The Book That Matters Most (24 page)

“But I speak French!” Ava said.

“So do I.” Jim reminded her.

“Do you really think she might come home?”

“She always does when things bottom out,” Jim said.

“Oh my God,” Ava said. “Where the hell is she?”

“I'll call you from Paris,” Jim said.

“Thanks. For going there.”

“Ava?” Jim said softly.

She waited.

“It's going to be okay,” he said.

W
hen Maggie and Will were little, they often climbed in bed with Ava and Jim at sunrise. She could almost smell their sweat-and-powder child smell, almost feel their small legs tangled with hers. Ava always knew when autumn had arrived. Overnight, it seemed, the leaves on the tree outside her bedroom window changed. Once, when Maggie was five or six, she'd pointed to the tree, her eyes wide, and said, “Look, Mama! Someone tie-dyed the leaves!”

Hot tears stung Ava's eyes as she thought of her daughter as a little girl. How had she gone from that sweet child to this reckless young woman?

Her own sister came to mind. Lily had been the sweet one, the bright one. All pale blond hair and light blue eyes. Even now, all these years later, Ava could picture her clearly in her black leotard and pink ballet tights, forming a perfect arabesque. They'd taken those ballet classes together, Ava galumphing across the wooden floor while Lily twirled as light as a fairy. That fall, Lily was going to begin pointe, leaving Ava behind. But of course, Lily didn't live until autumn.

Ava sat upright.

Hank Bingham.

He was a retired police detective.

Still, after a long career in the police force he was respected. Despite what had happened in their family, Hank Bingham was good at his job.

Ava got up and sorted through the ephemera that littered the top of her dresser. Ever since Jim moved out, she'd stopped organizing and filing and tidying up. The dresser was covered in a thin layer of dust, stamps, Post-Its, receipts, scribbled notes, and grocery lists. She searched through all of it until she found the business card Hank Bingham had given her when he showed up in her kitchen.

A
va drove to Hank Bingham's house. Small and painted white, it sat on the end of a street in a 1950s' development surrounded by similar houses. Blue hydrangeas bloomed along the front of the house. A nondescript gray sedan sat parked in the driveway. And Hank himself stood in the yard watering flowers. Ava paused, surprised by this scene of domesticity.

For a moment they stood staring at each other. Hank's plaid short-sleeve shirt had a stain on the front, his tennis shoes were worn, and he needed to shave.

“Have you got something to tell me?” Hank asked her.

When she hesitated, he continued, “About that day?”

Ava shook her head. “That's not why I'm here. I didn't know who to go to for help,” she said. “And for some reason, you were the only person who came to mind.”

Hank was still frowning at her. He dropped the hose and motioned her forward. “Come on inside then,” he said.

Inside had a woman's touch: needlepointed pillows, flowered couch, dried flowers in vases. He led her into the kitchen and asked if she'd like coffee.

“Sure,” she said.

Hank took out a jar of instant and said, apologetically, “My wife would kill me for serving this.”

Ah. She wanted to tell him never mind about the coffee, but he was already turning on a kettle and spooning crystals into mugs.

“I don't have sugar,” he said as he placed a mug in front of her.

“That's okay.

“It's my daughter,” she said. “She's missing.”

Hank took out an official-looking notebook and wrote down everything she said, nodding from time to time.

“This is what we call a needle in a haystack,” he said. He closed the notebook with a finality that Ava didn't like. “She could be anywhere. In the world.”

“She could be dead,” Ava said. It was the first time she spoke her worst fear out loud. “He wouldn't even pick up when I called back. And I've called back every hour.”

“I've got a hunch he's looking for her too.”

“But why does he have her phone?”

Hank shook his head again.

“Suppose you were still working,” Ava said. “Suppose you got this case. What would you do?”

“I'd question the people she was with last. Her family.”

“The administration at the school spoke to her roommate,” Ava reminded him. “And I can't talk to her because Maggie never told me her name.”

“Here's how I see it,” Hank said. “Young girl, bit of a wild child, meets a boy in Italy and follows him to Paris. The relationship goes sour. She's dropped out of the program, left Florence,
basically screwed everything up. She's not going to call her parents and she's not going to go home. So she stays in Paris, maybe meets another boy. Maybe meets a guy in a bar and drinks too much and loses her phone there.”

“But why call us?” Ava said, frustrated.

“Maybe he's looking for her. Maybe he didn't know he was calling her mother.

“Why won't he answer?”

“Maybe he's busy,” Hank said, shrugging.

“All day and all night?” Ava said.

“Dial it again now.”

She took her phone from her purse and scrolled to Maggie's number, pressing it, for the forty-eighth time, she saw.

A man answered brusquely.

Ava cleared her throat. “This is Ava Tucker,” she said, her eyes on Hank's self-satisfied face. “I'm calling for my daughter Maggie.”

“I told you,” the man said. “She is missing.”

Hank opened his notebook, scribbled something, and held it up for Ava to see.

“Could you please tell me when you saw her last?” Ava read.

“Two days ago,” the man said.

“Two days,” Ava repeated, relieved.

”I don't know where she is,” the man said, “and I don't care.” He hung up.

“He hung up,” Ava said. “Now what?” Even as she spoke, she was redialling. But the man didn't answer.

“She had a fight with her boyfriend and went to stay with a friend,” Hank said. “She'll be back in a day or two. Mark my words.”

Although what he said made sense, Ava couldn't shake the feeling that it wasn't that simple. The man sounded older, and more angry than concerned.

“Sometimes,” Hank said, looking at her hard, “things line up a certain way and it's still hard to believe it.”

Ava met his gaze. He wasn't talking about Maggie anymore, she knew. He was talking about the day her sister died.

“Thanks for your help,” she said.

“Let me know when she calls and tells you all about it,” Hank said.

He didn't walk her to the door. No wonder his wife left him, Ava thought. Still, she felt better. What he'd said made sense. Any minute now, she would hear from Maggie.

The Bookstore Owner

The American girl came in every morning, and stayed all day. Skinny, pasty skin, straggly hair, a sweatsuit that made her look like she'd been let out of a mental hospital. Sometimes she slept in the leopard beanbag chair, a book open in her lap. Sometimes she read, entire books, without looking up. Sometimes she walked up and down the aisles like an animal pacing in a cage, picking up and discarding books, reading titles.

“Hey!
Jeune fille!
” she called to the girl half-asleep in the beanbag.

The girl looked up.

“If you are going to sit here every day, put yourself to good use.”

“Really?” the girl asked hopefully. “Because I really want a job,” she added. “Here.”

“See these books? Put them back on the shelves.”

“Um. Where do they go?” the girl stammered. “I mean, you don't have them alphabetical or anything.”

“
C'est à toi
,” the bookstore owner said with a shrug.

“O-kay,” the girl said slowly.

The books—the owner thought of them as
her
books—weren't organized in the usual way. When lost children like this found their way here, she always told them the same thing. File them anyway you like. It's up to you.

She gave the girl blank index cards and different colored markers.

“C'est à toi
,” she said again, and left the girl to it.

Ava

Penny's memorial service was held at the Congregational church. Ava sat with the other members of the book group as Penny's daughter Helen and son James read her favorite poems. The choir sang “Amazing Grace” and, surprisingly, “It Don't Mean A Thing If You Ain't Got That Swing”—apparently Penny's theme song. In no time, it was over, and Ava found herself in the backseat of Ruth's giant SUV, riding with her and Diana to the reception at the Hope Club.

“Funerals have really been getting to me lately,” Diana said. “For obvious reasons.”

“Oh, sweetie,” Ruth said, patting Diana's hand, “you are going to be okay.”

“Don't look so glum,” Diana said, catching Ava's eye in the rearview mirror. “My kind of breast cancer is very treatable. The treatment, however, sucks.”

“Only two more,” Ruth said.

Diana sighed. “Two more trips to hell.”

“What did Penny leave you, Ava?” Ruth asked.

Ava shrugged. “It feels awkward to show up at their house asking for it. Besides, I have no connection to her other than the book group. I can't imagine why she would leave me anything.”

“Well,” Ruth said, her eyes on the road, “I'm glad you're in the group.”

“So am I,” Diana said. “Before long you'll have enough seniority to take me to chemo.”

Ava smiled. They turned onto Benefit Street, with its brownstones and gas lamps, passed the library, and turned into the crowded parking lot of the Hope Club. Ava started at the sight of a girl Maggie's age with the same chestnut hair. But of course it wasn't Maggie. Maggie was missing. She fought the urge to jump out of this car and get on a plane to Paris. Jim is there, she reminded herself. Jim is there.

“I can't believe Penny is dead,” Diana said softly. “I remember the first time I met her, at Monique's house that very first book club. I was in
A Christmas Carol
, playing Scrooge. Very controversial at the time. Rosie was only about six months old. I had her in one of those Snuglis we all used back then. Penny came up to me and gave me the firmest handshake. And a Manhattan. I fell in love with her immediately.”

“Remember when we read
A Passage to India
? She had Kebob and Curry cater a twelve-course meal,” Ruth said, wiping her eyes.

By the front door, Ava saw Cate and Monique waiting. No, not just Cate and Monique. Honor and Kiki and Luke were there too.

Then the valet opened her door and Ava was out of the SUV, following Ruth and Diana up the stone steps.

Cate brightened when she saw them. “Good. We're all here.”

Ava paused to watch the girl with the chestnut hair, somber but bright-eyed, bow her head, take her mother's hand, and go inside.

A
va shifted the tray of water chestnuts wrapped in bacon that Cate had asked her to carry as they walked to the library, the smell of bacon wafting up from it.

“Are you all right?” Cate asked Ava.

Ava shook her head. “Maggie,” she said. “She left school and went to Paris and we haven't heard from her.”

Not for the first time, Ava tried to remember why she had thought sending Maggie so far from home had been a good idea. Especially after Jim moved out and Maggie grew so angry at him.

“Does anyone know where she actually is?” Cate asked. “Or with whom?”

Ava shook her head again. “I spoke to a detective. He thought she'd had a lover's quarrel and would surface soon.”

Of course, that was over a week ago, and Hank Bingham had predicted Maggie would turn up in a day or two. She hadn't. And fear had gripped Ava again, hard. She had started calling the embassy every morning, as soon as she woke. And every day she got the same answer, “
Nous n'avons pas encore de nouvelles
.” The man had stopped answering Maggie's phone.

“There's a boy involved?” Cate asked.

“It's Maggie we're talking about here,” Ava said. “What do you think?”

The sound of the voice on the other end of the phone came back to her. Not a boy. A man.

“You know Maggie,” Cate said to reassure her, “she's probably having the time of her life and not thinking about you at all. She has no idea you're even worried.”

Ava had seen Maggie high too many times, had taken her to the emergency room more than once, had seen the boys she fell for. It was precisely because she did know her daughter that Ava was so worried. There's no news yet, the same woman told her every morning. And Jim's texts confirmed that.

The library appeared in front of them, soft gray in the early evening summer light.

To Ava's surprise, as soon as she walked in, Luke appeared as if he'd been waiting for her, porkpie hat in place.

“Let me get that for you,” he said, and took the tray from her. “I've missed you,” he said. “Sarcastic, cynical, wonderful you.”

He seemed to be waiting. Did he actually think she was going to say “I miss you too”? Jim, she missed. Her kids, she missed. Her old life, her
real
life. But not Luke.

Luke placed the tray on the table, and elbowed her gently. “Come on,” he said. “I know you missed me too.”

Cate stood at the front of the room and cleared her throat, a signal they were about to begin. Ava took a seat beside John.

“Did you like the book?” John asked, tapping the book on his lap.

“I did,” Ava said.

“Not for me, I guess,” he said.

“
A Tree Grows in Brooklyn
,” Cate began, “is a perfect example of that writing advice, write what you know.”