After her husband’s death, the new widow brought an antiquarian book dealer into his library, and waved her hand toward shelves. The space was hers to reclaim, and besides, it was the only way for her to move forward. In the end, she told friends, she would keep only a few items, and certainly the children, but little else. She made herself tea, and sat skimming the daily paper. A few hours passed before she returned to the library, and the book dealer presented a handful of cash, some thousands of dollars. Unbeknownst to her, her husband had squirreled away decades of fifties, twenties and even some hundred dollar bills, secretly buried in every book, that only he, now the book dealer, had cracked.