Remembrance

Nora’s answer was, “Probably.” She’d have to “see” more about where I had and had not been before she could answer for sure. Personally, I wasn’t sure a person could be “sure” about something that may not exist.

She went on to say that tastes and sounds and smells were very strong senses and they remained with you throughout time.

“For instance,” Nora said, “there are certain smells that make you ill. People’s bad breath, I believe.”

She really had been snooping! But she was right and I’d never told anyone this in my life. When I am confined with a person with very bad breath I become quite ill.

“And there is an animal you like.”

“Dogs?” I do like dogs but I don’t have one.

“No,” Nora said, concentrating, her eyes boring into mine. “An animal from the jungle.”

“I had a boyfriend once who in Chinese astrology was a tiger,” I said helpfully.

She didn’t smile but then looked up in recognition. “You eat off the animal.”

I did some quick—and imaginative—thinking at that one. Then I smiled. “Monkeys!”

“Yes,” she answered, smiling back at me.

I’ve never figured out why I love monkeys. I have monkey candlestick holders, dishes, lamps, potpourri holders, et cetera, all over my apartment. It’s not enough that people say, “Wow! You sure like monkeys, don’t you?” when they walk into my apartment, but a few people know and give me gifts now and then, thereby making my collection grow.

“What else?” I asked eagerly. “Where did I live? What did I do?” I think I forgot about whether this was real or not. My hands were dying to get hold of a research book. I’d write an in-depth biography of someone, something I’d always wanted to do but I’d have greater insight because the character would be me. I guess. Sort of.

She frowned in thought. “What is the name of that jeweler you like so much?”

“Cartier? Tiffany? Harry Winston?” I could have added to that list all day.

“No,” she said, annoyed. “The jeweler you really like.”

I really like Cartier, I thought, but decided to, for once, forgo the sarcasm as I tried to think if there was a special jeweler in my life. As far as I was concerned, all of them were special.

“Oh,” I said after a moment. “Fabergé.”

“Yes.” She didn’t say so but I could tell she was proud of me. It must be reassuring to someone like her to find that we mere mortals can sometimes use our one-dimensional brains to advantage. “If you will read about that jeweler you will recognize yourself.”

Another one of her why-the-sun-loves-the-moon statements. Personally, I’d prefer a name and date, but I could see that “Fabergé” was all I was going to get out of her.

We were out of time by then so I bid Nora good-bye and immediately caught a taxi downtown to the Strand. This place is billed as the largest used bookstore in the world, but it could also win the titles of dirtiest, rudest, and strangest check-out personnel. One day at the Strand I, as an amateur costume historian, became so fascinated with the rings in the nose, lip, and cheek of the young woman ringing up my books that she had to ask me four times for my charge card.

But whatever else the Strand is, it’s a great place to buy out-of-print books. I bought a copy of each book they had on Fabergé, grabbed a cab, went through ten minutes of explaining my address to the non-English-speaking driver (while the meter was running, of course) and got back to my apartment pronto.

For all that reviewers think romance novelists are worthless, one thing we learn to do is research. Heaven help us, we have to be good because our readers have memories that would make a computer data bank weep with envy. One screwup and they write you about it. I don’t just mean dates, I mean things like scissors. Readers will write you that you had your heroine using scissors before scissors were invented. You can’t have a hero say “Wait a minute” until after clocks were in common use. And food! Don’t make errors with tomatoes and potatoes or you’ll hear from them.

Of course these are the same women the reviewers and the general public think have the intelligence of carrots and the mental stability of Sybil.

Anyway, if there’s one thing I can do it’

s research. My eyes and fingers can flip through a book with a key word in mind and find just what I need in seconds flat.

Twenty minutes, after dumping my old/new, very dirty books on the living room rug, with the Jasmine song from Lakme surrounding me, I’d found her.

There were five women who were responsible for Fabergé’s success. Two were Russian. No, that wasn’t me. I’ve never felt any sense of recognition while plowing through War and Peace. I can’t even make it through the movie. One woman was American and very rich. I liked this idea but then I read that she was a great philanthropist, opened charity hospitals, did lots of good for others. Unfortunately, this is not me. I put all my money into securities and hold on to every penny.

One woman was the Princess of Wales, later Queen Alexandra. I’d already done too much research to believe she and I could have the same character. Alix was beautiful but not very bright and retaliated against her philandering husband by being late at every opportunity. Not my style.

The last name on the list sent a chill up my spine. Lady de Grey. Years ago I avidly watched the series on Masterpiece Theatre about Lillie Langtry, and all through it I was fascinated by her friend Lady de Grey. I even bought a few books on the Jersey Lil to try to find out more about this woman, but there was nothing more than a few sentences.