The bell chimes and Bea strides in.
“Robbie wants to know if you’re avoiding him,” she says, in lieu of hello. Henry’s heart sinks. The answer is yes, of course, and no. He cannot shake the look of hurt in Robbie’s eyes, but it doesn’t excuse the way he acted, or maybe it does.
“I’ll take that as a yes,” says Bea. “And where have you been hiding?”
Henry wants to say, I saw you at the dinner party, but wonders if she has forgotten the entire night, or just the parts that Addie touched.
Speaking of. “Bea, this is Addie.”
Beatrice turns toward her, and for a second, and only a second, Henry thinks that she remembers. It’s the way she’s looking at Addie, as if she is a piece of art, but one that Bea has encountered before. Despite everything, Henry expects her to nod, to say, “Oh, good to see you again”—instead, Bea smiles. She says, “You know, there’s something timeless about your face,” and he’s rocked by the strangeness of the echo, the force of the déjà vu.
But Addie only smiles, and says, “I’ve heard that before.” As Bea continues to study Addie, Henry studies her.
She has always been ruthlessly polished, but today there’s neon paint on her fingers, a kiss of gold at her temple, what looks like powdered sugar on her sleeve.
“What have you been doing?” he asks.
She looks down. “Oh, I was at the Artifact!” she says, as if that’s supposed to mean something. Seeing his confusion, she explains. The
Artifact is, according to Beatrice, part carnival and part art exhibit, an interactive medley of installations on the High Line.
As Bea talks about mirrored chambers and glass domes full of stars, sugar clouds, the plume from pillow fights, and murals made of a thousand strangers’ notes, Addie brightens, and Henry thinks it must be hard to surprise a girl who’s lived three hundred years.
So when she turns to him, eyes bright, and says, “We have to go,” there’s nothing he’d rather do. There is, of course, the matter of the store, the fact he is the sole employee, and there are still four hours until closing. But he has an idea.
Henry grabs a bookmark, the store’s only piece of merchandise, and begins writing on the back side. “Hey Bea,” he says, pushing the makeshift card across the counter. “Can you close up?”
“I have a life,” she says, but then she looks down at Henry’s tight and slanting script.
The Library of The Last Word. Bea smiles, and pockets the card.
“Have fun,” she says, waving them out.
