfheartedly as she straightened up and adjusted her sweater. “How could I forget?”
“I almost ran away from home that day.”
“I know…I caught you and Alley leaving the grounds with your pajamas and dog biscuits in a paper bag.”
Isabel smiled wistfully. “What was I—eleven at the time? And when you discovered the broken rook you didn’t even yell.”
Gwen sighed and looked around the gallery…the art…the memories. “My beloved niece and beloved dog. How could I have stayed mad at either one of you? It was an accident, after all.” She gazed around the room. “Every piece of pottery in here is exquisite, but…in the end it’s only clay.”
“Half a million dollars’ worth of clay.”
“Mmm…” Gwen smiled dreamily, but then her smile dissipated and her thoughts went astray. “Have you heard of her?”
“Who?”
“Ms. Weller. She’s a writer.”
“Weller?” Isabel mused. “Samantha Weller, the mystery writer?”
“Yes, Samantha. She writes mysteries.”
“That was Samantha Weller on the phone?”
“You’ve heard of her?”
“Don’t you read The New York Times book reviews? She’s gained considerable popularity with fans of the mystery genre. She writes the Detective Crowley series. I think I saw an ad for a new book coming out.”
“Have you read anything of hers?” Gwen asked.
“Only the first book. She’s a good writer, but you know me…I’m not big on paranormal themes and all that dark fantasy. I thought I recommended it to you when I was done, though.”
“I don’t recall…” Arms still folded beneath her sweater, Gwen brought her fingers to her chin and nodded to herself. “I’d like to read some of her work before I meet her. How many books does she have out?”
“Several, I’m sure. I might still have that first one in my library.”
“If not, I’ll get them on my Kindle.” Gwen bent down, rubbing Blue’s back. “She’s coming for lunch Thursday and bringing her sister-in-law, Liz…an antique dealer. I’d like it if you could arrange to join us.”
“Sure. I’d love to meet them.” Isabel wrapped her hair behind her ear and smiled at her. “Can I get you anything before bed?”
“No, darling.”
“Are you going to bed now?”
“No. I think I’ll stay up a while with a cup of tea.”
“I’ll make it for you.”
“Thank you, darling, but I’ll do it.”
“I don’t mind.”
Gwen fought the urge to clench her teeth. “You know what? On second thought, I think I’ll have a drink.”
“A drink?” A perplexed crease appeared between Isabel’s eyes. “Since when do you drink before bed?”
“Never. But I might tonight…if it’s okay with you.”
Isabel just stared at her.
“Is there something else?” Gwen asked. It was hard to get snippy with someone who meant well, but right now Gwen wanted to be alone, to think about her conversation with Samantha Weller.
“No…I guess I’ll say good night, then.”
“Good night, darling.”
Isabel stared oddly at her for a moment, but finally took the hint and patted her thigh. “Come on, girls—let’s go to sleep.”
Goose nudged Gwen, and Gwen bent to kiss her on her heavily muscled head. And then Blue, who would not be left out, punched Gwen’s leg with her nose, and Gwen kissed her, too. “Good night, girls,” she said as they both raced ahead to follow Isabel. In the doorway, Blue stopped to glance back at Gwen with a twinkle in her eyes, then trotted off to catch up with the others.
Gwen was glad to be alone again, but here came Isabel again, handing her a book. “Sorry to disturb you,” she apologized with a hint of sarcasm, “but if you’re hoping to read one of Weller’s books before Thursday, you better get started.”
“Oh! Why thank you, sweetheart.” Gwen looked at the cover and then turned the book over, smoothing her hand over the photo of Samantha Weller and her crow. “She looks like Rachel Maddow,” she remarked.
Isabel leaned in to have a look. “Maybe a little bit…I don’t know. It might just be her dark eyes and the haircut. She’s attractive, though.”
“Hmm…she is.” After Isabel left again, Gwen laid the book on the library table in the center of the room, the back cover faceup, then removed the rook from its showcase and placed it beside the book. Walking slowly around the table, admiring the rook from different angles, she smiled to herself as she recalled the mystery writer’s description of the bird’s countenance. She had never thought of the bird as a sentinel.
But now, upon closer inspection, it did appear to be guarding something…in an affable sort of way, of course. Ms. Weller’s oh-so-serious description made her smile broaden, but as she thoughtfully circled the rook, her smile faded, and she began wondering just what the rook might be protecting. She wished the bookend were real, wished she could shoo the bird from its esoteric treasure, brush away the tangles of Persian-rose flowers, and possess the secrets inscribed on those imaginary pages made from clay.
The more she gazed at the rook, the more it seemed to gaze back at her, and it occurred to Gwen that Ms. Weller had been right; the rook knew something they didn’t. Gwen left the rook on the table, tucked the book under her arm, and shut off the lights. She made her way down the hallway, into the formal dining room and over to sliding doors that opened to her ballroom. Everyone in the Laraway family knew how to dance. Gwen loved ballroom dancing, Isabel loved to salsa, and both enjoyed house music when DJs were hired for their seasonal parties. A crystal chandelier hung from the ceiling, and aside from a bar at one end and sound equipment at the other, there was nothing but polished floors. From a small refrigerator behind the bar she took out a jar of olives and a bottle of brine, and made herself a dirty gin martini.
Carrying her cocktail and book into the living room, she slid out of her sandals and settled into a comfortable chair, crossing her ankles on the ottoman in front of her. She smiled at the back cover again. What a lovely photograph. What an interesting woman. And what an unexpected evening it had turned out to be.