He laid the book on the shelf instead of putting it back where he'd found it. Fifteen years later, it wore wine stains and curled corners like a favorite dress, worn in all the best places. He lifted the other books, dusted off their covers and set them on the desk. Deep in the back of the bookshelf laid one small rectangle, a clean punched-out corner, amidst the dust. Stretching to reach, he set the book down gently in the empty space and quickly hoisted the other books in front of it. It was now quarter to noon. The train would be pulling in, as it had so many years ago. The same one that carried Grandfather in. He was wild then, wiry white hair grown long and pulled into a tight ponytail at the nape of his neck, loose curls at his temples. Always smelling of oak and sweet pipe tobacco. Always with a small wooden creature to add to Samuel Parker's hand carved chest. Always met by Samuel's anxious arms swept around his neck. Samuel returned to the chair at his desk. His favorite carving, an Indonesian elephant sat beneath the amber lamp. The carvings he was proud of; it was the book he kept hidden. It had lived most of its life in his Grandfather's suitcase, traveling to Denmark, Pakistan, Ethiopia. It was cradled in leather and twine, tied neatly into a slipped buntline. But it was always secret, tucked away under the slacks and aftershave. Never spoken of, always met with bunched brows when questioned. So on the evening of Grandfather's funeral, as the wind picked up and the rain maliciously pounded against the fresh open ground, Samuel slipped into his Grandfather's study and found the book. Slipping the knot open, he lifted the first page, then the second, then he sat down. Dirty photographs, crumbled newspaper clippings, love letters worn from fingers dragged over them again and again. And the book itself, not much more of a book than a journal, scribbled from corner to corner, no room to breathe. The faces of his mother, but not his mother. Older, stronger, hair just a bit brighter. Photographs taken in rain forests, sail boats and with native people of lost tribes, baking meals in front of mud huts. Then Samuel's fingers reached the news stories, the same face, plastered large and above thick words, "Murdered?" "Death unknown," "Still searching for Adalee Parker." And the words written obsessively along the edges, "Adalee Parker, I will find you, even if it takes me all my life, I will search the world my love."
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