Mad Love (2 page)

The
bus turned down First Avenue, passing the crowded public market with its overflowing flower and vegetable stands. Passing the place where they made melt-in-your-mouth miniature doughnuts, and the corner newsstand that carried papers from all over the world. “Heat Wave Predicted for Seattle,” a headline read. Nothing like pavement to bring out the best on a hot day. Everyone on the street walked slowly, as if in a daze. Scorching heat in Seattle was as rare as a straight man at a romance writers’ convention.

A few stops later, I stood in the heart of Pioneer Square, Seattle’s historical district. A sign hung in the big front window at Elliott Bay Books:
MEET OUR LOCAL ROMANCE WRITERS: MONDAY, JULY 20, 10 A.M.
Taped to the window were red paper hearts, paper cupids, and three author photos in which each writer posed like a show dog. My mother’s photo was totally ridiculous. She lounged on a red velvet couch, a diamond tiara sparkling amid her blond curls, a pink evening gown clinging to her curvy figure. Belinda Amorous, the Queen of Romance. With a box of truffles and a Persian cat at her side, she looked like a spoiled hotel heiress. The marble fountain pen propped in her right hand was the only clue that she actually
did
anything. I hated that photo, which was plastered on the back covers of her novels. It was an image created by Heartstrings Publishers. Another lie. We didn’t even own a cat.

Someone from Elliott Bay Books had stuck a sticky note below the photo: “Ms. Amorous will be represented by her daughter.” I caught my reflection in the window. No one would recognize me as Belinda’s daughter. The brown hair had come from the father I’d never known. The brown eyes and wide feet were probably his too.

Tom, the event coordinator at Elliott Bay Books and onetime boyfriend of my mother’s, opened the door. “Hi.” He ran a hand over his wiry beard. “We’ve got a full house.”

“Great,” I said through clenched teeth. Crud! Lots of people meant lots of questions, which meant lots of lies.

“How’s your mom?” Tom asked. “Did she get a chance to sign those books?”

“Yeah. She came home for a few days but she’s off again.”

“Lucky lady to be out of the city. It’s supposed to be blazin’ hot all week.”

I took off my sunglasses and followed Tom downstairs, through the coffee shop where customers sat at little wooden tables, and into a rustic basement room. Folding chairs had been set up in rows. Happily chatting women filled the chairs and a dozen more stood along the wall, forming a colorful mural of handbags, iced-coffee drinks, and lipstick. My heartbeat doubled. I’d been to tons of these events with my mother over the years, but never on my own.

I wiped my sweaty palms on my shorts and followed Tom to a table. The other two romance authors were already seated. I’d met them before but couldn’t remember their names. Each wore a sundress and heels. I tugged at my tank top, making sure it covered the top of my low-rise shorts. Then I set the shopping bag under the table and sat in the empty chair. Folding my hands on the table, I tried to look confident but I’m sure everyone could see my heart pounding beneath the peach-colored cotton.

“How’s your mother?” the nearest author whispered. Her name tag read “Nessa Van Nuys” and she’d gained at least a hundred pounds since her author photo.

“Fine. She’s overseas.”

“Oh. That’s nice. You know, she was my inspiration to start writing.”

The other writer smiled and fiddled with her string of pearls. “I always thought that photo of her was so beautiful. I wanted a life just like that.” Her name tag read “Cookie Sparrow.”

I chewed on my lower lip as Tom introduced us to the crowd. He explained that I was Belinda’s daughter and would answer questions on her behalf. He did a sales pitch for our books,
The Greek Tycoon’s Wild Bride
,
On Holiday with a Swarthy Scoundrel
, and
Hunger of the Heart
. When he opened the floor for questions, a white-haired woman with cat-eye glasses raised her hand. “Where’s your mother?”

I cleared my throat. Was I supposed to stand? “Um, thanks for coming to Elliott Bay Books. This is my mother’s and my favorite bookstore. Mom wanted to be here but she couldn’t because she’s overseas researching her next novel.” My response sounded totally rehearsed.

“Where overseas?”

“Um, all over, really. She’s seeing as much of it as she can.”

“Oh.” The woman smiled. “What an exciting life she lives.”

I nodded. The woman’s eyes glazed over as she sat, her brain clearly intoxicated by the myth of Belinda Amorous—the beautiful, glamorous, rich, adventurous romance writer.

The truth was, a nurse had probably helped my mother take a shower that morning. Then she’d been wheeled into the hospital’s dining room where she’d picked at some scrambled eggs and stared out the window as if the grass had some sort of hypnotic power.

A pale woman in a sparkly pink blouse raised her hand. “I already read
Hunger of the Heart
. I’ve read all of Belinda’s books. It’s been three years. When will we see her next book?”

“Soon. She’s working on it.” My underarms felt sticky.

“Excuse me.” It was a guy’s voice, which was a bit of a surprise. One of the readers must have dragged her husband along. I hadn’t noticed him because he sat in the back row, partially concealed by the big floppy sun hat that bobbed in front of him. He wore a black hoodie, its hood pulled over his head.

“Yes?” Tom pointed to him. “Do you have a question?”

The guy stood. “I have a question for Alice.”

I tapped my flip-flops against the floor. Though his eyes were somewhat shaded by the rim of his hood, his gaze was intense. “Yes?” I asked.

“I have a love story to tell,” he said. “And I need you to write it for me. When can you get started?”

A few women chuckled, then a long span of silence followed as the guy continued to stare at me. Was this a joke?

Tom cleared his throat. “You mean you want Alice’s
mother
to write it? Alice is the Queen of Romance’s daughter. Maybe you didn’t hear my introduction.”

“I know who Alice is,” the guy said. “I want her to write my story.”

The word “want” hung in the air, adding an eerie note to the atmosphere. I shifted in my seat. “Well, that’s very nice and everything, but it’s your story so you should write it yourself.”

“I’m not a writer,” he said. “But I lived the story, so I remember every single detail. All you have to do is read through my notes, then write it.”

“I’m sorry,” I said, realizing this wasn’t a joke. “But I’m not a writer either. Good luck though.” I forced a smile, then looked away.

Tom rescued me by calling on someone else, and the attention turned to the other two writers. The guy sat back in his chair, disappearing, once again, behind the sun hat. I slumped against my own chair, relief washing over me. I’d done what I’d set out to do—protect my mother’s secret. For a brief moment I felt proud of myself, but as Cookie Sparrow made a joke, and as laughter filled the bookstore, the familiar ache of loneliness pressed against my chest. It felt as if I’d been on my own forever, and in many ways I had.

Tom went upstairs to work the cash register. While the two authors signed books, I handed out the copies with the forged signatures. “This book doesn’t have sex in it, does it?” a woman with a sunburned nose asked. “I don’t like the ones with all that sex.”

Hello
?
It’s a romance novel
. “Actually, there is some sex,” I said, having long gotten over being embarrassed by my mother’s sex scenes.
Her finger ran along his thigh. His tongue searched for hers. Her breasts heaved with passion.
Stuff like that.

The woman narrowed her eyes. “Hmmm.” She drummed her fingers on the table. “Well, I suppose I could make an exception.” She grabbed
Hunger of the Heart
and hurried from the room.

It was the last copy. I pushed back my chair, but as I stood to leave, something landed on the table. The other authors turned to look. The something was a big manila envelope. A strange odor filled the air—salty and muddy.

“My notes are inside,” the guy from the audience said. He stood on the other side of the table. His hood still covered his head but I now had a clear view of his face. He was my age, maybe a bit older, with a square jaw and full lips. It was that James Bond kind of handsome. Greek God kind of handsome. Not cute. Cute did not apply to this guy. And he was unusually pale, which is saying a lot because I live in a very pale part of the world. But that’s all I noticed because my gaze was pulled toward his dark eyes. My mother would describe them as “smoldering.” Her leading men often had smoldering eyes. The word that came to my mind was “intense.” He stared at me as if he knew me, or
wanted
to know me. Kind of creepy. I looked away.

Nessa and Cookie, forgetting they had books to sign, stared up at him.

“Read my notes and then we’ll talk about the first chapter.” He started to leave. Nessa Van Nuys grabbed my arm.

“I don’t care how handsome he is, don’t let him leave his notes,” she whispered. “You don’t want to get stuck with them. Believe me.”

“Hey, wait,” I called. The guy turned back. “You can’t leave this with me.” I pushed the envelope to the edge of the table.

He narrowed his eyes. “Why not?”

“Because I can’t write your story. I’m not a writer. I’m just here to answer questions.”

“You’re here because your destiny is to write my story.” He spoke quietly but with absolute confidence. “And we’re on a tight schedule so the sooner you read my notes, the better.” Then he walked out of the basement room. Just like that. Like he had given me an order and expected me to follow it.

“Hey!” I called.

“Those good-looking ones are always the most demanding,” Nessa Van Nuys said, shaking her head.

“If I had a dollar for every crappy story I’ve been asked to read, I could wallpaper my house with them,” Cookie Sparrow said.

“Hey!” I called again. I grabbed the envelope and ran out of the room, through the coffee shop, and up the stairs to the bookstore’s main floor. A line of women stood at the cash register, their arms filled with copies of
The Greek Tycoon’s Wild Bride
,
On Holiday with a Swarthy Scoundrel
, and
Hunger of the Heart.
I searched for the black hoodie, even ran out onto the scorching sidewalk, but no luck.

“I had a reader try to give me a puppy once,” Cookie said when I’d gone back downstairs to get my purse. “It didn’t smell half as bad as that thing. What’s inside?”

She was right. The strange odor came from the manila envelope. Nervous about what it might contain, I dumped its contents onto the table. A bunch of papers fell out—lined notebook paper, plain white paper, note cards, stationery, even a paper napkin. Each piece was covered with handwriting. I picked up a note card and read a few lines that described a woman’s long hair and the way it glowed when the sun shone through it. And how it was the same color as the honey she drizzled on her bread. I stopped reading because a dark feeling crept over me, like maybe the line would be followed by, “And then I chopped her into a million pieces,” or something equally disturbing.

“What a mess,” Nessa Van Nuys said, poking a finger through the paper pile. “Well, this explains the smell.” She’d found a flattened can of Craig’s Clam Juice. “Yuck.”

I turned the envelope over. “There’s no name or return address. What should I do?”

“Whatever you do, don’t throw the notes away,” Cookie said. “They’re handwritten. They’re originals. You’ll get sued if you throw them away.”

I glared at the pile. Great. Just great. The last thing my life needed was a lawsuit. But surely the can of clam juice could go, so I tossed it into a wastebasket. Then I slipped the notes back into the envelope, opened the shopping bag, and dumped the envelope inside. The scent of clams lingered in the air.

“Don’t worry too much about that strange boy,” Cookie Sparrow said. “Your mother will know what to do with his notes. I’m sure you can rely on her.”

If only.

I slid my arms through my backpack purse straps and walked back upstairs, the basement’s coolness disappearing with each step. A girl was taking down the window display, peeling the hearts and cupids off the glass. “Thanks for coming,” Tom called as he plugged in an oscillating fan. “Be sure to say hi to your mom for me.”

“Okay,” I said, watching as one of the paper cupids slipped from the girl’s fingers. Caught in the fan’s breeze, it lifted into the air, flew over the sales counter, and, for a brief moment, hovered in front of me like it was checking me out. Then, as the front door opened, it flew out of sight.