Excerpt from This Is How It Begins by Joan Dempsey, plus links to reviews, author biography & more

"Message."

Ludka pushed open the door, circled her desk, where she dropped her keys and soft leather satchel, and began to unfasten her black wool cape. Will tossed his backpack on some papers piled on a chair and turned his attention to her bookshelves.

"Stanley Brozek," said the assistant. "Doing research on Polish artists from the World War II era. Looking for information on someone named Apolonia?"

Ludka froze. Attention, Ludka, uwaga! She fought the sudden gravity that threatened her bowels, that demanded she collapse into her chair. Unbidden, a dormant instinct honed to an art form nearly seventy years ago arose and assumed command, demanding she carefully compose her expression and glance as if nonchalantly out the window. No one in the quad seemed out of place.

"Take this, young man." She cleared her throat. "Hang it there."

Will took her cape and hung it behind the door. Ludka sat abruptly, betrayed by her old knees. She thought furiously, scanning her memory for a Stanley Brozek, hands anchored on her desk, fingers splayed and immobile, an old trick to steady herself, to curb instinctual rash action, to disguise anxiety. Sixty-three years since she'd been addressed as Apolonia, even by Izaac, who, like her, had shrouded certain pieces of their history in silence. The assistant handed her the note. Ludka didn't trust her hands not to shake so she flapped them impatiently at her in-box and cemented them again on her desk, a sudden damp sweat apparent in her palms. Will eagerly scanned the spines of her books. The assistant laid down the message and inched out the door, clearly anxious to be on her way.

"Specifically, he inquired for me by name?"

Ludka could hear the alarm in her voice, and when the assistant nodded, she rushed to cover it up, saying she would phone him on Monday. The assistant walked off, wishing them both a good weekend.

Will pulled a book off the shelf and leafed through it. "Can I borrow this?" He showed her the book, an introduction to abstract art in America, and suddenly she wondered who, exactly, he was. She searched his eyes, dark blue behind the narrow rectangles of his wire-framed glasses, and gave him a fierce look. He shifted his attention to the window behind her, then back to the book in his hands.

"There is library. From here, books disappear."

He didn't shy away, just smiled and slid the book back into its place. Unlike a lot of young men his age he stood to his full height, just over six feet, shoulders back, head high, an open and confident young man.

"Who's Apolonia?"

"Please, I must work!"

He seemed puzzled, and tugged the rings on his ear. She softened. He was a boy who liked art, nothing more. This was 2009, she must remember. A lifetime had passed. He knew nothing.

"I'm looking forward to seeing your collection," he said. "When is that, next week? You have a lot of abstract art, right?"

"From today, five weeks. The thirteenth of March."

He smiled and shouldered his backpack. "Want me to close the door?"

Ludka nodded. As soon as he was gone she hurried to lock the door, then took hold of the cord on the venetian window blinds. After another scan of the quad she tugged to release the brake. She didn't hold tightly enough, and the slats came clattering down onto the sill, and this is when she began to shake. She twisted the clear plastic rod and the slats pivoted in lockstep, obscuring the last of the day's sun. Ludka lowered herself carefully into her chair and took hold of the message. A California number, which of course meant nothing. He could be a continent away or outside in a car with his cell phone. Either way, he was too close.

Excerpted from This Is How It Begins by Joan Dempsey. Copyright © 2017 by Joan Dempsey. Excerpted by permission of She Writes Press. All rights reserved. No part of this excerpt may be reproduced or reprinted without permission in writing from the publisher.