A small, tentative hand pushes yet another thin volume into view, the pale December light from the window accentuating the stark contrast of the black and white cover. He sips once more from the spherical matero, the South American herbal tea the only thing keeping him going at this moment. As he raises his tired eyes from the signing table, he notes with relief that the long string of signature seekers has come to a close.

“Thank you for staying until the end of the line,” a feminine voice murmurs softly.

Viggo looks up into her face, and despite his weariness, genuine pleasure crinkles the corners of his blue-grey gaze. “Thank you for staying,” he responds, almost shyly. He bends the spine of her copy of his book, thumbing the virgin pages to the passage he likes best.

“What’s your name?” he queries, pen poised.

“Noel.”

There is only the tiniest spark of mirth in the look he returns. “As in ‘the first’?”

Rolling her eyes with wry amusement, she gives the answer she has given her whole life. “My parents had a sense of humor. I was born close to Christmas.”

He considers a moment, all sharp intelligence and teasing interest. “Then is today your birthday, Noel?”

“Tomorrow,” she admits, blushing a little.

He grins widely. “Well……Happy Birthday, Noel!” With a flourish, he transcribes the words as they leave his mouth, then offers her a chocolate from the plate at his right. “It’s not cake, but….”

She laughs her thanks and helps herself.

Ever courteous, Viggo continues, “Is there anything else you want me to write?”

Noel takes a deep breath, her eyelids closing just a fraction longer than normal. “Yes,” she agrees, smiling with an air of mystery. “Write: Watertown High, Class of ’76 Rules!”

Dissembler….Disingenuous Bitch, she chastises herself with mental labels, as his brow wrinkles in startled concentration.

Tilting his chin, Viggo finally asks, “Did we go to school together?” He’d like to think he’d remember her, but it has been thirty years.

Her dark head dips. “I am a 1976 graduate of Watertown High School .” Evil Woman.

Over the course of his recent career, Viggo has honed both his caution and his skepticism. “Are you pulling my leg?” He narrows his eyes appraisingly.

With couched innocence, she meets his gaze. “Not exactly….”

The moment is lost to the interruption of the bookstore’s owner, eager to put an end to the day’s very profitable activities and count his receipts. He and Viggo share a polite difference of opinion. By the time Viggo looks up, the enigmatic woman is gone.

********

“What are you looking for?” his mother queries, finding her son methodically digging through old cardboard boxes in the garage. She hugs her arms against the upstate winter, but her son seems oblivious to the cold, intent as he is on his search.

“My senior yearbook,” Viggo mutters, dragging another box from the corner.

“From SLU?” the white-haired woman asks incredulously.

‘No. WHS.” He drops easily to the floor on crossed legs. “I think it’s right here.” There is eagerness and triumph in his voice, as he pulls a weathered blue and white volume onto his lap.

Grace has learned long ago not to question her eccentric, intelligent son’s flights of obsession. Yet she cannot temper her maternal instincts.

“Well, bring it in the house. You’ll catch your death out here. We’re getting ready to trim the tree.”

**********

There is no disguising the spring in his step, this fine June morning in Southern California . The Prius is packed—duffle bag, backpack, camping gear, fishing tackle, even the barely tolerated laptop. Three weeks traveling the Great Lakes States, ostensibly as research for a movie, but also a welcome opportunity to relax and be outdoors. How long has it been since he took a road trip? Too long—that’s for sure. He leaps up the stairs and through the doors marked Perceval Press.

In a fit of micromanagement, he is determined to see that all the outgoing orders are filled before his departure, even though it means he will be checking invoices and taping box flaps himself. He and the handful of long-time employees/friends quickly establish an assembly line, with Viggo adding the address labels. He glances curiously at each package as it passes, many for individuals, some larger orders for independent bookstores.

Suddenly, one such box catches his eye with its familiar initial letters: W-A-T-E-R-T-O-W-N , Wisconsin .

He pauses, wheels turning inside his head. It has been six months since the poetry reading where a smiling woman piqued his interest with mystery and memory. He had spent many hours poring through his high school yearbook over Christmas, certain in the end that she was not there. He had written the encounter off as a prank, but his curiosity had remained. How had she responded when asked if she was kidding? “Not exactly…”

Could the rest of the story lie in a namesake town?

“Hey! You’re holding up the line!!” his manager, Julie, calls out.

He ignores the verbal prod, instead asking, “What do you know about this bookstore in Wisconsin ”—he peers again at the name—“Espresso Yourself?”

Julie shrugs. “Small place. New owner. Trying to be a coffee-house-cum-bookstore.” Pointedly, she shoves another package his way. “The owner seems very sincere. Says she acquired one of your titles at a booksigning, and wants to support our business philosophy.”

Her voice sharpens at the sudden ripping sound. “What are you doing?”

It is too late. Viggo already has the box open, revealing the detailed invoice on top. He stares, feeling as if he has struck gold: POC--Noel Nelson

Delighted laughter rings out. “Gotcha, my clever little lady!” he crows, shaking the flimsy paper triumphantly.

His astonished staff looks on, as he re-seals the box and sets it aside. “I’ll take care of this one myself,” he assures a disconcerted Julie.