Page 22 of The Missing Pages
It was her freshman-year roommate, Sylvia, who had asked Violet if she wanted to join her and two other girls to room together sophomore year.
Violet had never had a class with either Lara or Jenny and had barely hung out with them other than at the occasional party, before they all agreed to share a quad.
She knew Lara was pre-med and Jenny played on the soccer team, but that was all she knew.
In the end, their group housing number was high enough to get the four of them a suite in Lowell.
And this year, their suite was even a little larger, with a common area that had windows overlooking the inner courtyard.
Despite never growing close with her other two suitemates the way she was with Sylvia, Violet was happy to be living in a dorm that had so much history.
She loved imagining the famous alums that had passed through its doors and she appreciated its traditions, especially the pastries served at the weekly tea.
But this morning, the charm of Lowell’s bells ringing was not a plus for Violet. She pulled her pillow over her head trying to dampen the noise. She had hardly drank anything the night before at the Owl party, but her head was pounding.
As the chimes eventually dissipated, she pulled herself out of bed and got her toiletry caddy and towel to bring to the bathroom. Her eyes were puffy, her mouth felt like it was stuffed with cotton. She hoped brushing her teeth and getting into a hot shower would perk her up.
She wiggled her feet into her flip-flops and opened the door to the common room. Lara and Jenny were sitting on the couch reading.
“Hey,” Lara said, looking up from her chemistry book. “We were wondering when you were going to wake up.”
“Long night…” Violet muttered. “I probably shouldn’t have slept this late. I have a paper due tomorrow.”
Lara reached for her coffee mug on the table. “Well, I heard the party last night was fun. Sorry I missed it. Auditions didn’t end until way past midnight.”
Violet knew how much work Lara had to do for the Lowell House Opera Company, and how prestigious it was for her to be one of the students in charge of making sure the oldest running opera company in New England ran smoothly.
Its affiliation with the house was another tradition that made living in Lowell special.
“How’s opera practice going?” Violet couldn’t remember what they’d decided to put on. “Remind me. Is it Puccini this year?”
“Nope. Rossini! The Italian Girl in Algiers.” Lara’s excitement was palpable just mentioning it. “I think we found the perfect mezzo soprano last night.”
“Well, that’s a relief,” Jenny said sarcastically, looking up from her magazine. “Does that mean you guys won’t be kicking us all out of the dining hall at seven o’clock when you need to rehearse?”
“Can’t promise that,” Lara said, laughing. “But it means we might get some good reviews in the Boston Globe.”
“That’s amazing.” Violet tried to sound excited, but the words only came out sounding flat. “I’d better shower,” she said, happy for an excuse to leave the room. “I’ll see you guys later.”
“Not if you stay in your room all the time,” Jenny replied.
Violet ignored her. It wasn’t a crime to keep to yourself, and her roommates couldn’t kick her out of the suite because of it. They were stuck with her no matter how much of a downer they thought she’d become.
Showered and with her mind cleared, Violet headed over to Widener to study. While Lowell had its own beautiful oak-paneled library that echoed the tradition and scholarliness of the building’s elite history, she didn’t want to risk running into anyone she knew there. Widener had become her refuge.
With the recent rain, Mount Auburn Street was slick with leaves.
Steps away from the yard, she saw two of Hugo’s former rowing mates standing outside “Out of Town News,” reading what looked like one of the crew bulletins.
The kiosk, with its copper overhang and the words HARVARD SQUARE neatly printed in the little arch over its doorway, was a fixture of Cambridge life.
Stacks of newspapers were piled at each side of the doorway.
Magazines highlighting the city’s restaurants and nightlife faced outward on the outside shelving.
She had been inside on countless occasions during her time at Harvard.
But the ones she most remembered had been with Hugo, where they’d been caught outside in the rain and had dipped into the kiosk for temporary shelter.
The place smelled of spearmint gum and newsprint.
He’d bought mints or candies from the front counter and they had kissed in the back, where the Harvard mugs and mini stuffed bears in crimson and white T-shirts were displayed.
There was no limit to the college souvenirs available to the thousands of prospective students who visited year after year.
Violet still had the sweatshirt her father had bought for her after that first campus tour.
That memory seemed incredibly distant now. She pushed it out of her mind and moved to the far side of the street to make sure Hugo’s friends didn’t see her. The party the night before had been depleting enough, and all she wanted to do at the moment was get her paper for Gupta’s seminar class done.
She walked up the marble stairs and entered Widener.
By now, she knew the building like the back of her hand.
The alabaster balustrade. The paintings by John Singer Sargent that had been commissioned to honor the men who’d lost their lives in the First World War added another layer of grief and mourning to the building.
Violet wondered if Eleanor Widener had ever contemplated the fact that if Harry had not perished on the Titanic, he might well have lost his life only a mere five years later when America entered that devastating war.
Violet paused at the entrance to the Memorial Room. She peeked in to see how the flowers were faring, reminding herself that come Monday, she would have to put in another order for Wednesday’s delivery, then continued up the second flight of stairs toward one of the communal reading rooms.
Entering the quiet space, Violet placed her knapsack against one of the chairs and sat down.
She pulled out her notebook and inhaled the air.
Ever since she began working at the Widener, the scent of paper and ink had become a familiar fragrance for her.
But now as she reread her written transcription of Harry’s letters to Rosenbach, she noticed the faint scent of tobacco wafting in her direction. It smelled like pipe smoke.
Smoking of any kind was forbidden in all the buildings at Harvard, so it immediately threw Violet. She looked around to see if anyone else seemed to notice the scent, which began to grow more intense to her. But everyone else in the room seemed to be engrossed only in their own reading materials.
She craned her neck to see if she could spot anything at all that could explain this rich aroma of tobacco leaf, with its notes of vanilla and oak. But there was no one to be seen smoking a pipe. Still, the smell enveloped her, despite Violet being unable to locate its original source.