by Meg Wolfe
do want to do this. It’s a wonderful opportunity and I have a feeling something good will come of it.” She silently thanked her lucky stars that the job was still there, unsettled situation or not.
“Do you have any ideas about how to proceed?”
Charlotte adopted the manner that worked when making suggestions and proposals at editorial meetings. “I think the most important thing right now is to just find the notebooks. Once I have those, you could have an estate liquidator come in like I’m doing. That way you don’t have to worry about all the hands-on work, the sorting and the details, and you can turn the house over to Donovan fairly quickly.”
Helene seemed to like the idea. “Oh, the sooner the better, in my opinion. I wasn’t impressed by that display of his.” Her lips were pressed in a thin line of disapproval. “But I need to have a rough estimate of the personal property value for the estate and for the taxes, like an appraisal. The books might not be worth much, but there are some antiques and collector’s items in the cabinets and on the other shelves. Maybe I should call Martin Stanton, but I think we need to see what we’re dealing with first.”
The weather was sunny, but cool, the first touches of autumn on the breeze. Charlotte was glad she’d worn socks and a sweater. Helene shivered, and they rose to go back into the house. Then a motorcycle quietly pulled into the driveway, surprising Charlotte, as she hadn’t heard it coming. It was Simon, who smoothed back his hair after taking off his helmet. She had already recognized him, however, by the jeans and the jacket. It had to be long-legged black jeans, she thought. She looked away before he caught her staring.
Simon joined them in the living room, and noted the open windows. “Smells better already.”
Helene pointed down to the newspapers covering the blood stain. “I only hope that we won’t smell the blood now. This rug has got to go. But I’m supposed to have everything valuated before getting rid of anything. The attorney said to take pictures.” She smiled and looked up at Simon. “Would you like the job?”
Simon chuckled in a way that said he knew her all too well. “Yes, Helene, I will be happy to do it. But you know that.”
“No, no,” she protested. “I mean as a real job. The estate will cover your time and expenses. My sister has created a huge inconvenience for me, but I don’t want it to be an inconvenience for my friends, as well. You both might as well get something out of it. At least that’s my feelings about the matter.”
Simon looked like he was going to object, but Charlotte interrupted. “Oh, Simon, take the bloody job and make good work of it. I could use the help, too.”
He looked at her with amusement. “Alright, I’ll take the bloody job,” he said, stressing the difference in their accents. The creases in his high-boned cheeks deepened as he smiled, and for a moment Charlotte thought that he looked a bit like an aging but well-preserved rock star. “We’ll make good work of it, then.” He turned to Helene. “When do we start?”
“Immediately.” Helene had to look up at him, but seemed taller as she gave the command. Every so often, thought Charlotte, one could get a glimpse of Helene the concert pianist, and the teacher used to dealing with young prima donnas.
“Right, then,” said Simon, moving his hands to point out and encompass different areas of emphasis. “I propose we do it as a video, first just a quick scan and set of notes, and then as Charlotte goes through the search for the notebooks, we’ll do a detailed inventory of everything in each room. That’s also when I can do still shots of groups of items that might be of particular value, such as each shelf in the cabinets, or the things on the sideboard and dining room table. If there is anything of outstanding value, I can set it up as a single-item shot, with perfect lighting and detail.”
Helene nodded her understanding. “That sounds like a good plan, and hopefully not too much fuss. The attorney did say something about videos—evidently that’s the way insurance agents do it nowadays.” She went on to say that she would provide both Simon and Charlotte with checks to cover a week’s worth of work in advance, with another if the project required it. Charlotte expressed her gratitude, and hoped she was hiding her relief, wanting to keep things as professional as possible. She would stretch the money as far as she could, but it would help her make ends meet until after the sale.
“The videos might help me spot the notebooks, too,” said Charlotte. “I have no idea what they look like or where they’ve been stashed.” She shrugged. “Or maybe not. I’ve no idea, really.” She looked around the room, feeling a bit helpless and hopeless. Where does one begin in a mess like this? Especially when there is a need to find something specific. “These notebooks could turn out to be ten needles in a hundred haystacks.”
“I can help you with that, too,” said Simon. “I can help you move things, maybe make it go a little faster.” He, too, looked around the room. “Moving things might be unavoidable.”
Helene sat down on the wingback chair. “If it wasn’t for the fact that my sister was once an author of some promise and regard, I’d be tempted to say to hell with this and go directly with an estate liquidator, like Charlotte is doing,” she said. “But as it is, my conscience won’t let me, and I am also just plain curious about what’s in those notebooks. So much of Olivia’s life was a mystery.”
Charlotte once again felt torn about telling Helene what was in the last notebook. Now that the project was definitely back on, she would have to set aside the time to read it carefully, and make a typed copy. Perhaps it would be best not to say what was in it until she had read the whole thing. “She certainly seemed to be well-connected, from what you’ve told me.”
Helene nodded. “Her world back then was like a salon of literary stars.”
Simon had been looking over the bookshelves. “Here’s a first edition of On the Road.” He thumbed through it. “And it’s full of marginalia. Looks like Olivia didn’t like it much.” He replaced it. “Marked up like that, it won’t bring a lot, I wouldn’t think.”
“Was she part of the Beat movement, or the French New Wave?” asked Charlotte.
“I honestly don’t know,” said Helene, with a shrug. “She was French at heart, or at least wanted to be.”
Simon pointed at a row of books on another shelf. “Seamus O’Dair, but mostly paperbacks. With Joyce and Beckett, no first editions.”
“I think Olivia knew him, too,” said Helene.
“Does anyone actually understand Seamus O’Dair?” asked Simon. “I mean, I found Least Objects a hard go.”
Charlotte remembered reading it in grad school. “It’s a very harsh novel, and it is difficult, but it is brilliant. Some people think O’Dair’s take on post-war consumerism is a prophecy that has come true in recent years, especially with more awareness of the influence corporations have on the decision to go to war. People have trouble with Least Objects because there are endless levels of compromised values, and it is hard to read without having a real hero to root for. Even feminists were divided on his treatment of the main woman character, Margot—some said it was only fair that she was cast out for lying about being part of the French Resistance, and others thought that she was unfairly punished for being young and hero-worshiping. Everyone in it is seriously flawed in one way or another.”
“That’s what I remember of it, that darkness, an almost pointless darkness,” said Simon.
“It’s one of the darkest books I’ve ever read, too,” said Helene. “I read it in the original French and came away with a different experience than I did when I read the English translation. It seemed less mean-spirited. Something might have gotten lost.”
“There’s a quest story in it, too,” continued Charlotte, as she recalled more and more of the novel. “The character Jacques, who’s probably the closest to a hero in the book, thinks that Margot has stolen his son, and the search takes him into one situation after another. Of course it all ends badly, but that’s part of the point—there cannot be a good ending in a world dominated by banks, corporations, and a
rmies.”
“That’s probably the simplest summary of that book that I’ve ever heard,” said Simon. “Not that I’m ready to give it another go,” he put up his hands to stop her reply, and grinned. “Seriously, though, I might have been too young and impatient for it back then, not up for reading much of anything so serious.” He imitated a lofty, self-important person. “All about my art, y’know.”
“Oh, Simon,” tutted Helene, “I’m sure you were never that full of yourself.”
“Oh but I was, and probably still am!” he insisted, and left to pick up his video equipment.
Charlotte had remembered to bring the one notebook she did have, and once again wondered at the words inside the front cover: Put the pieces together and bloom. She showed it to Helene.
“I thought at first that it’s the title of this volume, this notebook, but so far I’m not making the connection,” said Charlotte. “I admit that the handwriting is difficult to read in the first half, so I might be missing a lot.”
Helene nodded thoughtfully. “It feels familiar, but I’m not sure why. Maybe it will come to me.” She handed the notebook back to Charlotte.
“Perhaps it’s episodic, like a lot of modern fiction, in pieces that are put together to make a whole novel. Or maybe it’s because
