The Bookseller(79)

Lars shakes his head. “I don’t know how you do this all day, every day.”

I shrug. “Me, neither.”

He goes to the kitchen and pours coffee from the still-warm pot. “Want some?”

“No, thanks.” While I get myself a glass of water, Lars heads to his office. I drink my water, then go to the bottom of the stairs and listen. It’s silent up there; perhaps, I think, Michael is resting on his bed. I follow Lars to his office.

Standing in the doorway, I watch him speak into the telephone. “Right, but I can’t make it in today,” he says. “Okay . . . no, I understand.” He glances at me. “Hold the line a moment, Gladys.” He covers the receiver and turns to me. “They really need me this afternoon,” he pleads. “Will you be all right if I go in?”

I shrug again. “It’s fine by me. I just need to . . . I’d like to talk to you for a few minutes first.”

He puts the receiver back to his mouth. “Gladys, tell them I’ll be there by one thirty.” He hangs up and brushes past me. “I’ve got to change,” he says. “Can we talk while I do that?”

I nod and follow him to our bedroom.

We have a club chair in the bedroom, tweed, dark green, a nice contrast to the sage-colored walls. I sit in it, watching Lars while he finds trousers, a crisp white shirt and tie. Even from across the room, I can smell the clean-laundry smell of his fresh clothes as he dresses. I watch him button the shirt over his broad shoulders, his solid chest. He is such an attractive man. So lovely, so perfect, and I know I should feel nothing but gratitude to be here with him.

Whether it be real or not, I should be happy for what I have.

He looks at me in the mirror. “You feeling any better?”

“I’m hanging in there.”

“You were pretty upset last night.”

“Lars.” I stand and cross the room, joining him by the mirror as he puts his tie around his neck. “I need you to do something for me. It might be hard.”

He turns and puts his arms around me. “Anything you need.”

I close my eyes for a moment, relishing the feel and smell of him so close to me. Wishing I could just take pleasure in that and forget everything else. But I can’t. I open my eyes.

“Just . . .” I sigh. “Just tell me what happened,” I whisper. “To them. To my parents.”

He tilts his head. “Honey, you know this.”

I shake my head. “No, I mean afterward.” I break away from him and step back. “How did we find out? What did we do? How did we tell the children? How . . .” I bite my lip. “What was the funeral like?”

He looks at me for a long moment. Then he ties his tie—slowly, cautiously, taking his time.

When he is satisfied with his appearance, he leads me back to the club chair, gently pushing me down into it. He sits on the bed opposite me. “It was rough,” he says, shaking his head.

I nod. Of course it was rough.

“I took the morning off from work, and we’d kept Mitch and Missy out of school for the occasion. We went out to the airport in your car,” he went on. “Piled in and ready to pick up Grandma and Grandpa from their flight. The kids had on their Halloween costumes; they were delirious with excitement.” He looks at me sadly. “You, too, honey.” He puts his hand on my knee. “Katharyn, maybe I shouldn’t say this, but that morning in the car . . . I think that’s the last time I saw you truly happy.”

I look out through the patio doors to the snowy backyard. I don’t remember that, but I can picture it in my mind. I know how the children would be dressed. Missy would be a princess, because Missy is always a princess. Mitch would be a hobo or a magician or a train engineer or perhaps a cowboy—Mitch’s imagination could take him anywhere in the world, so the possibilities were endless. Even Michael would have gotten into the spirit of it; perhaps I would have convinced him to dress up, just a little. I would have outfitted him in something comfortable and not too confining—yes, I know what it would be, a puppy-dog costume, with floppy ears that I made out of felt and attached to a soft, loose hood, worn with a regular pair of brown pants and a brown sweatshirt, the spotted tail I’d fashioned from more felt pinned to the seat of his trousers.

I can see myself, too. My face would be flushed with anticipation. I would lean over to check my reflection in the rearview mirror as we drove to Stapleton. I would be fussing over my hair, although it would no doubt be picture-perfect from Linnea’s skilled hand.

Lars would be at the wheel, whistling and cracking jokes with the kids. The weather would be overcast, the same as it was in the real world on that day, but that would not destroy our jovial moods.

I can imagine us reaching the airport, parking, going inside. Passersby would smile and nudge each other, gazing at our delightful children in their costumes. I can see us finding our way to Gate 18.

The same gate from which I picked up my parents in the real world, just a few days ago.

“They were to make a connection in Los Angeles,” Lars continues. ‘The connection came in on time. We waited, watching at the window, waving to everyone who got off the airplane and stepped onto the tarmac. We waited while they all came through the gate. And then we waited until the gate area was empty.

“‘They must have missed their connection,’ you said. ‘I’m surprised they didn’t telephone.’”