"There you are," she
said. Charlie stood and they patted one another's shoulders.
"You look very well, not a day over forty," Charlie said, standing
back. "Here, let me take that." She handed him a stout canvas bag.
"Jesus! What's in here?"
"Rocks and books. You're looking pleased with life. How's the world of
architecture?"
"All right. Still looking for the perfect client." He rubbed his
stomach with his free hand and pointed across the street to Standard
Baking Company. "Croissants," he said. "A croissant a day keeps the
doctor away. Are you hungry?"
"No. Let's get on with it."
Charlie led the way to his car, an elderly red Volvo. "Rocinante,"
Margery remembered.
"As good as ever." Charlie lowered the bag into the back seat.
"Could we swing by the library? I need to return these books."
"Sure. What have you been reading?"
"Tolstoy. The Russians. Dostoyevsky, Chekhov."
"That'll get you through a long night."
"There's no one like Tolstoy," Margery said. "So serene. Cosmic and
down to earth at the same time."
"I wrote a novel once," Charlie said.
"What happened?"
"It wasn't very good." Charlie stopped by the library book drop.
"At least you finished."
He watched her slide three souls and twenty years work through the
brass slot. "There's a story I love about Chekhov," she said, getting
back into the car. "He paid a visit to Tolstoy. Late in the evening, on
his way home after a certain amount of wine, he cried out to his horse
and to the heavens: 'He says I'm worse than Shakespeare.
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