I have read all Miss Zula’s stories and books and essays, and for years I have been trying to get a discussion group going so we could talk to her about them, but she will have none of it. I am surprised she ever agreed to this documentary business, she is such a private person. The only way I can explain it to myself is, there must be some story she wants told she can’t tell herself.

Your name: Annie Lord. I am the head librarian at the Ogilvie Free Library, where this memory book was first kept and where it should still be, in my opinion.

Angie did fall asleep on the couch in the reception area, but first she locked the door so that no one could come into the editing suite and surprise her. When she woke it was because the phone was ringing. She picked it up just to stop the noise.

John said, “Your cell phone is still off, and I’m an idiot.”

“Okay,” Angie said, her heart racing already just at the sound of his voice, which made her something of an idiot, too, though she wasn’t going to admit that to him just now.

“I’m sorry.”

“I’m listening.”

“Christ, you’re a tough audience, Mangiamele.”

“Whine, whine, whine,” Angie said, smiling into the phone. “Give it up, Harvey.”

“Okay, here it is: I reacted badly this morning.”

“You were a jerk.”

“And insensitive. And wrong.”

“Wrong?”

“Well, wrong in the way I handled the subject. I’ll keep my nose out of your business from now on. It’s between you and Miss Zula.”

Angie said, “This is very suspicious. Why are you capitulating so easily?”

“Maybe I’m learning,” he said.

“Maybe you are.” Now she was grinning so that her cheeks began to hurt. “So, is that the only reason you called?”

He cleared his throat. “No. I just talked to Caroline. She’s on her way home.”

Angie sat very still while he told her about his phone conversation with the woman he was—as far as everybody in Ogilvie still knew—going to marry tomorrow.

“So dinner tonight at Thomasina’s, and all will be made clear?”

“That’s the plan. I can’t see how this is going to work, but I have to go along with her, for now at least. And there’s something else. She knows about you. You and me, I mean.”

“You told her?”

“No, but she knew anyway. She said she saw it on my face when I look at you. She wasn’t unhappy about it.”

She said, “Are you unhappy about her not being unhappy?”

“Angie, I have no idea how I feel about anything. Except you.”