Book Lover, The (6 page)

Then, after his accident, Colin announced that he wanted to buy back the cabin next door, which Bill’s dad had sold back in the sixties. The biggest of the three, it had fallen into disrepair over the years. She asked Colin why he would do such a thing, when she would have gladly given him the other one. He shook his head and smiled, telling her it was too small for year-round living. “Besides, that’s Dad’s place, and yours,” he’d added, “and it always will be.” What could she say to that?

She braked as she came to the cluster of tall pines at the beginning of the gravel driveway. Turning in, she drove through the tunnel of green branches and found her children’s cars already parked in the clearing. There they were, sitting on the dock down at the water’s edge, the three of them huddled close together. It seemed like just yesterday she was watching them jump off that dock, their shrieks of joy echoing off the mountains.

There were no shrieks of joy now.

* * *

RUTH GOT OUT OF HER CAR, glad that Jenny and Alex had come alone, leaving their children and spouses behind. She walked down the long sloping lawn to the dock, which was more like a wide wooden deck. Bill had rebuilt it when Colin was born, wanting it big enough for chairs and blankets and toys for all of them.

Her children turned at her approach, and Jenny stood and walked over.

“Hey, Mom.” Her blotchy face was a sure indicator she’d been crying.

“Hi, honey.” Ruth put an arm around her as they walked.

“We were just talking about that day you scattered Dad’s ashes. How we were so upset and we thought you were crazy.”

They stepped onto the wooden dock and Alex stood as well. “Yeah, we thought you were throwing Dad away,” he said with a smile she knew was meant to be comforting to her.

“I was crying because I thought the fish were gonna eat him,” Colin said with a little laugh.

They’d been so little, Colin just six years old, clutching Bill’s battered field guide to birds. They’d come here then, just as they were now, the four of them.

“It was always his favorite place. And even though we’d never talked about it…” she began, and then stopped. Why would they talk of death? They were so young. “Well, I just thought it was where he’d want to be.”

“Of course you did the right thing. It’s so peaceful,” Jenny said.

“Why don’t we come out here more?” Alex said softly, almost to himself.

Maybe for the same reasons she didn’t. It was just too painful. But in different ways for them.

“Speak for yourself,” Colin said, in a teasing voice, to lighten the mood. “I’m here every day now.”

Jenny locked eyes with her, and Ruth saw the message there. It had taken nine months for his house to be renovated, and now Colin had been living there for six, without incident. Still, Jenny thought it was a mistake for him to be so far from civilization. Or without neighbors nearby. In case.

Ruth took a deep breath. “All right, then. Why don’t we do this.”

They’d carried out this ritual several times before. When Bill would have been forty. And then again at fifty. And now sixty-five. A man she couldn’t even picture, his face always frozen in time as he’d looked that night he’d walked out of the house for the last time, a handsome man in his early thirties, still in his prime.

“I have a Dad memory,” said Alex. He was looking more and more like Ruth’s father as he aged, tall and solid, his dark sideburns flecked with gray. “I was nine and he took me hunting with his buddies. I’d gone once before and I…I just didn’t get shooting an animal and I started crying. I thought Dad would get upset, but he gave me a hug and told me there were lots of ways to be a man. And that he actually didn’t like shooting anything. He just liked the partying.”

“You’re lucky, I can barely remember what he looked like,” Colin said softly. “I have to look at pictures to really see him. But I think my clearest memory is of him whistling every morning before he went to work. It was such a happy sound.”

Jenny smiled through her tears. “I remember he brought me a big Valentine one year, this huge red velvet heart-shaped box trimmed with lace. I ate one chocolate every day because I wanted it to last forever.”

They waited. Ruth had forgotten, and now she had to think of something.

“I’ll never forget how he used to get you all up in the middle of the night on Christmas because he couldn’t wait until morning. I would be so tired, I’d roll over and complain, but he didn’t care. He’d pick me up and carry me downstairs and then sit me beside the tree. He couldn’t wait to see your faces.”

“Yeah, remember riding bikes around the house in the middle of the night?” Colin said.

“How about the time I got a skateboard and we went outside while it was pitch dark in our pajamas and coats,” Alex said, as Jenny cried softly now.

They made the sign of the cross and together said the Our Father and Hail Mary. Then Colin read aloud, in the same deep voice as his father, the poem by Emily Dickinson that Ruth had found and read at his funeral mass. It was an odd choice, but a desperate one at the time.

“If I can save one heart from breaking,
I shall not live in vain.
If I can ease one life the aching,
or cool one pain, or help one fainting robin unto her nest again,
I shall not live in vain.”

When he finished, Jenny handed them each a single daisy, which they tossed one by one into the water. Alex popped the top of the can of beer, which echoed loudly across the lake.

“Here’s to you, Dad,” he said with a quiver in his voice, as he slowly poured the golden liquid into the lake, “and your favorite things: fish, family, birds and beer.”

“Here’s to you, Dad,” Jenny and Colin repeated.

They stood there a long time, the petals separating from the long stalks of the daisies, a puddle of foam hovering on the surface. Then she heard Colin sigh.

“So what do you think he liked best,” he said, “the fish?” The lighthearted tone was back.

“Nah, probably the beer,” Alex joked back. “We were three little pains in the asses if I recall correctly.”

Jenny had tears streaming down her face.

“It was his family,” Ruth managed to say through the lump of grief in her throat. “You three were everything to him.”

“You, too, Mom,” Colin said.

She bent and hugged him. If only that were true. But what could her children remember? They loved their father, and she made certain they never knew what had really happened between them.

* * *

WHEN LUCY WOKE THAT NEXT MORNING, much later than usual, David had already gone to work. The terror and anxiety of the night before seemed surreal, thanks to his reassurances and the brilliant sunshine streaming in the windows. And once she opened her laptop to check her e-mail, all thoughts of that creepy voice evaporated when she saw the message from a bookstore in New York, one of the original dozen she’d sent review copies to. The subject line read:
Your Fine Novel.
She gasped out loud.

Dear Ms. Barrett,

Several of us in our store have read your fine novel and enjoyed it immensely. It’s beautifully written and timely as well. It also hit home with me in a personal way.

If you’re able to make it north in the near future for a signing, perhaps we can chat about it over a cup of tea. We’d love to have you.

Also, I’ll be recommending your novel to several book clubs. Would you be interested in meeting with them, via phone conference? And do you have book club questions?

Thanks for sending a review copy to our store.

All my best,

Ruth Hardaway, Owner, The Book Lover

P.S. I was unable to locate your publisher through our distributor, could you please forward information?

Her euphoria faded. The Book Lover could certainly order copies from her publisher, the big drawback was that they’d be stuck with any books that didn’t sell, unlike with real publishers, where they could simply return them. Lucy knew her only hope was to admit it was self-published and supply the books on consignment, and pray that the owner of The Book Lover wouldn’t mind this arrangement. Or change her mind. But this was fantastic news.

She reread the e-mail a few more times, bouncing in her seat and laughing out loud. The store owner was suggesting Lucy’s novel to
several
book clubs! It was unbelievable. She called David at the office to tell him the good news, and was surprised when he answered himself.

“I let Jason go this morning,” he said. “He was completely unqualified for the job.”

“Are you going to hire someone else?”

“Not right away. I can handle it.”

“I could come in and—”

“No, no. I’m fine. Just focus on the book.”

“Actually that’s why I was calling. I’ve been invited to do a signing at a bookstore in New York, and I want to do it. Do you think that’s crazy?”

There was a long pause.

“I know, it’s just one store and it’s so far away, but it’s a start. And they love the book!”

“I think it’s a great idea. How else are you going to get the word out there?”

“And David, she’s recommending it to a few of her book clubs.”

“That’s great, Lucy. Listen, I have to go, I’ve got another line ringing and…”

“Okay.”

She hung up the phone and stood there, letting out a small squeal of joy. Then she typed a reply:
Yes, I would love to come and do a signing at your store. Since my publisher is small and doesn’t take returns, I’d be happy to supply any copies on consignment, if that’s okay with you.
Hopefully that would do it.

Then she realized she didn’t have book club questions. How could she have overlooked that? And she still had to finish the website. Suddenly she felt overwhelmed by everything she needed to accomplish by the launch. Her insides were racing, Ruth Hardaway’s beautiful words playing in her mind over and over. This was her first big break.

                            
4

L
UCY ARRIVED AT SERENDIPITY AN HOUR EARLY to help her boss set up, but Kate already had trays of appetizers arranged on some of the fancy dishes they sold, and a cut glass punch bowl filled with champagne cocktail.

“Oh, Kate, it all looks beautiful.”

“Well, maybe we’ll start to move some of these items if people see how they can be used.”

Kate looked gorgeous in a flowing chartreuse caftan, her hair pulled back in a chignon. Tall and slender, she had skin the color of caramel and was descended from some of the first slaves brought to St. Augustine.

“I hope the rain stops,” Lucy said. It had been pouring for several hours and she knew that lack of nearby parking could definitely hamper her turnout.

“Let’s have a toast,” Kate said, while Lucy stood there looking out the window at the empty street, her insides racing with excitement.

Two years ago, Kate Viall had taken a chance and hired her after she’d finished the book and given up on getting it published. Lucy had no retail experience, but knew she needed something different. She’d been hiding from the world since they’d moved, first making beds at the B&B, then cloistered in the house writing alone. In this lovely gift shop, with a constant flow of people and Kate’s easy demeanor, Lucy had felt herself coming back to life a little bit each day. She threw herself into creating window displays, rearranging shelves of stale merchandise for better eye appeal, and crafting press releases to introduce a new line or a special event.

Six months later, Kate had made her manager and opened a second store in Georgia. When she wasn’t working, Lucy continued to write, trying to improve her novel.

Now Kate handed her a crystal flute, then touched it with her own glass.

“Here’s to you, Lucy, and the success of your novel.”

Lucy smiled and took a sip.

“Come on, you look like you just lost your best friend.”

She shrugged. “Just a little nervous, that’s all.”

“It’s going to be fine. We already sold two books.”

Lucy couldn’t help picturing the thousands on the shelves of BookWorld.

“Where’s David?” Kate asked, as she flipped on more lights to combat the darkening skies.

“Working late, as usual. He’ll be here soon.”

“My niece used him for her closing, you know. She just loved him.”

Just then a group of people approached the store and Lucy held her breath, but they continued by. What if no one came at all? Then the door opened and an older couple came in, huddled under a large golf umbrella. They stood a moment, looking around.

“Are you the author?” the woman asked.

“Yes, I am.”

“I told my husband we had to come, no matter how hard it’s raining. I picked up your book here two days ago and finished it this morning. I loved it.”

Lucy had to restrain herself to keep from jumping up and down.

“I actually cried at the end, and I never cry,” the woman went on, taking a copy of the book out of her bag. “Would you please sign it? My name is Laura.”

As she signed and Laura chattered away, Lucy noticed a few more people walk in. She heard Kate tell them they were launching a new novel by a local author. As they sauntered over, Lucy handed the signed book to Laura, who thanked her. It was a thrilling moment! She was feeling like a real author now! One of the tourists picked up a book and stood a long moment, reading the back cover. Lucy wasn’t sure if she should say something to fill the growing silence.

“It’s really a good book,” she said with a giggle, “and I promise I’m not biased.”

The young woman smiled, and without a word put the book down and walked out with her friends.

Well, that was awkward, Lucy thought. Gushing about a piece of pottery was definitely easier than plugging her own book.

A short while later, Lucy’s breath caught as another group walked in and she recognized acid-tongued Regan from her old writers’ workshop.

“Hey, Lucy, long time,” Regan said. “We saw the article and wanted to come and say congratulations. Nice to see one of us finally made it.”

Regan had three novels and a memoir under her belt, all unpublished, and they were actually pretty good.

The short woman in the back picked up a book and said, “That’s a great cover. Did they let you have any say in it?”

A hot wave of dread had been slowly growing in Lucy’s stomach since Regan walked in. “Yes, actually it was my vision.”

“I’m on my fourth novel and still can’t even get a nibble from an agent,” the other woman said, handing her the book. “Could you sign it to me, Valerie, and write ‘good luck with your own novel?’”

She nodded and picked up her pen, not daring to look up at Regan.

“Did you submit it right to this publisher, or did you have an agent?”

“No, I didn’t have an agent,” she said, writing really slowly. “I…um…dealt directly with the publisher.” Which was true.

When she finally handed Valerie her signed book, she could feel Regan’s eyes boring into her.

“Did you publish this yourself?”

Oh, the hell with it, she thought. “Yes. I was tired of the publishing world telling me my book wasn’t good enough and decided to take matters into my own hands. And I deliberately didn’t choose one of the big self-publishers because I didn’t want people to pick it up and…” she hesitated, searching for the right words.

“And assume it’s no good?” Regan said.

“Actually, that’s right. I want people to just read it, with no prejudice.”

A slow smile broke out on Regan’s round face. “Well, you had us fooled there. We were actually discussing the pros and cons of self-publishing at our last meeting. I mean, sure, you can self-publish online for free in some cases, but getting a real book printed, like yours, costs money, and in the end, who’s really making the money? Not the writers.”

Lucy looked right into Regan’s eyes now. “I want my book out there. When you write, it’s for someone to read, not just in a workshop. Not just your relatives and friends.”

“But don’t you get it? The only people who ever buy these books are your relatives and friends, because nobody else even knows about it.”

“Actually, I have several bookstores already asking to carry the book.” Well, actually one. “They’ve read it and like it enough to put it on their shelves and even recommend it to their book clubs.”

They were all staring at her now.

“In fact, I’ve actually got a signing scheduled in New York and I’m putting together a book tour of my own.” Again, partly true, but as she said it, she realized it was exactly what she needed to do. Orchestrate a book tour. If The Book Lover wanted a signing, why couldn’t others?

“Well, I give you credit,” Valerie said. “You must really believe in your book.”

“I do,” she said, then sat down at the table, because her legs were trembling.

Imagine her further shock when Regan handed over the book she’d been holding all that time. “I’ll take it.”

“Thanks for coming,” Lucy said a few minutes later, letting her breath out as they headed up St. George Street.

But then she looked at her watch. There was just a half hour left. Where on earth was David?

* * *

RUTH PULLED INTO THE PARKING LOT AND TURNED OFF HER CAR. She sat there a moment, looking at the high metal fence, the double row of razor wire that ran around the perimeter of the prison, the high brick guard towers spread across the campus. It never failed to send a shiver up her body, no matter how many times she’d been here over the years.

She tried to imagine, not for the first time, what it must be like to walk into that cold, concrete building, knowing you wouldn’t walk out again for fifteen years. She would probably go insane in a matter of weeks. But Thomas was so quiet. At times he seemed so…serene. It was an odd way to describe a prisoner.

She looked at the clock on her dashboard. Five more minutes. She wondered if Thomas, sitting in his cell, was counting the moments, too.

The idea to sell books to the inmates had been Jenny’s. It was tossed out one Christmas brunch while Jenny and Alex carried dishes into her kitchen. Both had helped in the store over the years and knew the never-ending challenges of keeping the place afloat. Holidays were often spent talking shop for a while, throwing out moneymaking ideas, until Ruth brought it to a halt, usually as the food was being laid on the table.

They’d been discussing ways to get more people into the store.

“Hey,” Jenny had said with a laugh, as she scraped a plate. “Who says you need to get them into the store? What about going out with your books, kind of like the Bookmobile?”

“And where on earth would I be taking my books?” Ruth had asked.

“Well…how about the prison?” Then she added with a chuckle, “They’re kind of a captive audience, aren’t they? My friend Andrea’s husband works there. Maybe he can get you an in.”

Ruth had dismissed it with a wave of her hand, then changed the subject. She didn’t like talking about her problems with the kids. But a week later, when she saw a photo in the local paper of a student from a nearby college volunteering for a literacy program for inmates, the idea started to take root.

She’d come here that first day with a throat so dry, her first words were barely audible, as she walked in with a carton of books and a rehearsed speech. After a thorough vetting and some personal references, The Book Lover became the sole provider of books for these prisoners.

Her mind turned to her last trip to the prison to take book orders. She had sat across the table from Thomas and her eyes kept drifting to his bruised hand. When she looked up, he was staring at her. His look deepened and his face turned pink. Ever so slowly his hand began to glide across the table, until their fingers were barely an inch apart. Her own fingers trembled, but suddenly they were moving toward his, nearly touching, when the guard, who’d been standing in the doorway with his back to them talking on his cell, suddenly snapped it shut.

Thomas quickly reached back for the order sheet that was in front of him. Ruth began tapping on the calculator once again. The guard glanced at them, then turned toward the door and opened his phone once more.

After a few moments of quiet between them, Thomas said in a low voice, “Remember this one?” He slid the sheet over, and she took it quickly, not daring to repeat what had almost happened.

“Ah, someone ordered
A
Tale of Two Cities,”
she read and smiled back. It thrilled her that so many of them at least tried the classics. “I remember when you did. You weren’t sure you’d like Dickens.”

“Turned out I loved Dickens,” he said, looking straight into her eyes.

“You read everything by him after that.”

“Just like you did your freshman year of high school.”

“You remembered that?”

“I remember everything about you, Ruth,” he’d said in barely a whisper, his fingers slowly moving toward hers again. She watched transfixed as his hand lifted, as it was about to cover hers, and a wild longing soared in her chest. She closed her eyes, waiting…

Then she heard the guard close the door.

Opening her eyes, she found Thomas’s hand gone. Her face must have registered disappointment, because he said, “Don’t worry, next month’ll be better, I’m sure.”

She knew he wasn’t talking about the orders.

Just then a prison clerk came out wheeling a cart, stopping at her car to load her books. She followed him inside through the security check, dumping her purse as well as her tote bag on a conveyor belt, then walking through the metal detector, something that was now rote for her. She deposited her car keys at the final checkpoint and was then led by a guard she’d never met before down a green cinder block corridor to the library, a small room with no windows.

She walked in, her eyes scanning the long table surrounded by chairs, landing on the one at the head where Thomas usually sat waiting for her. It was empty.

* * *

LUCY NOTICED THE RAIN HAD STOPPED and the street musicians had taken up their places on St. George Street again, one of them strumming a haunting melody on an acoustic guitar in front of the shop across the street. She marveled again at how good some of these people were who simply sat on a sidewalk all day with a hat on the ground for tips. And it hit her—was she really any different from him? How many people in the world have artistic ambitions and ever really achieve success?