Wilhelm, Kate - Forever Yours Anna

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FOREVER YOURS, ANNA

By Kate Wilhelm

[05 feb 2001 – scanned for #bookz, proofread and released – v1]

An enigma of past, present and future, in which an authority on handwriting attempts

to determine the nature of the author of the letters signed as the title of this story.

There's a surprise in store at the end.

Anna entered his life on a spring afternoon, not invited, not even wanted. Gordon

opened his office door that day to a client who was expected and found a second man

also in the hallway. The second man brought him Anna, although Gordon did not yet

know this. At the moment, he simply said, "Yes?"

"Gordon Sills? I don't have an appointment, but wait?"

"Afraid I don't have a waiting room."

"Out here's fine."

He was about fifty, and he was prosperous. It showed in his charcoal-colored suit, a

discreet blue-gray silk tie, a silk shirt. Gordon assumed the stone on his finger was a

real emerald of at least three carats. Ostentatious touch, that.

"Sure," Gordon said, and ushered his client inside. They passed through a foyer into

his office workroom. The office section was partitioned from the rest of the room by

three rice-paper screens with beautiful Chinese calligraphy. In the office area was his

desk and two chairs for visitors, his chair, and an overwhelmed bookcase, with books

on the floor in front of it.

When his client left, the hall was empty. Gordon shrugged and returned to his office;

he pulled his telephone across the desk and dialed his former wife's apartment

number, let it ring a dozen times, hung up. He leaned back in his chair and rubbed his

eyes absently. Late-afternoon sunlight streamed through the slats in the venetian

blinds, zebra light. 1 should go away for a few weeks, he thought. Just close shop and

walk away from it all until he started getting overdraft notices. Three weeks, he told

himself; that was about as long as it would take. Too bad about the other guy, he

thought without too much regret. He had a month's worth of work lined up already,

and he knew more would trickle in when that was done.

Gordon Sills was thirty-five, a foremost expert in graphology, and could have been

rich, his former wife had reminded him quite often. If you don't make it before forty,

she had also said--too often--you simply won't make it, and he did not care, simply

did not care about money, security, the future, the children's future ...

Abruptly he pushed himself away from the desk and left the office, going into his

living room. Like the office, it was messy, with several days' worth of newspapers,

half a dozen books, magazines scattered haphazardly. To his eyes it was comfortable

looking, comfort giving; he distrusted neatness in homes. Two fine Japanese

landscapes were on the walls.

The buzzer sounded. When he opened the door, the prosperous, uninvited client was

there again. He was carrying a brushed-suede briefcase.

Gordon opened the door wider and motioned him on through the foyer into the office.

The sunlight was gone, eclipsed by the building across Amsterdam Avenue. He

indicated a chair and took his own seat behind the desk.

"I apologize for not making an appointment," his visitor said. He withdrew a wallet

from his breast pocket, took out a card, and slid it across the desk.

"I'm Avery Roda. On behalf of my company I should like to consult with you

regarding some correspondence that we have in our possession."

"That's my business," Gordon said. "And what is your company, Mr. Roda?"

"Draper Fawcett."

Gordon nodded slowly. "And your position there?"

Roda looked unhappy. "I am vice president in charge of research and development,

but right now I am in charge of an investigation we have undertaken. My first duty in

connection with this was to find someone with your expertise. You come very highly

recommended, Mr. Sills."

"Before we go on any further," Gordon said, "I should tell you that there are a number

of areas where I'm not interested in working. I don't do paternity suits, for example.

Or employer-employee pilferage cases."

Roda flushed.

"Or blackmail," Gordon finished equably. "That's why I'm not rich, but that's how it

is."

"The matter I want to discuss is none of the above," Roda snapped. "Did you read

about the explosion we had at our plant on Long Island two months ago?" He did not

wait for Cordon's response. "We lost a very good scientist, one of the best in the

country. And we cannot locate some of his paperwork, his notes. He was involved

with a woman who may have them in her possession. We want to find her, recover

them."

Cordon shook his head. "You need the police, then, private detectives, your own

security force."

"Mr. Sills, don't underestimate our resolve or our resources. We have set all that in

operation, and no one has been able to locate the woman. Last week we had a

conference during which we decided to try this route. What we want from you is as

complete an analysis of the woman as you can give us, based on her handwriting.

That may prove fruitful." His tone said he doubted it very much.

"I assume the text has not helped."

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