“How do you do?” the man said, clasping Hudson’s hand in a warm, soft grip.

  “I’m well, thank you,” Hudson replied. He wasn’t sure what else to say, as Macready’s name didn’t mean anything to him. He hoped he wasn’t supposed to know who he was.

  “Edgar was a friend of John’s,” Helen said, helping him out.

  “Knew him in the forties,” Macready said. “He and Ricketts both. Course, I was a bit younger than they were,” he added, his blue eyes twinkling.

  “How did you know them?” asked Hudson, thrilled to be talking to someone who knew the men personally.

  “Oh, we all did,” said Macready, waving his hand. “Couldn’t live in Monterey and not know John and Ed.”

  “Edgar is being modest,” Helen said. “He was Ed’s assistant for a time.”

  Macready laughed. “Errand boy, more like it,” he said. “But thank you for the promotion, Helen.”

  Helen smiled. “I’ll leave you two to talk,” she said.

  “Please, sit down,” Hudson said as the archivist left. He pulled out a chair for Macready, who settled into it with a sigh.

  “I’m not sure I can be much help to you,” he said. “Helen didn’t say exactly what it is you’re after.”

  Hudson chose his words carefully. “I’m researching some of the influences on Steinbeck’s work,” he said vaguely, hoping the man wouldn’t press him too much.

  He didn’t. Rather, he nodded as if Hudson’s explanation made complete sense. “Well, ask away,” he said. “I’ll tell you what I know. As Helen said, I did some work for Ricketts. Mostly cleaning up and mailing packages for pocket money. But of course Steinbeck came around a lot. I was there for a couple of the famous parties.” He laughed. “Boy, did they know how to have parties.”

  “Were they as wild as people say?” Hudson asked him. “You know, all the drinking and the ... women.” He threw out the last word cautiously.

  Macready was nodding. “Sure,” he said. “They drank a lot. Course, everyone did then. Men, anyway. Girls, too, but they didn’t make such a show of it. Didn’t want to be considered loose.”

  “Did Ricketts have a lot of women around?” Hudson inquired. “They say he was quite a ladies’ man.”

  “Depends what you mean by that,” Macready said thoughtfully. “Women certainly liked him. There was something about him made them comfortable with him. He helped a lot of them out.”

  “The girls at Flora’s,” suggested Hudson.

  “Them and others,” Macready answered. “Never turned away a woman who needed help.”

  “What about his own girlfriends?” said Hudson. “He had quite a few.”

  “Sure, sure,” agreed Macready. “But not so many as people think. Not so many as Doc in the Steinbeck books did either. I think maybe that’s how they—he and Steinbeck—wanted people to think of him.”

  “But it wasn’t true?” Hudson pressed.

  “It was a long time ago,” said Macready uncertainly. “You know how it is, you remember some things, forget a lot of others.”

  Hudson, sensing that the man was becoming uncomfortable, considered where to take the conversation next. Macready, he thought, knew more than he was saying. It was almost as if he was protecting the image of someone he admired.

  “What did he and Steinbeck talk about?” he asked, changing tack.

  Macready visibly relaxed. “Anything and everything,” he said. “I didn’t understand the half of it most of the time. They’d get going on about philosophy or religion and I’d just stand at the sink washing bottles and feeling like an ignorant cuss. Sometimes they’d try to explain it to me, and I was always afraid to tell them I had no idea what they were saying. If they weren’t half drunk and needed me to go get them more beer, they probably would have kicked me out of there for being so damn stupid.”

  “Did Ricketts ever talk about Steinbeck with you when John wasn’t around?” said Hudson.

  Macready didn’t answer right away. He seemed to be thinking. Then he nodded. “Now that you bring it up, he did,” he said. “Only once. It was one afternoon when I was helping him prepare those frogs of his for shipping. Steinbeck had been gone awhile. I don’t know where, but he hadn’t been around in probably two, three weeks. Ed was in a black mood, and I think it was because he missed his drinking buddy. Anyway, we were packing up frogs, and all of a sudden he asks me if I have a best friend. I told him I did. His name was Charlie Proctor. Then Ed asks me if I love him. ‘Who?’ I asked him, and he said, ‘Charlie. Do you love him?’ ”

  Macready paused. The expression on his face was thoughtful, almost sad, as if something about the memory disturbed him. Hudson waited patiently for him to continue. Charlie, he thought while he waited. Then he warned himself. Don’t grasp at straws. It’s only a name.

  “I didn’t understand what he meant,” Macready continued. “I said, ‘I guess I do, sure.’ He was looking at me with those dark eyes of his, and when I said that he sort of smiled at me. ‘That’s good, Eddie,’ he said. He always called me Eddie, like I was his son or something. ‘That’s good,’ he said. ‘A man should love his best friend. Because someday that might be all you have.’ Then he got real quiet, and after a while he said, ‘I love John like that. I love him so much I’d die for him if I had to.’ Only he didn’t say it like he was saying it to me. And it wasn’t like he was saying it to himself either. It sounded like he was saying it to someone I couldn’t see.”

  Macready stopped speaking and looked through Hudson. After a long moment he shook his head. “I haven’t thought of that in years,” he said. “Probably not since the day it happened. Not until you asked me about it.” He gave a short laugh. “Funny the things that stick in your head.”

  Hudson, his heart racing, was making notes on a piece of paper. “What do you think he meant by what he said?” he asked.

  Macready cocked his head. “That he loved John?” he said. “I guess just that they were each other’s best friend. I don’t think anyone understood either of them the way they did each other. That was mighty important to Ricketts. Especially that it was someone like Steinbeck. Of course, Steinbeck admired Ed like crazy too. They were like two halves of the same person.”

  Hudson, busy writing, looked up. “Two halves of the same person,” he repeated.

  “You like that?” asked Macready. “It just came to me. But that’s what it was like. Ricketts inspired Steinbeck, and Steinbeck immortalized Ed in his books. They gave each other what they each wanted most in the world.”

  Hudson set down his pen. It was time to ask the question that was foremost on his mind, and there was no way to do it gently. “Do you think their relationship was ever ...” He hesitated. “More than just a friendship?” he finished.

  Macready regarded him with a puzzled look. “You mean were they queer?” he asked, his voice harsh. “They weren’t queer.”

  “No,” Hudson said quickly. “Of course not. But maybe there was an ... affection ... between them.”

  “They both liked women,” said Macready. “There was nothing pansy about either of them. Christ, can’t men be friends without being queer?”

  “I’m sorry,” said Hudson. “I didn’t mean to imply that. I’m just trying to figure out what Ricketts meant when he said he loved Steinbeck.”

  “He meant that he loved him!” Macready said forcefully. “A man can love another man. That doesn’t mean they’re ...” His voice trailed off as he stood up. “I should go,” he said. “My wife is expecting me, and you know how women are when you keep them waiting.”

  Hudson stood, wishing he could find some way to get the man to stay. “Perhaps we can talk again,” he suggested.

  Macready nodded but didn’t respond. As he walked toward the door, Hudson said, “Thank you for sharing your stories with me.”

  Macready, his hand on the doorknob, turned and fixed him with a look both wary and, Hudson thought, sad. “I shouldn’t have spoken like I did,” he said. “I don’t want you to misunderstand.”

  “It’s all right,” said Hudson. “I think I understand what you meant.”

  Macready nodded. “They were good men,” he said. “Both of them.”

  Hudson said nothing, as he could think of no appropriate response. Macready gave another short nod and left. Hudson watched him walk slowly toward the elevator, then sat down and looked at the notes he’d scribbled down.

  “I still don’t have anything I can use,” he said out loud to himself. “Even if I printed this, Macready would deny he’d said it, or at least claim he was quoted out of context.”

  And maybe he was, he thought with disappointment. After all, he was relying on memories that were probably seventy years old. Who knew what Ricketts had really said to him, or how much of it was completely fictional. Memory was a wonderful thing, capable of both great revelation and great trickery. Although he wanted everything Macready had told him to be true—and true in the way he hoped it was true—Hudson knew he couldn’t rely on it.

  He’d come closer to solving the mystery than he’d ever been, but in some ways he was even further from the truth. So what if Ricketts had told an adolescent boy that he loved Steinbeck? Macready was right, it was completely normal for one friend to express his love for another. But, Hudson argued, it wasn’t so much the words that were used but how they were used. We’re back to the whole context problem, he thought. Isn’t that what it always comes down to?

  He was interrupted in his disappointment and frustration by the arrival of Helen Guerneyser. She breezed into the room with her usual efficiency. “Well,” she said, “was Edgar any help?”

  Hudson didn’t want her to think he was ungrateful. “He had some great stories,” he said.

  Helen regarded him with narrowed eyes. “I sense a but,” she said.

  Hudson couldn’t help but smile. “You’re good,” he said. “It’s not so much a ‘but’ as it is more questions. And between you and me, I don’t think I’ll ever find the answers I want.”

  “You’re not researching Steinbeck’s influences, are you?” said Helen.

  Hudson shook his head. “I am and I’m not,” he admitted. “I’m trying to pinpoint one particular influence.”

  “And you don’t want to tell me what it is,” Helen stated matter-of-factly.

  “Not yet,” said Hudson. “Is that all right?”

  Helen waved his question away. “Of course it is,” she said. “But I admit that I’m intrigued. When someone keeps something as close as you have, it’s usually big.”

  Hudson knew she was hoping he would confide in her. But he wasn’t ready to. Not yet. Macready’s reaction to his question had reminded him of what shaky terrain he was traversing. And he needed the access Helen Guerneyser afforded him.

  “Maybe it’s not so big,” he said finally. “But it’s important to me.”

  “Say no more,” Helen said. “Just promise me you’ll tell me when you have your answer.”

  “That I can promise,” said Hudson. “That is if I do get it,” he added.

  Helen pointed at him with one well-manicured finger. “That’s enough out of you, young man,” she said. “Now get back to work. I’m an impatient woman, and now you’ve piqued my curiosity.”

  “Yes, ma’am,” said Hudson, sitting up straight in his chair and assuming a studious look.

  Helen waved good-bye and left. Hudson was glad she had come to see him. He felt that they’d developed a kind of friendship in the short time he’d been coming to the center, and it was nice to think she was on his side. Just like John and Ed were on each other’s side, he thought.

  No, not like that. But the thought made him realize that there were indeed many different ways to define friendship. And love, he added. “And love,” he said, as if someone else had made the comment.

  Maybe he was totally wrong. Maybe there was nothing to the whole thing—the manuscript, his theory, any of it. Maybe he was just chasing a dream that didn’t exist, chasing it because he so badly wanted it to be true.

  Worst of all, he wondered if maybe he was only doing it because it kept Paul alive. No, he told himself. It’s more than that. It was what Paul had wanted more than anything, and what Hudson wanted now was to help him achieve his dream. Our dream, he corrected himself. It’s mine too.

  He gathered up his materials and stuffed them into his briefcase. He’d been living with this mystery too long to let it go now. He had to see it through. But sitting in that room all alone, the whispers of doubt telling him there was nothing left to look for, he wasn’t sure he could.

  He left the room quickly, glancing over his shoulder as if someone might be watching. Edgar Macready’s voice echoed in his head as he ran for the elevator. They weren’t queer. They were good men.

  CHAPTER 26

  “It’s like something out of a pirate story.”

  Hudson and Ben were standing at the top of the cliff overlooking Whaler’s Cove. A hundred feet below them the ocean crashed over the tops of the reefs. Gulls circled overhead and the wind, hot like the breath of a giant, rippled the tall rye grass, leaving a track like the passing of a great brown snake.

  “Funny you should say that,” Ben remarked. “This is where Stevenson got his inspiration for Treasure Island.”

  “Stevenson?” said Hudson. “What was he doing in Monterey?”

  “Ah,” Ben replied. “That’s an interesting story. He came here for a woman, Fanny Osbourne, who, unfortunately for everyone concerned, was already married.”

  “So he came here to leap to his death,” Hudson suggested.

  “I never thought of that,” said Ben. “Maybe. It would certainly be a good place to die. I don’t think you’ll find many more beautiful spots.”

  “Get back to the story,” Hudson said. “Did he get the girl or not?”

  “He did,” Ben said. “But only after a messy divorce during which Fanny lost custody of her son for being a wanton woman. Then the happy couple returned to Britain.”

  “The perils of love,” Hudson remarked.

  “The Spanish called this place Punta de los Lobos Marinos,” said Ben. “The Point of the Sea Wolves. Much more dramatic than Pt. Lobos, but it doesn’t fit on a map as easily.” He looked out to sea. “They said the winds howling through here reminded them of the wolves from home.”

  “It’s all terribly romantic,” Hudson commented. “Fated lovers. Howling wolves. Spanish sailors. A pirate story. All it needs is a ghost.”

  Ben turned and walked away from the edge of the cliff, along the path that led to the forest of cypress and scrub pine. Hudson followed him. As they walked, monarch butterflies fluttered up from the grass like tiny explosions of fireworks.

  “The trouble with romance is that it becomes something else,” Ben said as they walked. “Sea wolves become ordinary wolves. A pirate story becomes required reading. The fated lovers turn into a bickering couple who blame each other for everything they’ve given up to be together.”

  “Sounds like you’ve been burned,” Hudson remarked, then regretted having said it. “Sorry,” he apologized.

  “Don’t be,” said Ben. “It’s a natural assumption. But really it’s just a scientific observation. Romance is an impermanence. It can’t be measured.”

  “But you know when you feel it,” Hudson objected. “And you know when it’s gone.”

  “Or maybe you just think it’s there in the first place,” said Ben. “By the way, what did you think of Angela?”

  “Angela?” said Hudson, taken aback for a moment. “She was nice. Why?”

  “She hasn’t stopped talking about you since we had dinner the other night,” Ben told him. “I think she might be interested in seeing you again.”

  Hudson walked a few paces, trying to decide how to respond to this news. “I thought you didn’t believe in romance,” he said finally.

  “I don’t believe in God either,” said Ben. “But that doesn’t stop millions of other people from believing in him.”

  They stepped into the forest, and immediately the air was cooler, as if the cypress trees caught the wind in their arms and held it there, the branches twisting into their strange shapes from the force of the battle. Hudson picked at a beard of gray-green moss that hung down. It crumbled in his hands, and he let the pieces fall to the ground.

  “I don’t think Angela would be very happy with me,” he told Ben.

  “Why’s that?” Ben asked.

  “Because I like boys,” said Hudson. When Ben stopped and looked at him he corrected himself. “Not boys as in boys,” he said. “Boys as in men. It’s just that most men act like boys, so ...” His voice trailed off as he realized he was babbling.

  “You mean you’re gay,” Ben said.

  “That’s what I’m trying to say, yes,” said Hudson.

  Ben seemed to think for a moment. “In that case, I think you’re probably right about Angela,” he said, as if he’d come to a conclusion about some problem that had been troubling him. “It wouldn’t be very convenient, her having a gay boyfriend. Well, not in the romance department anyway.”

  “No,” Hudson said. “Probably not.”

  Ben resumed walking. They were passing through the last of the cypress trees and emerging once again into the sunlight. The path had joined the makeshift road leading back toward the park entrance. They walked a few yards and then Ben stopped. He lifted his arm in front of Hudson’s chest, stopping him. “Look,” he said softly, and pointed.

  Twenty feet away, in the shadows of the scrub pine, two deer stood in the grass. Their ears twitched idly as they turned their heads from side to side. Hudson watched them, holding his breath, afraid that any noise might startle them and send them running. It was such a perfect picture that he wanted it to go on forever.

  The quiet was interrupted by the sound of a car coming toward them. Ben and Hudson stepped off the road to let it pass, and when Hudson looked back, the deer were gone. The place where they’d been looked untouched, as if they’d simply vanished or never existed at all.

  “Another romance—poof,” Ben said, snapping his fingers as a magician might.