Jo Martinez had never been an avid reader.
That didn't mean she didn't like books—she had nothing against them, really. But as a detective, she just didn't have the time to sit around and read book after book. Movies she could do—those were only two or so hours of her time. Books took much longer. She supposed she could read it over an extended period of time but, as life got in the way, she'd forget what happened previously in the book and most likely lose interest in it.
Dr. Henry Morgan, on the other hand, absolutely refused to endorse anything but books. He didn't really care for movies or television.
"Movies are just like cell phones and microwaves; they detract from the profundity of books. When one reads, he—or she—draws upon his own imagination to interpret the novel—not someone else's—and that is the beauty of the written word," he insisted in his cultured English accent (which she admitted would probably lend him credence even if he said "I like poop." She snorted; he'd probably say "feces" instead).
She had simply smirked and replied, "You're very old-fashioned, Henry."
Abe had been with them at the time and, of course, couldn't leave the conversation alone, "You have no idea."
Henry had merely quirked an unamused eyebrow.
And that, she supposed, was why she was currently touring Henry's overly large bookcase. "I insist—you can't truly understand the work's intentions if you merely watch the movie adaptation. Read the books upon which they were based," he'd told her as he dragged her inside his veritable library. She scowled as she glanced over some of the titles.
Easier said than done, Dr. Morgan.
He didn't really think she watched classics like Pride and Prejudice and That-Other-Centuries-Old-Romance-That-She-Couldn't-Presently-Think-Of, did he? He was some modern-day Sherlock! And that was when it clicked. Jo didn't know whether to laugh or to get angry with him.
Very sneaky, Henry.
He'd probably say something along the lines of "When you do read every once in a while, at least do it right." And so she was stuck with choosing from a bunch of (most likely) boring books. Sometimes his tastes were too weird.
He really is old-fashioned, she mused.
She knew he wouldn't harass her if she didn't pick a book; he was too polite for that. But . . . she grimaced. She could just picture his disappointment—merely a glint in his eye or a twitch on his face, covered well by his handsome mug, but still there all the same. If she weren't a detective, she might not see it . . . but she was and it made her cringe every time. Henry really was like a sad little puppy sometimes.
She sighed. I'll humor you just this once, Henry.
Her eyes strayed back to the bookshelf. He really did have quite the collection. And the books—from what she could see—were really beautiful and ornate. There was even gold lettering and silver bordering on some of them! But what really caught her eye was how old almost all of them appeared. Not old as in worn and raggedy—more like aged or from a different time period.
The bindings didn't look modern and the pages looked like super old parchment. More than that though was the feel. It was like looking at a 1950's Volkswagen or Cadillac. It just looked and felt old. She had an odd urge to let them be, to not touch them, like relics in a museum. She was afraid they might fall apart, that the history behind them would be tainted if she grasped them with her modern paws.
But they were beautiful nonetheless.
She peered closer at some of the titles. She really hoped there was some sort of summary or blurb on the book covers; she hated walking into anything blind.
The first book that caught her eye was familiar: The Lord of Rings by J. R. R. Tolkien.
There were three of them, each relatively the same size—maybe three hundred or four hundred pages each. Each book was a piece to a puzzle that revealed a glossy, golden archway surrounded by gilded trees and a similarly-colored crown atop it all.
She recalled watching the movie trilogy a couple of years ago with Sean. He had really loved it . . . She paused as that hollow feeling resurfaced, that awful, nauseating feeling that reared its ugly head when she so much as mentioned her late husband's name—
She closed her eyes, took a deep breath, and ruthlessly squashed it down.
She moved on to the next book.
The spine was also elaborately decorated with gold and silver vines: Le Comte de Monte Cristo by Alexander Dumas.
. . . What?
She furrowed her brows. That sounded oddly French or Spanish. Curious, she gently pulled out the book. The cover was even more beautiful than the spine. She ran her fingers over the cover and decided that she liked old books.
The cover—though it didn't have an image like she'd see on modern books—possessed a wooden texture with ridges that traveled up and down in an elegant pattern—almost like black waves but not quite. Gold and silver veins followed the wave-like indentations; a pearlescent white in the upper middle spelled out the title in beautiful script. Someone had carved this cover with care. She was beginning to understand why Henry liked the classics now.
She carefully opened the cover, still afraid that she might break it somehow.
Immediately, wrinkles formed on her forehead as she scrunched together her brows. Golden script commanded attention in the inside cover; it was beautiful writing—precise and cursivy (she knew that wasn't a word but it felt right). Unfortunately, it was so "cursivy" that it was a bit hard to read.
Still looks pretty though, she decided.
The few words she could make out, however, were in a different language. It looked distinctly like French. . . .
She did not know French. She blinked.
Was the rest of the book in French? She quickly flipped through the pages.
Dammit, Henry.
The rest of the book was indeed in French.
So he knows French. And it seemed like a Frenchman or woman gave him the book. No wonder it looked so authentic.
(If she had examined the note a little more, deciphered it a little farther, she would have found that the note was addressed to a Henry Morgan from one Alexandre Dumas . . . and dated January 27th, 1846.)
Sighing, she moved on to another one.
. . . What the hell?
This book wasn't even written in roman letters. The spine was a pure, distilled black embroidered with silver lettering: Анна Каренина.
. . . So he knows Russian or some other Eastern European language, too.
She was almost certain it was Russian. And she was certain that the rest of the book was in Russian as well. She huffed a bemused laugh and wondered how Henry expected her to choose a book if half of his library boasted of different languages.
English, French, and Russian, though.
She could not get over what an odd combination it was. Henry struck her as someone practical—so French, she could understand, but Russian? Really? Spanish would be more useful. Russian was only spoken in, well, Russia. She realized that, in land mass, Russia was much larger than the United States but half of that land mass was a winter nightmare.
She was starting to suspect that he had a few more languages under his belt.
And she wasn't wrong.
Where does he find the time to learn all of this stuff? she thought, half-exasperated, half-amused.
The next book she chanced upon looked to be in German: Die Verwandlung by Franz Kafka (she assumed that was the author anyway; author's names universally went under the title, right?). Well, at least it was in roman letters this time. So English, French, German, and Russian.
Good God, Henry.
Were there any other books in English for the language-deficient? Glancing around quickly, she saw an entire multitude of other languages—what looked like Spanish, Portuguese (?), Italian, and . . . Is that Icelandic or Swedish or something?
(She did notice, though, that Henry didn't seem to know any Asian languages.)
Shaking her head in exasperated amusement, she carried on her search. Never knew he was this much of a linguaphile. Well, either that or he just stockpiled his library with different languages to impress people. Knowing him, however, she knew that was not the case.
Finally, she came across another English title: The Beautiful and the Damned by F. Scott Fitzgerald.
She furrowed her eyebrows. Why did that name sound so familiar? She knew she had read something by that author before but for some reason she could not recall—wait!
Silence became an unbearable companion as she attempted to remember the name of the novel that this man had also written. She pursed her lips as she drew blank.
Must not have been that good then if I can't remember the title.
Regardless, though, the book was in English. And she wasn't entirely sure how many more she was likely to find. She snorted; it was a novel idea to have to worry about that in an English-speaking country.
She pulled out the book (it was about three hundred or so pages thick—not that bad) and found that it looked decidedly more modern than the last few she'd looked at. The center featured two people—a man and a woman, most likely married—sitting against a red circular background (like Japan's flag though it was probably the sun) each with the iconic "Hmmph!" expression. They looked like they were from the Roaring Twenties (the woman's hairdo made it quite obvious).
It was less beautiful and more familiar than the others.
And well, she recognized the author so maybe she could give this one a chance. She flipped to the back, looking for a summary but none existed—just a plain white surface. She knew she was unlikely to find one inside but it couldn't hurt to try . . . so she opened it up and found yet another note scribbled in elegant handwriting. She paused.
Should . . . should she read it?
She had no problem reading the one in French because . . . it was in French. No matter what it couldn't be considered an invasion of privacy if she didn't understand the contents but this note . . . This note was written in English.
She bit her lip.
She knew she shouldn't, that it was morally wrong in every way, but if that man weren't so damn enigmatic and mysterious all the time then maybe she wouldn't feel the urge. First and foremost, she was a detective. She was programmed to solve mysteries and here was a clue to the mystery of Dr. Henry Morgan.
But . . . she felt like a detective who invaded someone's property without a warrant.
The mere thought of disrespecting Henry's privacy made her feel invariably guilty. Unfortunately, she could think of a million reasons not to read the note . . . and only one to read it. And that one reason was more compelling than her opposing thousands.
She cringed—sorry, Henry—and started to read the note.
Henry,
I wish to thank you for the wonderful services you have afforded me in the years I've known you. Your friendship and support have been and remain invaluable to me. It is a pity that you have to leave New York—you will be very dearly missed—but I understand your reasons. Did I not traipse around Europe for the sake of my work as well? Zelda, Scottie, and I project to move to Paris in a few short years, your own destination; I hope that you will allow me to call on you once that time comes. Treat this novel as a token of our friendship; after all, you were one of the key inspiring forces behind it.
Ever your friend,
F. Scott Fitzgerald
Jo raised an eyebrow. She certainly didn't feel like she was invading Henry's privacy anymore. That was very generic, she thought ruefully. All she learned really was that Henry had lived in Paris—wait!
"—this novel—you were one of the key inspiring forces behind it."
Jo's eyes widened. For Henry to be "one of the key inspiring forces" behind this book, then the person penning this note would have to be—she peered down at the signature: F. Scott Fitzgerald—the author.
W-What . . . ? Isn't this an old book? And the author should probably be dead . . . by . . . now . . . ?
But then again, she did perceive that the book appeared modern. Maybe this book was written in the 1990's or so.
But then she saw the date of the letter: August 4, 1922.
1922! That's almost a century ago! Henry wasn't even born; hell, his parents weren't even born.
And that was when she came across another thought. Oh . . .
Maybe Henry was named after his grandfather. That—that makes a lot more sense. She'd ask Henry on her way out . . .
A little ill at ease, Jo once again looked at the immaculate bookshelf. No book really interested her; she was too jittery to try to humor Henry anymore.
She was just about to leave when she caught an unusual sight. Of all the books in the shelf, it stood out the most.
Wow, that looks really beat up. Henry must have loved it.
This was the only book that looked worn rather than old. By the style of the book, she knew it was old (though not that old; there was a picture) but the cover on the spine bore spots of white where it was torn up. The lettering was rather faded as well but she could still read it: The Sun Still Rises by Ernest Hemingway.
Curious, she pulled it out. The front was even more damaged—large sections of ripped cover blotted out a lot of the picture (though it looked like someone wearing an ancient Greek costume) and . . . is that a mustache on the person's face?
Bemused, Jo looked closer. There was indeed a large, exaggerated black line tracing the lips but . . . That didn't sound like Henry. He lived in an antique store for Christ's sake! She couldn't believe he'd efface an antique, especially an old book. Maybe it was a used book before he bought it?
She opened the book (blinking at the decrepit state of the pages) and found evidence to refute that. She'd found yet another . . . note(?).
Well . . . Not really a note. Sure it conveyed information but the entire "note" comprised of a black-and-white photo and a line of script, followed by a signature.
The picture depicted two people: on the left stood a pretty woman in stylish (of the day) clothing. She wore a dress that appeared as a light shade of gray with various . . . ornaments on it; it ended just below the knee, had no sleeves, and looked to be some derivative of a curtain to Jo. The woman wearing it smiled at the camera, decked out in the Roaring Twenties' short hair and some sort of feather wrapped around her head. Jo snorted.
On the right was a man; he was taller than the woman by a few inches and had that arrogant kind of expression that made Jo want to punch him. He looked young, had dark hair slicked back across his head, and possessed strong features. His eyes seemed alight with fire.
Jo peered at the note underneath:
Thanks for introducing us! She's quite happy with the new arrangement.
Hemingway
. . . Interesting, Jo thought, bemused.
She realized that the man in the picture must be Ernest Hemingway . . . the author? Not a used book then. Too much of a coincidence.
The tone of note though . . . it seemed rather predatory and gloating. Well, either that was just how Hemingway was as a person or he and whoever had owned this book really didn't like each other. The note didn't say who it was addressed to but if Jo had to guess, it was probably the same person Fitzgerald had wrote. The date in the corner read December 29, 1927.
Same general time period and probably same general location.
(She remembered learning about a bunch of expatriate writers who had lived in Paris during the Roaring Twenties . . .)
She gave a small smile. Henry's grandfather or whoever it was certainly got around.
She could theorize all she wanted but, in the end, only Henry could confirm her guesses.
So, with the two books in hand, she left, intent upon drilling Henry for answers.
"Hey, Henry. Were you named after your grandfather?" Jo asked, re-entering the kitchen.
Henry sat at the kitchen table, engaged with a newspaper; Abe stood in the kitchen, preparing dinner. Jo smiled as she sniffed the air. It smelled absolutely delicious so far. She was glad she agreed to go to Henry's for dinner rather than for takeout. Abe nodded and smiled at her as she came in. Henry lowered his newspaper, flattening it on the table, and took a sip from his wine.
When he heard her question, however, he froze. Jo noticed a lining of tension on his shoulder that hadn't existed when she had first walked into the kitchen.
Henry furrowed his brows (Jo got the sense that he forcibly lowered them for some odd reason).
"Why do you ask?" he replied.
Smirking, Jo held up the two books she'd nicked from his library. "Because some man named Henry seems to know every famous author of the Roaring Twenties."
She crossed the room to pick up her own wine glass, therefore missing Henry's rapidly paling face.
Henry's blood ran cold at the mention of the notes contained within the books. He had forgotten about those; it had been a long time since he had gone traversing the world alone on impulse, after all. He took a deep breath and steadied himself. It didn't appear that Jo suspected anything of it; he could salvage the situation before it took a turn for the worse. He deliberately ignored Abraham's urgent look. Not yet, he thought. It's too soon. I'll—I'll tell her one day but not today.
"Well," Henry began, hesitantly, gears turning around in his mind at the speed of light. "I had a great-grandfather named Henry." He figured that Jo meant great-grandfather. In ordinary circumstances, his grandfather probably would have been born in the 1920's.
Jo leaned against the counter, tilting her head, thinking. "Oh yeah, it would be great-grandfather, wouldn't it? Math was never my strong suit in school," she shrugged, taking another sip. Henry chuckled, tension draining from his shoulders.
"Really? What was it, if I may ask?"
Jo shot him a cheeky grin, "Kicking ass."
Henry only gave her a small smile (for what she thought deserved no less than a chortle—which Abe gave her at least); she wondered if he disapproved of her rather liberal language.
" . . . Kicking arse?"
This time Henry let out a small chuckle. Just had to put it in his language.
"Your great-grandfather sounds like he had quite the exciting life," Jo continued, sitting down. She held up The Sun Still Rises, opening to the note, and asked, "Do you know the story behind this?"
Henry's expression immediately iced over up; the warmth in his eyes died, as if extinguished by a strong, gale force wind. A storm began to brew on his face and, if Jo didn't know any better, she would have thought that a rather petulant gleam twinkled in his eye. Behind her, Abe snorted.
"Oh yeah, he knows this story very well—almost as if he had lived it." Henry glowered at him.
Jo raised her eyebrow. "Well? You're not really gonna leave me in the dark after building up all this suspense, are you?"
Henry attempted to cover up a scowl, sighing, "No, I suppose not." His gaze rested briefly on the opened book and began to don a far-away quality.
"I believe it was in the late Twenties that my . . . great-grandfather traveled to Paris and began to associate with prominent artists and authors—one of which was Ernest Hemingway." Henry gestured to the photograph, cold austerity spreading among his features.
"They had a bit of a . . . falling out, I suppose you might say, and Hemingway sent this," Henry nodded to the book, "to him for the sole purpose of mocking him."
Abe huffed a laugh and called, "Don't listen to him, Jo. He's biased. Here's the real story: Hemingway stole his girl—the one in the picture."
Jo smirked, first at Abe and then at Henry, who spent several seconds glaring at Abe. "Really? How?"
"Oh yeah, big time. Apparently, writers were chick magnets in the Twenties'. Or great-grandpa Henry just wasn't as smooth as he thought he was," Abe laughed.
Jo smiled; Abe's laughter was contagious. She threw a glance at Henry, amused to see his stony countenance.
"Charm had nothing to do with it," Henry insisted, "but money and the thrill of glamour certainly did. Sa—the woman who left him for Hemingway cared more for her public image than her private one," he . . . grumbled? Jo laughed; it was strange to hear the high and mighty Dr. Morgan grumble. But it was oddly refreshing.
"Are you sure about that?" Jo quipped. Henry subjected her to a long stare.
"Positive," he deadpanned.
"How do you know?" Jo teased. "Hemingway could have been more exciting and attractive. You sure your great-grandfather wasn't just in the friend zone?"
Abe let out a bark of laughter, clapping Jo on the back, as Henry furrowed his eyebrows.
"Yeah, how do you know, Henry?" Abe retorted, grinning. "It's not like you were there."
Henry merely raised an eyebrow at them both.
Changing the subject, he asked her, "Did you decide on a book?" Jo blinked.
Whoops . . .
In all the excitement, she'd forgotten to grab one to take home. She didn't really want to read the two she had picked up, but she didn't want to bring those beautiful books home either, fearful that she might mess them up. She released the briefest of frowns, staring at the book she, herself, had placed on the table and noticing, with significance, its decrepit state. A slow smile spread across her face. She couldn't ruin that book any further . . .
"Yeah, actually. You're looking at it."
She almost felt guilty when Henry's expression crumpled like balled-up paper. He attempted, quite well actually, to cover up his disappointment but Jo had known him long enough to read his emotions. Abe snickered in the background as he shoved something into the oven.
"Are—are you sure?" Jo grinned. He really didn't like Ernest Hemingway.
"Of course, Henry. . . I'm positive."
Authorial Notice: I hope Henry, Jo, and Abe didn't seem too out of character; it has been a long time since I've watched a Forever episode . . . (It's good enough to watch again and again). It saddens me that it's been cancelled and that the petition efforts are not very successful. Anyway, though, I hoped you enjoyed it. Requests and comments are welcome.
Thanks for reading!
Ilysia