“When did you return to Athena?” Godfrey asked. “I don’t get here often myself. My schedule is so demanding—book tours, interviews, talking to guys in Hollywood.” Again his gaze roved around the room. Was he ever going to get to the point of this visit? How much self-aggrandizement would I have to endure?

“I moved back three years ago,” I replied, trying not to sound impatient. Did he think I’d be impressed by his busy life? “Not long after my wife died, my aunt left me her house here.”

“Your Aunt Dottie?” Godfrey asked, frowning. “So your aunt died, too?”

“Shortly after my wife.”

“Sorry to hear that,” Godfrey said. “That’s too bad, their dying so close together.”

“It was rough.” Then a memory surfaced. “You lived with Aunt Dottie for a couple of semesters, didn’t you?”

Godfrey nodded. “That would have been my senior year. My parents sold up and moved to Alabama, to Fairhope, and I didn’t want to live in the dorm anymore. I was lucky Miss Dottie had a room available. She was a wonderful lady.” His face softened with a reminiscent smile.

“She certainly was.” This was a side of Godfrey I didn’t remember seeing. He had obviously been fond of my aunt. “You’re doing well these days. Bestseller list with every new book. That’s pretty exciting.”

“Thanks. My last seven books have debuted at number one,” Godfrey said, the smile giving way to a smug look. “And that’s kind of why I’m here.”

“I heard you’re getting an award for being a distinguished alumnus,” I said.

Godfrey shook his head. “That’s not what I meant, although that’s the ostensible reason I’m back in town. No, I meant the reason I was here talking to you.”

Finally. “And that would be . . . ?” I asked, my voice trailing off.

“The archive,” Godfrey replied. “I am giving my papers to the university archive. I plan to make the announcement tonight at the dinner.” He stared at me. “How do we do this?”

The university administration would be delighted by such a gift, and I thought it was an excellent idea. On one condition. “I know the university would love to have your papers,” I said. “But giving them is one thing. Are you willing to donate money to help with the preparation, cataloging, and maintenance?”

“Sure,” Godfrey said. “What do you have to do, other than put them on the shelves?” He waved a hand in the direction of the bookshelves. “And how much money? I’m sure I can afford it.”

“The papers have to be organized and cataloged,” I said, ignoring that last sentence. “That could take some time, depending on the extent of the collection. I’m the archivist, but I work only part-time. It could take years to get your papers done, considering all the other books and collections waiting to be processed here.”