by Diane Moody
An hour later, they were on their way. Olivia had changed clothes at the MacVicar while Trevor moved Charlie and her bed over to the Knit Knook. He’d put the Closed sign on the front door of Books & Such, then rushed home to change into something nicer. He’d told Olivia they’d be having dinner at an upscale restaurant, requiring the appropriate attire. He wore his navy wool blazer with his gray herringbone slacks and a starched white shirt.
With the icy temperatures, he assured Olivia she’d be fine in a dressy pair of slacks. When he picked her up, she looked stunning in a pair of black wool slacks and a classy silver cowl-neck sweater. A touch of elegant jewelry completed the perfect ensemble.
“You look amazing,” he told her, escorting her into his SUV. Later, as they merged onto I-95 south toward Boston, he couldn’t take his eyes off her.
“I’m flattered, but keep those eyes on the road, mister.”
“Point noted.”
But just as he turned his head, a van in front of him swerved into his lane to miss another vehicle that had slowed. Trevor jerked the steering wheel to avoid hitting the van, causing his SUV to rock side to side before catching traction again on the slippery road.
“TREVOR!” Olivia braced herself with a grip lock on the dash. “Slow down! Slow down!”
A frantic rush of adrenaline hammered his heart. “Don’t shout at me while I’m driving!”
As he regained control of the SUV, he shot a quick glance finding her face blanched with fear.
“I can’t help it! We almost rolled over!”
He forced himself to take a deep breath, then another. “Yes, but you mustn’t—”
“I’m sorry for yelling, but you scared me, Trevor!” She blew out a shaky breath.
He reached for her hand across the console and squeezed it. “Okay. Look, I’m sorry. I’m not used to having a passenger with me. Forgive me for snapping at you.”
She stared at their entwined hands. “And I’m sorry for freaking out on you. Ellen tells me I’ve been hyper-nervous whenever I’m on the road ever since I lost Mom and Dad.”
“That’s probably quite normal to react that way.”
“Maybe, but I’m still sorry.”
“Apology accepted.”
And it was. But it reminded him that change wasn’t always easy. After all these years on his own, making room for someone else in his life would take some getting used to.
They made polite, awkward small talk for the next few miles until they eased back into a more relaxed conversation.
“The curiosity is killing me. Tell me about the books, Trevor.”
As they traveled south along the interstate, he told her everything. From first news of the books coming up for auction, to the background of the Maxwell Sullivan estate up near Bangor, to the nail-biting, excruciating final moments of the auction.
“I kept kicking myself, wishing I’d invited you to watch it all unfold alongside me. Then the next moment, I realized how thankful you weren’t there to witness me acting like a crazy man, pacing back and forth, talking and shouting at myself.”
“I would’ve loved to see that side of the reserved and well-tempered Trevor Bass.”
“Trust me, it wasn’t pretty.”
“What about the books? Any titles I would recognize?”
“Oh, sure. These are familiar to just about everyone on the planet. Let’s see, where to start.” He tapped his finger on the steering wheel. “I assume you’ve heard of Alice in Wonderland by Lewis Carroll?”
“Seriously?”
“A beautifully bound Bayntun in red calf hide, first published in 1866. Stamped and lettered in gilt with blue and green spine labels. Excellent condition.”
“Bayntun is the publisher?”
“No, Bayntun is one of the most respected bookbinding companies in the world. Top of the line. Then there’s a uniformly bound set of James Fenimore Cooper’s Leather Stocking Tales, which includes The Last of the Mohicans, The Deerslayer, The Pathfinder, and two others you probably aren’t familiar with. The set was published in 1823. A rare find, to say the least.”
“I don’t even want to know how much something like that costs.”
Trevor chuckled. “No, you don’t. It would take your breath away.”
“My thoughts exactly.”
“There’s also a first edition of Charlotte Bronte’s first book called The Professor, which was published in 1857. You’ll love the cover on that one. Morocco binding dyed a magnificent dark purple-gray, blind-stamped with an intricate floral design.”
“What does blind-stamped mean?”
“It’s a design that’s imprinted directly into the cloth or leather cover of the book. No color of its own. Just an imprint similar to a notary’s stamp on paper, only these are on book covers.”
“Got it.”
“Oh! I almost forgot about the Dickens! I got a Dickens!”
“The Charles Dickens?!”
“Yes! A Tale of Two Cities in the original wraps!” When confusion knitted her brows, he explained. “Forerunners of the paperback. Early dust jackets, if you will. Before binding, the volume would be sewn together and covered in paper to protect it. Extremely rare to find a nineteenth-century book with its original cover.” He shivered with excitement. “Sorry. As you can tell, I get a bit carried away with all this.”
She squeezed his hand on the console. “Don’t apologize. I understand completely. I’m so happy for you, Trevor.”
He lifted her hand to gently kiss the peaks of her knuckles. “Thank you. You have no idea how much that means to me. “I’ve . . .” he paused, clearing his throat, “I’ve never had anyone to share this kind of thing with before. It quadruples the fun of it for me in a way I never expected.”
She smiled, then leaned over and slowly kissed the back of his hand.
With his other hand on the wheel, Trevor tightened his grip and kept his eyes on the road, trying to ignore the shiver quaking through him at the tenderness of her kiss.
“So that was your biggest find? The Dickens’ book?”
“No. It was definitely a thrill to get that one, but my most prized treasure is one you might not think worthy of the hefty price I paid for it. Not that I’ll be dropping any figures, mind you.”
“No, of course not.”
“Care to make a guess?”
“Me? I have no idea. Well, I say that, but I doubt seriously it’s a Harry Potter.”
“You know me too well. Although I was at an auction in New York earlier this year where someone paid $10,000 for a first edition of Harry Potter and the Philosopher’s Stone.”
“Ten thousand dollars?!”
“A fair price, actually, but not my cup of tea.”
“Trevor, are you telling me some of these books cost thousands of dollars?”
He nodded, glancing at her briefly to enjoy the shock on her face.
“I had no idea. I mean, maybe one or two thousand, but—”
“I know it sounds absurd, but you must realize these books are an investment. Some people play the stock market; others invest in real estate or fine jewelry. For me, it’s rare books.”
“I get that. But I think you also enjoy the hunt.”
“Well, yes. That’s half the fun of it.”
“So when will they ship the books to you?”
“No, I wouldn’t dream of having them shipped. Too much at risk. I’ll drive up to get them once the estate is cleared. Hopefully, next week sometime.”
“Oh, please let me go with you!”
He thought his heart would surely jump out of his chest. If he were a man given to spontaneous reactions, he would surely pull over, propose, and find the nearest justice of the peace.
Good heavens—where did that come from?
“Olivia,” he croaked, then tried again. “I’d be honored. I would love to have you come with me.”
“Good. Then it’s a date! Where will we pick them up?”
“About twenty miles thi
s side of Bangor, Maine which is two hours northeast of here. We’ll make a day of it.”
They chatted all the way into Boston, only breaking the conversation for the bothersome, numerous toll stops. They discussed places they wanted to see, where they might have a light lunch, then dinner at his favorite restaurant, Mistral, in the South End district.
They were both starving by the time they got to town, so opted to grab a bite at The Union Oyster House, the oldest restaurant in the country.
Once inside, Trevor gave Olivia a quick history of the quaint and crowded establishment. “It’s been open since 1826. Oysters were all the rage at the time, so the owners built that semi-circular Oyster Bar over there to accommodate the demand. They say Daniel Webster was a daily customer, downing a tall tumbler of brandy and water along with each of his half-dozen oysters—rarely less than six plates of the delicacies per visit.”
“It’s a wonder he ever had time to write a dictionary.”
“Indeed.”
“Who else hung out here? Anyone else I would know?”
“Basically anyone who lived or traveled through Boston since 1926. The Kennedys loved the place. There’s a plaque on a booth upstairs where JFK used to dine in privacy. We’ll pick up one of their booklets on the way out; a virtual who’s who of American history.”
He watched her savor the indescribable clam chowder, tickled by the groan of pleasure uttered with her first bite. “Wait until you taste the cornbread. I don’t know what they do to make it melt in your mouth, but it’s the best I’ve ever tasted.”
He laughed out loud when another series of culinary groans of ecstasy filled their booth.
“Oh, Trevorrrrr . . . I might just move in here and spend the rest of my days eating my way through their entire menu.” She wiped butter from her lips with a playful look. “Wait—does that repulse you? The thought of me licking bowls of chowder and inhaling squares of this deliciousness called cornbread?”
He chortled, a great honk of a thing which not only horrified him, but made them both laugh so hard they couldn’t breathe.
“Stop!” she wheezed hiding behind her napkin. “You’re killing me!”
He leaned across the table and lowered his voice. “I’m so sorry! I had no idea I could make such a dastardly noise.”
She wiped tears from her eyes, but couldn’t stifle the onslaught of giggles.
They laughed and ate and talked until they wore themselves out. Trevor leaned his head back against the booth, trying to remember if he had ever known such a good time in all his life, convinced he hadn’t.
When the waiter appeared with an enormous piece of Boston Cream Pie, Olivia raised her hand. “Okay, I’ll take one bite. Just one. That’s it, because otherwise I’m going to make myself sick.”
“Fine. Have it your way.” He cut the point of the pie with his fork and extended it toward her. “Here’s your one bite. Don’t even think of asking for another.”
She took the bite and closed her eyes, her mouth perfectly still. “Mmm.”
“Taste the creamy vanilla custard? The moist sponge cake with the chocolate glaze?”
“Mmm.”
“Good, because the rest is mine.”
Chapter 16
Over the next three hours, Trevor gave Olivia an abbreviated tour of some of Boston’s most famous sights. They started with the New England Holocaust Memorial just across from the restaurant. Olivia stood in awe looking up at the six glass towers which Trevor told her represented the six million Jews killed during the Holocaust and the six major death camps.
“Each tower is etched with seven-digit numbers in remembrance of the numbers tattooed on the arms of the concentration camp prisoners.”
On such a bright day, the shadows of those etched numbers covered both of them.
“It’s absolutely breathtaking,” Olivia murmured.
He tucked her hand under his elbow as they finished walking along the path. “It’s a sobering memorial but yes, quite a beautiful tribute.”
From there they strolled to Faneuil Hall, called “the Cradle of Liberty” where many of the leaders of the American Revolution first spoke out against British oppression. Their next stop was a tour of Paul Revere’s house; then on to Old North Church, the first stop on Revere’s infamous “Midnight Ride” on April 18, 1775. They made their way back to Trevor’s SUV then drove by Copley Square, Fenway Park, Harvard Square, and many other historic sites before stopping to wander through Granary Burying Ground. There they visited the snow-covered graves of John Hancock, Sam Adams, Paul Revere, members of Benjamin Franklin’s family, and many others from America’s earliest days.
Trevor looked at his watch. “We’re going to have to scoot to make our reservation at Mistral.”
“Already? Oh Trevor, I have to be honest. I couldn’t eat a thing. I’m still stuffed from lunch.”
He grinned. “I wasn’t going to say anything, but so am I. How about I call and cancel the reservation, and we’ll do that another time.”
She grabbed his hand in both of hers. “Perfect.”
Later, on the way out of town, they stopped for coffee to go, then hopped back on I-95 to head back to Caden Cove. The sun had set, shrouding the road with darkness and headlights. But the interior lights and heated seats of the luxury SUV made for a cozy ride back to town. They filled the time discussing the sights they’d seen as Trevor filled in the gaps of history they’d missed in the brief day’s tour.
Olivia marveled at how relaxed and comfortable they’d become with each other in such a short time. It felt as if they’d been close for months instead of mere weeks. Then, even as that thought crossed her mind, a subtle check in her spirit drifted through again. Too much, too fast. Stealing a peek at Trevor’s profile, she tamped down the echoes of her Ellen’s warning.
Oh Lord, I’ve waited so long. Please let this be okay . . .
“Tell me what you’re thinking.”
“What?” she asked, startled.
“You were staring at me.”
“I was? Oh. Well, nothing. Just … thinking about what it’s been. That’s all.”
He glanced over at her again. “I see. And what was your favorite part of our—”
“TREVOR! LOOK OUT!”
The glare of red brake lights filled the windshield as cars swerved recklessly around them. Trevor stomped on the brakes sending them into a frantic sideways slide.
Horns blared. Tires squealed. Metal crunched metal. Trevor tried desperately to regain control of the SUV.
“TREVOR!” Olivia cried. “Oh God, help us!”
“OLIVIA! STOP SCREAMING!”
They continued to slide, inching closer, closer to the rear of a yellow Volkswagen Beetle. She held her breath waiting for impact when the SUV finally came to a stop. She quickly twisted to look behind, praying the blur of headlights wouldn’t slam into them.
“Oh, Trevor—”
He flashed a rigid palm in her face.
“Wha—”
“Stop!”
“But I—”
“It’s called black ice. We drive on it all the time.” His hushed, patronizing tone stunned her.
“What?! You’re blaming this on me?”
He continued, slowly, methodically, as if addressing a three-year-old, his eyes locked straight ahead. “I know how to handle it. Sometimes these out of state truckers drive too fast. They cause accidents.” He turned, his eyes wild with fury. “But I do not need you to tell me how to drive!”
“Look, I was only trying—”
He blasted an angry grunt, shoving the palm back at her face. “Not. One. Word.”
Olivia gasped, more at the seething tone of his voice than the words themselves. Still trembling from the near-miss, she racked her brain trying to think what could have set him off. The same face that made her heart skip a beat just moments ago, now resembled that of an angry bull—eyes narrowed and nostrils flaring with each carefully control
led breath.
“Stay in the car.” He got out, then slammed the door. Others joined him, surveying the pile-up ahead and looking for a way around the mess.
Olivia clenched her jaws, her chest heaving. Of all the nerve. He almost gets us killed, and somehow that’s my fault? She closed her eyes and tried to rein in her emotions. Not once, but twice in one day, he’d jumped down her throat. And for what? Reacting to his reckless driving? He’d apologized the first time, saying he wasn’t used to having a passenger with him.
Had she overreacted? Was she the hyper-nervous passenger Ellen labeled her all those years ago?
She pinched the bridge of her nose and squeezed her eyes tighter as they prickled with tears. Oh please, don’t let me crumble. Not in front of him. She tried to slow her breathing while searching for a tissue in her purse.
Too much, too soon!
Had she put on blinders, unwilling to see the real Trevor, ignoring all those red flags that now rippled with warning?
Frustrated by not finding a handkerchief or tissue, she looked around the SUV. Surely, someone as organized as Trevor would have a box of tissues in his car. She opened the glove compartment and spotted a packet of tissues beneath a small notebook. Olivia pulled two tissues and began to dab at her eyes before blowing her nose. Once under control again, she nabbed one more tissue before putting the packet back in the compartment. Curious about the notebook, she lifted it out and flipped through its pages. It appeared to be a journal of sorts. She snuck a quick look for Trevor, but couldn’t see around the vehicle in front of them. Against her better judgment, she thumbed back to the first page. She recognized Trevor’s handsome script and couldn’t resist reading a few lines before he returned.
July 3, 2009
Upon discovery of the leather-bound MacVicar Chronicles, I found myself fascinated by the family history of those who are, in essence, my neighbors. All that separates us is the passage of time. And while the mysterious legend still haunts our town to this day, I am determined to find the truth of the matter and put the nonsense to rest once and for all. And in doing so—which is the far greater task, of course—I shall begin to write a comprehensive history of our beloved Caden Cove.
