Page 55 of The Lost Book of First Loves

“One of my favorites of his.”

“Mine, too. Let me show you the sections I’ve marked and you can tell me if I’m on the right track.”

She picked up the journal she had been reading most recently and held it out to him. “I’m interested to know what you think. Start where I’ve put the purple sticky notes.”

He sat down at the table, picked up the journal she handed him and started reading.

Chapter 18

Beckett

After June showed him a half dozen entries she had marked, Beckett sat back in his chair and studied the pages.

“What do you think?” she asked, an edge of nerves in her voice. “Am I being completely delusional or does he appear to be referencing a book that was never published?”

“I don’t know. I’ve never heard ofThe Forgotten Roadbut titles are changed all the time.”

“But not entire characters and plot points. I thought I had read everything he has ever published, from short stories to novels. I don’t remember anything close to this, with magical realism and a doomed love affair.”

“I don’t, either,” he admitted.

Before coming to Wyoming and moving next door to Carson, Beckett had only read a couple of his books. He had readPurgatory Riverin high school, as it had been assigned reading, and had picked upThe Bridge to Nowhereon an airplane.

After he escaped here and Carson basically took him under his considerable wing, Beck had read all of his books and had come to love every word.

Carson had unmatched insight into the human condition and a beautiful way of clarifying complex concepts.

He had no doubt the man had earned a place among the greatest writers in a generation.

“Who might know about a possible unknown manuscript?” June asked. “Did he have any other confidants from around that time?”

Beckett considered what he knew about the early days of Carson’s career. “I don’t know. He was very private about his work, until the book was done and sent away to his editor. Hemingway famously said it was bad luck to talk about his work, and Margaret Atwood said talking about the writing process while you’re in it is like trying to describe a garden while it’s growing.”

“What about someone at his publishing house? Would they know?”

“Possibly. But I know both his first agent and his original editor have passed away. We had a conversation shortly before Carson himself died, about how everyone he started out with has gone.”

She looked so forlorn, as if he had ground his heel into a cherished dream, that he wanted to comfort her somehow.

“It’s possible the missing manuscript might be among his papers.”

Her eyes lit up. “Do you think so?”

Did she have any clue the author whose career interested her so much was actually her father? What would her reaction be when she found out?

Beck hated the deception. She deserved to know why Alison had sought her out in Seattle, why she had brought June here to the ranch. He wanted to tell her, but he had promised Ali he wouldn’t.

“It could be in his papers,” he said. “But there’s also a chance he burned it. Carson was his own worst critic. If he hated the way the manuscript turned out, he might have destroyed it.”

What a tragedy that would be for his readers, who would probably embrace any newly discovered book from Carson, flaws and all.

“Would he really have destroyed it?”

“Who knows? Once I had a conversation with him where he brought up Flaubert, who famously burned every draft he didn’tlike ofMadame Bovaryuntil he came up with the final version. Carson said he could completely relate. Another time, we talked about Emily Dickenson, who only published a handful of her thousands of poems during her lifetime, and how her family had discovered she had destroyed a significant number of her poems before anyone else ever had the chance to see them.”

“How heartbreaking. If he did have another work out there somewhere, I truly hope he didn’t destroy it.”

“I would suggest continuing to keep your eyes open while you’re going through the journals. Maybe you can learn more.”

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