Free The Vanishing by Wendy Webb Page A

thousands of books,” Mrs. Sinclair said, holding her arms wide. “When I first saw it as a young girl, I thought it was the eighth wonder of the world. I knew right then I would own this house—and this library—one day.”
    I gave her a sidelong glance. “Adrian said you bought Havenwood when he was a boy. You were here before that? As a child?”
    “Oh my, yes,” she said, sliding her hand along the leather back of one of the sofas before sinking down into it. “I am related to the McCulloughs. Somewhere along the line, Havenwood was passed down to a cousin of mine whom I never particularly liked”—she wrinkled her nose—“and when I heard he was having trouble keeping it up, I swooped in. Thank goodness I had the means to do so. My parents first brought me here for a visit when I was no more than ten years old, and I’ve been in love with this house ever since.”
    A picture swam through my mind: a little girl with auburn pigtails and dancing green eyes, her mouth agape as she stood in the very spot where I was standing. “I can see you here as a girl, awestruck by this library,” I said.
    “I imagine you can, my dear.” She raised her eyebrows and smiled. “I imagine you can.”
    I turned in a slow circle to take it all in, my eyes straining to see all the way to the third floor. “This is just amazing. So, most of these books were here before you bought the house?”
    “They were indeed. I’ve added a few hundred to the collection, but many of these were the property of the first Andrew McCullough. He was a voracious reader and seeker of knowledge. And a great patron of the arts who loved the written word.”
    “It would take years to go through them all,” I mused.
    “Lifetimes,” she said. “It is a true library, a literal storehouse of knowledge. There are centuries-old maps of the world, drawn by ancient mariners. Victorian textbooks. Encyclopedias from every age. Druid writings. Celtic tales.” She gestured to the secondfloor. “Up there you’ll find our collection of Bibles. We have a Gutenberg—the first book printed on a printing press. We have an original King James.”
    I wondered what other manner of literary treasures I could find languishing on these old shelves. “Wow,” I said, now knowing what I would be doing with much of my free time on the cold and snowy winter days ahead. “I feel like I’ve been given the keys to the lost library of Alexandria.”
    “Not quite.” She chuckled, pushing herself up to her feet. “But it’s a close second. It can be a bit overwhelming, coming into this library for the first time and trying to decide where to start looking for the endlessly interesting bits and pieces you’ll find in here. So I’ve got a suggestion.”
    She took my arm and led me across the room to a shelf with lead glass doors. As she carefully opened them, the ancient hinges creaked their disapproval.
    “First editions, many of them signed,” she said. “Andrew McCullough collected signed first editions of books, and he regularly invited famous authors of the day to visit Havenwood—some even used it as a writing retreat. All he asked was for a copy of the authors’ works. His son and grandson continued the practice, as did I when I bought the house. So there is quite a collection of literature here.”
    One quick glance at the spines on the shelves caused my heart to skip a beat and nearly stop. Conan Doyle, Steinbeck, London, Hemingway, Fitzgerald, Tolkien, Salinger, Capote. Gabriel García Márquez. C. S. Lewis. Madeleine L’Engle. And more. So many more.
    “All of these writers were here?” I squeaked.
    “Many of them, yes.”
    “Can I touch the books?” I asked. “I mean, do I need gloves or…?”
    “Goodness, no. These are meant to be enjoyed.” She gave my arm a quick squeeze and winked at me. “I’ll leave you to look. I’m going up there.” She pointed toward the third level. “I feel like doing some snooping in the Elizabethan