The Bookseller(65)

I cut out a photograph of each of them and carefully place them in the frame, Mitch on the left-hand side and Missy in the center. And then I look through the photographs and papers on the desk for a picture of Michael.

The photograph I find makes me melancholy. Michael does not have a school picture, of course. But I—to be sure, I am the one who would have done this—have dressed him in the same outfit as Mitch’s and taken a photograph of him against a blank wall in the house. Likely I snapped a whole roll to get this shot, and this was the best of the bunch.

The photograph is not terrible. Michael is not looking at the camera, and he’s not smiling, but at least he’s not scowling. His expression is blank. His collar is straight and his hair is neatly combed. His eyes, behind his glasses, are impossible to decipher; they look neither glad nor glum. But at least he doesn’t seem to be in distress. I hope I didn’t put him through too much, trying to get this photograph taken for Lars.

I place the picture of Michael in the right-hand slot in the frame, then gather up the scraps and extras. I am standing back to admire the effect when I hear the doorbell ring. This is followed by Missy’s excited voice shouting, “They’re here!” There is a trampling of children’s feet down the staircase, then Lars calling down the hallway, “Katharyn, where are you? They’re here!”

Wondering who “they” are, I hurry down the hall. As I do so, I glance at the photograph of the mountain scene, the one across from the master bedroom door. I don’t know where the thought comes from, but suddenly I know exactly where this photograph was taken: at the top of Rabbit Ears Pass, near Steamboat Springs in northwestern Colorado. But that location means nothing to me; I’ve never even been there. I shake my head, trying to make sense of it. No flashes of clarity come to me, so I continue walking and join my family at the front door.

Just coming inside are Linnea, followed by a thin, pleasant-looking man and two gangly young people, a boy and a girl. Linnea’s arms are full with a cookie tray covered with tinfoil. “I brought the rolls,” she says, passing the tray to me. “They just need heating for about twenty minutes.” She leans in and kisses my cheek. “You look beautiful, as always.”

I smile and kiss her back. “It’s all your work, you know.”

“Oh, pish, it’s not me at all. You’d be lovely if you never combed your hair out and only washed it once a month.”

I laugh merrily and am surprised at how happy I feel. “I hardly think that’s true.”

Linnea ignores this. “Here’s that book back,” she says, handing me a hardback volume. I glance at the cover: The Age of Innocence, by Edith Wharton. “I really enjoyed it. Thanks for loaning it to me.”

“You’re welcome. I thought it might be your style.” I balance the book underneath the pan of rolls.

“Well, come on in, everyone.” Lars ushers the crowd into the living room. “Kids, you go downstairs and play. Mama will bring Cokes in a bit.”

I will? Fine, then, I will.

“Gloria, you go on down with them,” Linnea says, taking off her coat. “Play with the little ones, won’t you?”

Gloria rolls her eyes. “I’m not a child, Mother,” she says. “I’d rather be in the kitchen with you and Aunt Katharyn. Must I go downstairs with the children?”

Linnea nods firmly, opening the front hall closet door to hang up her coat. “You must. You know how they love playing with you, k?resta.” Linnea reaches for her husband’s coat while Gloria heaves a heavy, dramatic teenage-girl sigh. I get the distinct feeling we’ve been through this routine before.

The boy—I believe his name is Joe; I remember Linnea telling me that in my other life—slips out of his jacket and loafers, while simultaneously ruffling Missy’s hair. “Don’t worry, sis, I’ll come, too,” he says, looking at Gloria over the children’s heads. He hands his coat to Linnea while all three of my children—even Michael, I note with pleasurable surprise—jump gaily around him.

“Cousin Joe! Yippee, we get to play with Cousin Joe!” Mitch cries.

Mitch, Missy, and Michael fly down the basement stairs with Joe in hand. Gloria, still sulky but at least compliant, takes off her jacket and shoes, places them in the coat closet, and then heads slowly down the stairs. Before long, I hear what sounds like all five of them talking at once, likely figuring out what they want to play. Their voices are elated and loud, though muffled by the distance and the carpeting. I’m not sure what the game is, but it seems that everyone—even Gloria, even Michael—is having a good time.

“Come with me to the kitchen,” I say to Linnea. “I’ll put these rolls in as soon as the roast comes out. Boys,” I call over my shoulder. “Can you fix us gals some drinks?”

Good heavens, who am I? For the first time ever in this world, I feel a complete sense of confidence. I know exactly what to say and what to do. Why is that? Is it because Linnea is here? I have to admit that her presence, looking and acting just as warm and sweet as she does in the real world, buoys my spirits like nothing else I have experienced here so far.


Linnea leans on the counter and sips the Brandy Alexander that Lars has brought her. She stirs the ice with the red plastic swizzle stick that Lars placed in her glass. “How are you holding up?” she asks me.