Page 29 of Prelude To You

“Thank you,” I said appreciatively.

The room fell into a haze of silence, and I was left with my own thoughts. Which led to me coddling the memory of last night. As I sipped my coffee, I wondered where Stranger was, and whether he thought about me at all.

I began signing the documents where the “sign here” markers were. Maybe this job would keep me so busy there’d be no time to indulge in memories. Hope sprang eternal.

When Miss Leyland returned, she looked at her coffee cup curiously.

“Oh, I put a saucer over your cup to keep your coffee warm,” I said. “Careful touching the saucer, it might be hot.”

She sank gracefully into her chair. “That’s very thoughtful, thank you.”

“Is everything okay?” I asked curiously, hoping she’d spill the beans on the mystery in the south wing. “You look a bit worried.”

She waved a hand, dismissing the south-wing situation. “Everything is fine, thank you.”

I shifted all the signed documents to her side of the desk. “I signed everything. You might want to check to see if I got them all.”

Predictably, she checked every single marker while she sipped her still-steaming coffee. Neither one of us touched those miserable-looking cookies. If I got the job I’d definitely bake these people French pastries that would make their toes curl.

“This all looks fine,” she said finally, and very pleasantly I might add. “Now regarding the actual reading… You will read from the books given to you.” She pushed a book across her desk. “If you could read a few pages to me from this book, I’d appreciate it. You can start at the beginning.”

“You mean like a test?”

“Yes, like a test, Miss Le Roche.”

I pulled the book closer and cringed, a frown teasing my eyebrows. “Grapes of Wrath? I thought the guy I’m reading to is sick. How is Grapes of Wrath going to help make him feel any better?”

“John Steinbeck is one of Henry’s favorite authors,” Miss Leyland replied.

“Henry? That’s the person I’m reading to?”

“Yes, indeed. Please read the first page, Miss Le Roche.”

I turned the book to the first page, even as I felt the resistance building inside of me. “To the red country and part of the gray country of Oklahoma, the last rains came gently, and they did not cut the scarred earth. The plows crossed and recrossed the rivulet marks.”

I looked up from the book to Miss Leyland. “Do you know what John Steinbeck said about this book? He said he wanted to, and I quote: “rip a reader’s nerves to rags,” unquote. Now I ask you, is this really what we want for Henry?”

“You’ve been here for barely forty minutes, Miss Le Roche. I don’t think you’re in any position to know what is good and what is not good for Henry.”

Even if she tried to sound tough, I could hear the hesitation in her voice. I’d gathered by now that she had a soft spot for Henry and wanted him to be happy. And it was either sit for days on end reading this depressing drivel, or find something lighter.

So I pushed on. “Why don’t we get Henry something fun to listen to? You know, like a passionate love story. Or even a delicious crime thriller.”

Miss Leyland considered me and tapped a finger on the desk, as if seriously considering this. “A love story,” she said. “I presume you’re talking about the classics, Miss Le Roche?”

“Oh definitely. Wuthering Heights, Jane Eyre… Persuasion.”

There was a little spark in Miss Leyland’s eyes. “An admirer of the Brontë sisters and Jane Austin. As am I. Which novel of the Brontë sisters’ do you like the most.”

“And I quote:He’s more myself than I am. Whatever our souls are made of, his and mine are the same.”

“Ah, Wuthering Heights,” she said with a little smile.

I nodded enthusiastically. “Wuthering Heights is so messy and wildly romantic and dark with awful people doing awful things, but it’s one of the greatest love stories ever told. Heathcliff is something else. He’s so tortured by his love and desire for Catherine. And don’t get me started on Hindley… Which Brontë novel is your favorite?”

“If I hate the sins, I love the sinner, and would do much for his salvation,” Miss Leyland quoted.

“That’s from The Tenant of Windfell Hall, written by Anne Brontë,” I said. “Did you know that book was so criticized that when Anne died, Charlotte suppressed another publishing of it to protect her sister’s memory from more criticism?”

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