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t American writer’s
bed did not qualify her to serve as his literary executor.
Thathe saidwas a job for an expertand he understood that
Mrs. Landon had no college degree at all. He reminded her of
the time already gone since Scott Landon’s deathand of the
rumors that continued to grow. Supposedly there were piles of
unpublished Landon fiction—short storieseven novels. Could
she not let him into the study for even a little while? Let
him prospect a bit in the file cabinets and desk drawersif
only to set the most outrageous rumors to rest? She could stay
with him the whole timeof course—that went without saying.
“No” she’d saidshowing Professor Woodbody to the door. “I’m
not ready just yet.” Overlooking the man’s lower blows—trying
toat least—because he was obviously as crazy as the rest of
them. He’d just hidden it betterand for a little longer.
“And when I amI’ll want to look at everythingnot just the
manuscripts.”
“But—”
She had nodded seriously to him. “Everything the same.”
“I don’t understand what you mean by that.”
Of course he didn’t. It had been a part of her marriage’s
inner language. How many times had Scott come breezing in
calling “HeyLiseyI’m home—everything the same,ugg braid boot saleyilai：
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