“Who’s Ibby?”

“A teaching assistant in the English Department. I met her when I took a graduate seminar in college. Ibby was an expert on Seventeenth-Century English Metaphysical Poets.”

“Like Donne?”

Hannah gave him a thumbs-up. “That’s right.”

“And…Traherne?”

“Right again.” Hannah was impressed. Most people had no idea who the metaphysical poets were and certainly wouldn’t be able to name two of them. “How did you know that?”

“Mother.”

“Your mother liked the metaphysical poets?”

“No, she liked ‘A Visit from Saint Nicholas.’”

“So does Mother. But what does that have to do with Donne and Traherne?”

“We had a big family Christmas every year with all the uncles, aunts, and cousins. I made the mistake of memorizing it when I was four, and every year from then on, my mother asked me to recite it.”

“That can be embarrassing, especially if you don’t want to do it,” Hannah sympathized.

“Not to mention ‘dangerous.’”

“Dangerous?”

“That’s right. My cousins didn’t like it when I was in the spotlight, and they used to give me a hard time after we were excused from dinner. I told my mother and she said to ignore them, that they were just jealous.”

“So what did you do?”

“A week before the next Christmas, I memorized four pieces from the metaphysical poets, the longest ones I could find.”

“And it worked?”

“Like a charm. My mother never asked me to recite again.”

“How about your cousins?”

“The oldest one caught on to what I was doing and told the others. We were pretty good friends after that.” Norman began to frown. “I can’t imagine anyone choosing to become an expert on the metaphysical poets.”

“I couldn’t imagine it either. But I asked Ibby and she said she chose them because there were only seven. She figured she could handle that.”

“But John Donne was prolific.”

“That’s true. And he’s not what anyone would call a ‘fun read.’ A lot of his poetry is about depressing subjects.”

“Really?” Norman gave a little grin. “You don’t think that ‘So doth each tear, Which thee doth wear, A globe, yea world, by that impression grow, Till thy tears mix’d with mine do overflow. This world, by waters sent from thee, my heaven dissolved so,’ is cheerful?”

“The imagery’s nice, but it’s about crying and that’s not a very cheerful subject.”

“You’ve got a point. So how does Ibby’s English Toffee fit into metaphysical poetry? Or does it?”

“Ibby used to bring her toffee to our study groups to make sure we all showed up. And the department loved her because nobody ever missed her sessions.”

“They should have done that in dental school. I had to force myself to go to my class in Billing and Business Management Models.” Norman pulled up in back of The Cookie Jar and took Hannah’s parking spot. “If you can find that toffee recipe, I’ll take thirty half-pound boxes.”

“For your mother?”

“Just one box for my mother. I’ll give the other twenty-nine to my patients for the holidays.”