It was a beautiful observation, as so much of Steinbeck’s thoughts were. But beauty wasn’t proof, and insinuation wasn’t enough to back up such an explosive claim as the one Hudson was contemplating. He sighed, closing the journal and thinking that maybe it was time to leave for the day. He was frustrated, and frustration made research a misery, as it generally resulted in grasping at straws. He couldn’t afford to be careless. Not with this.

He was pulling his papers together, deciding what he did and did not want copies of, when the door to the research room opened and Helen Guerneyser walked in. She had with her a gentleman easily in his eighties. He was dressed in the costume of the quintessential college professor—khaki pants and a white shirt beneath a blue-gray wool jacket. His hair, surprisingly intact, was thick and white.

“Hudson, I have someone I’d like you to meet,” Helen said. “This is Edgar Macready.”

“How do you do?” the man said, clasping Hudson’s hand in a warm, soft grip.

“I’m well, thank you,” Hudson replied. He wasn’t sure what else to say, as Macready’s name didn’t mean anything to him. He hoped he wasn’t supposed to know who he was.

“Edgar was a friend of John’s,” Helen said, helping him out.

“Knew him in the forties,” Macready said. “He and Ricketts both. Course, I was a bit younger than they were,” he added, his blue eyes twinkling.

“How did you know them?” asked Hudson, thrilled to be talking to someone who knew the men personally.

“Oh, we all did,” said Macready, waving his hand. “Couldn’t live in Monterey and not know John and Ed.”

“Edgar is being modest,” Helen said. “He was Ed’s assistant for a time.”

Macready laughed. “Errand boy, more like it,” he said. “But thank you for the promotion, Helen.”

Helen smiled. “I’ll leave you two to talk,” she said.

“Please, sit down,” Hudson said as the archivist left. He pulled out a chair for Macready, who settled into it with a sigh.

“I’m not sure I can be much help to you,” he said. “Helen didn’t say exactly what it is you’re after.”

Hudson chose his words carefully. “I’m researching some of the influences on Steinbeck’s work,” he said vaguely, hoping the man wouldn’t press him too much.

He didn’t. Rather, he nodded as if Hudson’s explanation made complete sense. “Well, ask away,” he said. “I’ll tell you what I know. As Helen said, I did some work for Ricketts. Mostly cleaning up and mailing packages for pocket money. But of course Steinbeck came around a lot. I was there for a couple of the famous parties.” He laughed. “Boy, did they know how to have parties.”