The Bookish Life of Nina Hill(8)

Liz frowned at her. “Don’t kick the bookcase. I’m sorry your fund of general knowledge stops short of the sport of kings, but damage the fittings and it’s coming out of your wages.” She turned to walk away, clicking her tongue, but then suddenly turned back. “And don’t forget to make a pile of books in case of Mephistopheles.” She walked on, then stopped again. “Oh, and I forgot in the shock of your losing, you missed a call.”

Nina swept the buttery crumbs from her sweater, glad none of them had lingered long enough to leave a stain (which always made her think of The Simpsons: “Remember . . . if the paper turns clear, it’s your window to weight gain”), and frowned at her. “A call? A customer?”

Liz shrugged and bit into her croissant, adding crumbs to her own shirt. “I don’t know. A man. He asked for Nina Hill, which is you, and when I asked if he wanted to leave a message, he said he would call back.” The phone rang. “Maybe that’s him.”

But it wasn’t; it was someone else entirely, and Nina had already forgotten about the call when the man who’d placed it walked into the bookstore a couple of hours later.

He stood out immediately, because he was wearing a suit of a cut and kind not often seen on Larchmont Boulevard. A serious suit. A white shirt with starch. A pocket square. Most of the people in Larchmont worked in one creative field or another, and tended to wear hooded sweatshirts and high-tops. The more successful they were, the shabbier they looked. This guy looked like an alien. “Nina Hill?”

Liz pointed at her, although Nina had already looked up when she’d heard her name, like a cat hearing a distant can opener. She’d been happily shelving new nonfiction, and at that very moment was holding a book about earthworms and thinking fondly of Phil and his generous nature. She looked over at the guy and decided he was probably bad news.

He approached her, gliding as if he were on casters, and said, “Miss Hill? Nina Lee Hill?” It was too late to run for it, and as far as she knew, there were no outstanding warrants for her arrest, so she nodded.

He smiled. “Is there somewhere we might speak privately?”

Definitely bad news.

The office at Knight’s was very small and mostly filled with cartons of books, oversize poster board advertisements for books, and piles of books that threatened to tip and spill at any moment. There was one chair, which was supposed to be adjustable but wasn’t, and the man gestured in a “go ahead” kind of way, so Nina sat. That turned out to be super weird, because her face was basically on the same level as his crotch—see: broken chair—so she stood back up. He didn’t sit down, either, as there really wasn’t room to get past her, and so they stood there, about four inches too close to each other to be comfortable. Nina wanted to take a big step back, and possibly assume a defensive stance, but the moment had passed, and if she did it now it would seem rude. Oh my God, she thought, it’s hard to be human sometimes, with the pressure to be civilized lying only very thinly over the brain of a nervous little mammal. Maybe other people’s layer of civilization was thicker than hers; hers was like a peel-off face mask after it had been peeled. Through the edge of the door she could see Liz hovering, in case she needed help. Feeling better, she decided to take the plunge and smile.

“How can I help you, Mr. . . . ?”

“Sarkassian. I’m a lawyer for the estate of William Reynolds.”

“OK.” Nina waited. She’d never heard of the guy. Was she supposed to know the name?

“I’m afraid I have some bad news.” The lawyer paused.

Nina kept waiting. If it were really bad news, the police would have shown up, right?

“I’m sorry to tell you that your father has died.”

After a brief pause during which Nina checked for double meanings or maybe a language difficulty, she shook her head. “I’m sorry, there must be a mistake. I don’t have a father.” That sounded wrong. “I mean, of course I have a father, but I’ve never known him. We’re not connected in any way, I mean. I don’t know who he is.”

“He is, or rather was, William Reynolds.”

“I don’t think so.”

The lawyer nodded. “He was. The estate has a letter from your mother, Candice Hill, confirming his paternity and absolving him of all parental liability and responsibility under the proviso he never attempt to contact you.”

Nina sat down on the chair after all. “I don’t . . .”

Mr. Sarkassian was balding on top but with hair around the sides and back, like someone wearing a brown woolly hat with everything but the brim removed. He spoke quickly and firmly, and Nina wondered if he’d been practicing on the way over. He couldn’t possibly have to break this kind of news all the time, surely? “Mr. Reynolds clearly abided by your mother’s wishes during his lifetime, but you were nonetheless included in his list of beneficiaries.”

He paused, but Nina looked at him without replying, largely because she had absolutely no response to that.

“I’m here to invite you to attend the reading of the will, which is actually in a few weeks.” He looked apologetic. “It’s taken me rather longer than I hoped to find you, as you could have been anywhere.” He shot back a French cuff and looked at his watch. “Imagine my surprise when you turned out to be half a mile away in Los Angeles.”