Ignoring my toast, he said, “I’d love to do some catching up, but I know we are both on a schedule.”
“You, I think, more than I am,” I said.
“How’s that?” he asked, with a light cough.
Taking another sip of the wine, whose buttery taste I was sure Nicole would be able to identify down to the vineyard and year, I recounted what Slader had told me about Mrs. Fletcher—not mentioning her name—returning from a trip overseas, and Tamerlane—not mentioning its title—needing to be replaced, along with a new-old letter, in its solander box.
“No, that’s nothing for you to be concerned about. Indeed, it’s something I’d rather you make an effort to forget, if that’s all right.”
“Fine by me,” I said.
“I will tell you this, though. Your recent craftsmanship was every bit as sophisticated as what you used to do in the days when we were more in commerce. I might add that your transition from calligraphic to letterpress makes you something of a virtuoso.”
Rather than thank him for a compliment I’d as soon not be paid, I nodded, peering out at a catamaran running with other sailboats on the river.
“And while we’re speaking of this and that, I’m sorry to see your hand. Of course, I knew about the accident—”
He saw me recoil at that characterization.
“Assault, I should say—but watching you, I’m pleased to see that you’ve made a full recovery.”
“Tell that to my phantom fingers. I think they’d disagree,” I said, without hostility. “But, yes, many days go by without my even noticing. For instance, it wasn’t on my mind until you brought it up.”
“My apologies,” Atticus said, his tone of voice sincere. “And I am sorry about it all. I know you probably think I was somehow behind it, but no way was I involved. It was pure barbarism on Slader’s part, and he himself paid a steep price for his loss of sanity.”
Though I didn’t respond to this, it did occur to me that sanity had never been one of Henry Slader’s traits.
“You understood that my substantial payment was meant to reimburse you for books I’d sold from your father’s library and your own, as well as help with medical debts, as a gesture of friendship, and for your family.” As he told me this, he removed his glasses and I could see, for the first time, that both of Atticus’s eyes appeared frosted, had a filmy dimness to them, were far more aged than in years past when they fairly danced with vigor. “I never expected you to thank me then, and I don’t want you to thank me now.”
“You and I are even, Atticus, at least in that regard,” I assured him. “I can’t really see why you elected to send Henry Slader to deliver the Tamerlane to me, though. Maybe it’s not finally worth getting into the hows and whys, but he’s the polar opposite of you.”
“Mostly true, except he’s deeply versed in the craft you know so much about, and is my sole connection to that world. A world which, by the way, after Tamerlane is brought out into the light, is one I plan on quitting forever.”
I crossed my arms lightly, breathed in the soft tang of river air. “You know, you could quit it forever right now. Just give Abigail Fletcher her book back and destroy mine.”
Atticus glanced around, a little ruffled by my comment, checking to see if anyone had wandered onto the veranda and was listening. “Don’t think it wasn’t something that occurred to me as I was driving down here. But I’m afraid the die is cast. By this time your beautiful production is in its new home near Boston. And the original is out in the world waiting to be discovered.”
He didn’t look well, now that I’d been sitting with him for a time. Given that he had been so out-front about my disability, I considered asking him if he was all right. Instead, I said, “Could you tell me what you mean by ‘out in the world waiting to be discovered’?”
With that, he smiled again, put his glasses back on, and the dim nimbus of illness that I thought I’d seen dissipated. “May I ask you a question?”
“Shoot,” I said, taking another sip.
“I believe Meghan will act with discretion going forward, but how much can the girls be counted on to keep your work with the Poe book a secret?”
“That’s a question you might have asked yourself before you sent Slader on his errand here.”
Atticus leaned back in his chair, gazed out at the gray-blue sky. “Henry Slader’s admittedly a problem that will need to be solved. But please do answer, and rest assured there’s no threat implied in what I’m asking.”
“To be honest, I feel confident that my daughters won’t break their promises to keep this a secret. I don’t think my younger fully appreciates what this Tamerlane business is all about, and anyway she tends to keep her own counsel. And regarding Nicole, she helped me with the whole thing, so she’s as bound to silence as I am myself.” I withdrew the bottle from its cooler and poured more wine for each of us.
“You like the Meursault, I see. Domaine Antoine Jobard,” he said. “I brought another bottle down with me if you’d like to take it home.”
“Nicole seems to be an oenophile in the making.”
“It’s all hers then. She’d probably prefer a Montrachet, but this is a particularly fine vintage of white Burgundy,” he said. “I’ll give it to you for her before you go.”
“No need, but thanks.”
Atticus smiled, shook his head. “I insist, if only on her behalf.”
“On her behalf, thank you. But you should know that I don’t feel as confident about Meg’s willingness to go along with all this as you seem to be,” I told him, and drummed my left-hand fingers before spreading my hand, palm down, on the table. “You know how much she hated my involvement with forgery all those years ago, and she’s been a stalwart supporter of my reformation. It’s been a long road to come back from those troubled times, and seductive as it’s been now and then to want to backslide, until this past week, I haven’t forged anything.”
“Aside from forging ahead?”
I didn’t laugh. He meant to leaven our conversation, I knew, but I wanted him to comprehend how difficult this project was for me, how much it involved waking old demons.
“So you really and truly gave it up?”
“You don’t believe me.”
“I just find it hard to comprehend how someone as gifted as you could walk away.”
Looking Atticus hard in the eye, I said, “Meghan may be a problem.”
Unexpectedly, abruptly, he offered me an ardent close-lipped smile that was the very definition of self-possession. “I’m glad you’ve been forthright with me about this, Will, and I hope you’ll trust me when I tell you that she will not present a problem. I’m feeling good about things now and am so happy we’ve been having this chat. Maybe it’s mawkish to say so, but that old chestnut about true friendships not dying, despite many years of absence, never seemed truer to me.”