Ivy Secrets by Jean Stone Page B

a lot quieter without you two around. Hey—I might even get some studying done.” She crossed her eyes and stuck out her tongue and made Charlie laugh. But as she walked down the hall toward the stairs that led to the laundry room, Tess felt a sting of tears. Even though her mother had big plans for Tess and Peter Hobart, it would be nice if the phone rang—just once—and it was for her.
        The following week, Charlie didn’t go out on Saturday night. She told Tess she had a research paper to do, and Tessbelieved her. She’d actually heard Charlie turn down two dates. Tess couldn’t imagine turning down any date, never mind two.
    They walked along Main Street, without Marina who seemed more interested in men than in studying, and without Viktor, thank God. Tess had told Charlie about the Old Book Shoppe, owned and run by Dell Brooks, a Smith alumna from her mother’s class, and a woman who, according to Tess’s mother, could find any research material on any subject dating back before the big bang. Until now Tess had avoided the store. She’d learned from experience that any friend of her mother’s was probably no friend of hers. But Charlie needed a book on Franklin Roosevelt that the library didn’t own, and Dell Brooks would most likely have it.
    They found the bookstore on a side street and climbed down the stairs to the basement door. When Tess opened the door a small bell rang. She liked its sound: It was friendly and cheerful and didn’t seem at all like something her mother would have liked. Neither was the shop’s interior decorated in Sally Richards’s style. Books were crammed on overflowing shelves, papers and magazines were piled in tipsy stacks on the floor and in the aisles, and a mismatched collection of colorful rag dolls was scattered about, planted on window-sills, tucked between books—one doll with a huge painted smile sat atop a pile of books, poised at a round table, a coffee mug set before her. Friendly, cheerful, yes. Warm and inviting, too. Definitely not Sally Richards’s taste.
    A woman sat at another small table talking with a young red-headed policeman.
    “May I help you?” she asked, standing. She had curious chocolate eyes and her gray-streaked hair was pulled tightly from her round face. A long black shirt ballooned over the humps of her thick hips; her brown cardigan sweater was buttoned over small breasts.
    “Yes,” Tess said. “My friend needs a book on Franklin Roosevelt that the library doesn’t have.”
    The woman smiled, revealing crow’s-feet around her eyes and parentheses of unabashed age at each side of her mouth. Tess was startled at the contrast between this woman and her mother. “Are you Dell Brooks?”
    “That’s me.”
    Tess introduced herself and Charlie. Then she added, “You were at Smith with my mother, Sally Spooner.”
    “I remember Sally,” she said, her smile broadening. She reached behind her neck and drew her long braid over her shoulder. As she spoke, she combed the ends of her hair with her short-nailed fingers. “I was at your mother’s wedding. In the chapel.”
    Ah, Tess thought, the chapel. The Helen Hills Hills Chapel—
the
campus chapel where it was expected that Tess Richards would marry Peter Hobart. “I’d like you to meet my nephew, Joe Lyons,” Dell continued. “
Patrolman
Joe Lyons.”
    The redheaded policeman stood up and nodded. “Nice to meet you, girls.”
    Tess felt Charlie’s hand stick into her back.
    “Yeah,” Tess said. “Hi.”
    “This way to Franklin Roosevelt,” Dell said. Charlie followed her down a row of musty books, leaving Tess alone with Patrolman Joe Lyons. His small eyes bored into her as though she were a suspect, a fugitive criminal who had performed some dastardly deed.
    “So you’re a Smithie,” he commented.
    “And you’re a townie,” she retorted.
    “It figures your friend is doing a paper on Roosevelt.”
    “What’s wrong with Roosevelt?”
    “He just about killed our