“I don’t know what I was hoping to accomplish. At the sight of all that color I panicked, grabbed as many books as I could carry, and stuffed them into the alcove Gregory had built behind the wall. I kept carrying armload after armload, feeling some of the books warm to blue and others cool to yellow while they were in my hands. I didn’t look at them. Just kept stacking them, shelf after shelf, until none of them remained here in the library.” She pointed to the secret doorway. “I shut them up and haven’t looked at them since. I thought, if I didn’t see them, if I didn’t hear how the relationships they spawned had ended, I could pretend everyone was still happily in love.”
“Maybe they are,” Alice said. “Some of them at least.”
Madeline shrugged, unconvinced. “It doesn’t matter. Even if some of my couples are blissfully happy, I brought pain into people’s lives. I should have known better than to interfere, especially when it came to love.”
Alice wanted to ask Madeline about her gift, about how she could give it up, lock her books away, pretend none of it had ever happened. Only Alice was stuck on one detail that seemed monumental to understanding what had happened to Madeline’s gift.
“What do you think it means, that they changed color?” she asked.
“I don’t know, and I don’t care to find out. And I don’t want you setting your sights on investigating it either.”
“Then why tell me this story? Why let me find your books?”
“What we do isn’t magic, Alice. It isn’t even a kindness. It’s madness. A curse. I can’t let anyone else get hurt.”
“Well, I’ve never been in love, so you don’t have to worry. I can’t lose control over my stories like you did. They can’t change.”
“Can’t they? If you’ve never been in love, how can you be certain that’s what you’re giving people?”
Alice hesitated, having not fully formed the thought before saying it aloud. “You never wanted me to write you a story, did you?” The disappointment in her voice surprised her more than it did Madeline. “I can’t believe you lied to me.”
“I did no such thing,” Madeline said. “I never said I needed you to write me a story. I said I needed forgiveness, and I do. I brought you here because I seek forgiveness, forgiveness for all those people whose lives I meddled in, lives I made worse. I can’t undo the harm I caused, but I can stop you from causing more harm.” She walked over to unlock the safe in the corner of the library. Inside was a gold ledger and a check binder. Madeline pulled out the binder, extracted a pen tucked behind her ear, and began writing. “How much will it take to make you stop? You charge what, five thousand a story? Four? Three? Oh, Alice, please tell me you don’t charge less than three. The toll writing takes, the time. And what do you write, a story a week? Would a hundred thousand cover it? Two?” Madeline continued to rattle off absurdly high numbers until she landed on, “A million? Will you put an end to all this for a million dollars?”
“Madeline, stop. That’s ridiculous. I’m not going to take your money.”
“Why not? You take your clients’ money.”
“In exchange for a service. You’re trying to pay me off. I’m not going to stop helping people. Not for a million dollars. Not for any amount of money.”
“Weren’t you listening to my story? You aren’t helping people, Alice. You’re playing God. That never ends well.”
“All I’m doing is writing people stories that make them see themselves in a new light so others can see them that way too. So they can be loved for who they truly are.” This was perhaps her most succinct characterization of her gift. She’d have to remember it, to employ it in the future. “Besides, so many of the books in your library are still red. They didn’t change color or have whatever metamorphosis you think destroyed their love. They are the same as you left them.”
“You don’t know that.”
“Well, let’s see then.” Alice jumped up and bounded toward the candelabrum. As she tilted it down to spring the door open, Madeline shouted, “Alice, don’t!” Alice stormed in, reached for a red book at random, and returned to Madeline’s side, plopping the book in the old woman’s lap. “Open it.”
Madeline gripped the chair’s arms. “I’m not going to touch that book.”
“Fine,” Alice said, reaching for it. She flipped to the first page and began reading.“Low tide was her favorite time of day. When the water retreated, the beach exposed its secrets. Starfish—”
“Stop!” Madeline cried. “Please don’t make me listen to that crap.”
“Do you remember this story?”
“Of course I remember it. I remember all my stories. That was Abigail—” Madeline walked over to the safe and retrieved the gold ledger. She scanned pages, ran her finger down a list until she arrived at the name she was searching for. “Abigail Herkowitz. Such a lonely girl. I didn’t imagine she’d ever find love, even with my story.”
Alice typed the name into her phone and found a Facebook profile for the woman. She aimed it at Madeline. “Is this her?” Madeline nodded, so Alice scrolled through the profile. “It says here she’s been married to Tom Walker for the last fourteen years. They have three children. And she’s an immigration lawyer. That doesn’t sound like someone who has time to be lonely.”
Madeline grabbed the phone from Alice’s hand and looked at the profile. “That’s the man she met after reading my story.”
“See, her story didn’t fail.”
“Just because she’s still married doesn’t mean she’s still in love. A loveless marriage can be worse than one that ends,” Madeline said.
Alice rested the red book on the table. “Let’s find out then. Abigail lives in Santa Monica. We can be there in two hours. Let’s go see her, find out if she’s in love.”
“What’s your master plan, to knock on her door and ask if they’re happy?”
