“I promised you I wouldn’t fight anymore,” Carter said. “I didn’t.”
“I get it, you can’t beat yourself up, so you got some dumb kid to do it,” Detrick said. He leaned back in the driver’s seat, still too angry to trust himself in traffic behind the wheel of his car. “I don’t care how upset you are about Khela. If you’d just manned up and taken your silly ass to that wedding, you could have made up with her instead of ruinin’ my night.”
“What happens after that?” Carter asked, his voice oddly nasal because of the blood clotting in his sinus cavities. “She’ll still be the best-selling author, and I’ll be Mr. Halliday, holding her purse.”
Detrick’s bald head whipped around so fast, the glint of the streetlight off his dome stabbed Carter’s eyes. “Is that…You started a fight over…Man, have you lost your ever-lovin’ mind?” shouted Detrick. He grabbed the steering wheel and stared upward. “Please, Jesus, tell me this dumb cracker boy is not really this stupid!”
“You wanna go a round?” Carter turned in his seat to face Detrick. “I didn’t have it in me to beat that Terrier’s ass, but I’ll give you a run if you call me ‘cracker’ one more time.”
“I read one of her books,” Detrick confessed, changing the subject. “Teacher’s Pet.”
“I was wondering where that one went,” Carter said. “I haven’t seen it since your last visit.”
“Yeah, well, I needed something to read on the plane back to Mobile,” Detrick said. “And once I started it at your place, I couldn’t put it down. The girl can spin a tale.”
“Don’t I know it,” Carter said. “She doesn’t think that’s enough, though.”
“What do you mean?”
“ ‘From what we get, we can make a living; what we give, however, makes a life.’ ”
“Beg your pardon?” Detrick said.
“Khela’s got that quote framed in her condo,” Carter explained. “Arthur Ashe said it. Khela’s got her own version of it. She believes you get what you give. She uses her writing to help other people because she’s gotten so much from writing.”
“She’s a good person,” Detrick said. He was calm enough to start driving, so he pulled into traffic.
“Too good for me,” Carter said. “That’s the problem.”
“She donates a meat cake to an auction, and you think she’s Mother Theresa?” Detrick asked incredulously.
“She’s one of the most generous people I’ve ever met, and it’s genuine,” Carter said in defense of Khela. “She gives her time, her money, her talent—all without hesitation. What do I give? Nothing.”
“She holds that against you?”
“Of course not. This isn’t about her, it’s about me. I want to be the kind of man she deserves, someone she can be proud of.”
“Do you think she would have been proud of you tonight?”
Carter pressed the handkerchief a bit more snugly to his nose. “I don’t know what to do, man. After I left her reading, I went home and called up some of my old contacts at my old firm.”
“You’re looking for a job?”
“I have a job, Trick,” Carter said indignantly.
“I didn’t mean it like that. I’m just surprised you’re interested in going back into investing.”
“That’s just it,” Carter sighed. “I’m not. I like taking care of my buildings. I’m good at it.”
“Then if that’s good enough for Khela, it should be good enough for you, too.”
“But it’s not good enough for me! Not anymore. I don’t know how to fix this.”
“Well, you better figure it out. And soon. That woman with her exploding, spiky genitalia and her meatloaf cakes is the best thing that’s ever happened to you, cracker, and you truly are a dumbass if you let her get away. You like fighting so much. Fight for her.”
* * *
“What’s the matter with you? We run out of that balsamic vinegar from Modena that you like so much?”
Khela looked her least favorite cashier right in the eyes and said, “Not today, Angela. I’m not in the mood. And I’d really appreciate it if you wouldn’t put my eggs in the bottom of the bag this time.”
Muttering under her breath, Angela continued to ring up Khela’s groceries. “Excuse me,” she mumbled. “Seems like everybody who comes in here today has to show me some attitude. First I get it from Mr. Alabama, now I gotta take it from—”
“You saw Carter today?” Khela interrupted.
Angela’s eyes glittered. “He had a meeting with the manager.” Her lips curled into a feline grin. “You didn’t know about it?”
“I’m not his keeper,” Khela snapped. “He doesn’t have to report to me. We’re not married, you know.”
With deliberate slowness, Angela struck the total key. “Eighty-six dollars and nineteen cents. Would you like this on your account?” she asked.
“Please,” Khela said.
“Plastic or paper?” Angela asked, turning to bag the items.
“It doesn’t matter.”
“Paper, it is,” Angela said.
Angela kept glancing at Khela as she packed Khela’s purchases into two bags. “Are you all right?” she asked.
Khela looked over her shoulder, convinced that Angela’s kind inquiry was meant for someone else.
“He seemed a little funny when he was here,” Angela went on, tearing off Khela’s receipt and sticking it into one of her bags. “I thought for sure that you two were good to go.”
“What does that mean?” Khela asked.
Another customer came up behind her and started emptying her basket onto Angela’s conveyor belt. Khela took her bags by their handles and lifted them off the packing counter. She was pleased to see that Angela had voluntarily double-bagged them.
“It means that I thought you two were the real thing,” Angela said as she began ringing out her next customer. “Look here,” she said with a low whistle, taking a second to examine the customer’s package of panko. “Japanese bread crumbs. American bread crumbs not good enough for you?”
Her bags in hand, Khela started walking toward the exit, Angela’s words ringing in her head.
I thought we were the real thing, too, she thought as she made her way home.
Halloween was almost three weeks away, and all the storefronts were decorated in orange and black with witches and ghosts, jack-o-lanterns and black cats. The bakery on Boylston Street that had made Daphne’s wedding cake featured a Halloween-themed wedding cake in its front window display. The five-tiered cake had a flawless covering of bile green fondant with royal icing spiders, ghosts and goblins applied all over it. A tiny witch and warlock, wands crossed, stood atop the cake.
“That’s the ugliest cake I’ve ever seen,” Khela muttered before moving on.
Her meatloaf cake might not have been traditional, but at least it had been pretty. And tasty, judging by Carter’s reaction to it. Almost six weeks had passed since she’d last seen him. Daphne, who had spent two weeks in Spain and Portugal on her honeymoon with Llewellyn before settling in the UK, had threatened to come back to Boston specifically to confront Carter since Khela refused to do it.
Khela had hoped that, as more time passed, she would miss Carter less. The opposite had occurred. She spent her days writing to meet her next deadline, and her weekends were spent doing signings and other appearances. She had an event at a bookstore in Dorchester the next day, and as she walked home, she thought about the last time she had been in that part of Boston. Carter had been with her. Signings had been so much more fun with him there.
She turned the corner onto Commonwealth Avenue and found herself looking toward his building. She had long given up the hope of seeing him entering or leaving, but the last thing she expected to see was a big moving van parked in front of it.
A retractable ramp formed a bridge from the side loading deck to the front walkway. Eight uniformed men moved with the efficiency of worker ants as they loaded furniture into the van and marched o
ut empty-handed, presumably to get more. Khela’s stomach sank when she saw two men carrying the darkly-stained teak headboard of a sleigh bed. She recognized that bed. She was intimately familiar with that bed.
Dropping her groceries, she ran to Carter’s building, scaling the steep, stamp-sized front lawn to bypass the movers. Another pair of movers was wrestling the footboard of the sleigh bed out of the elevator and, rather than wait for them to finish, Khela took to the stairs. Running faster than she ever knew she could, she flew up to the top floor, where she found Carter’s front door standing wide open.
“Carter?” she called, fighting to catch her breath as she entered the apartment. “Car—”
The place was deserted and nearly empty. The only objects left in the living room were a neutral area rug and the sheers hanging from the windows. The unit seemed so much larger bereft of furniture.
“Can I help you with something, miss?” came a voice at Khela’s right shoulder. She spun to find a mover holding a clipboard.
“No, I…” She stopped until she could speak through the lump plugging her throat. “I know the man who lives here.”
The man gave her a good-natured chuckle. “He doesn’t live here anymore. We’ve packed him up and we’re taking everything to a storage facility.”
“Can you tell me where he is?”
“Don’t know,” the man said. “All I know is that we’re to have this apartment emptied by five so the new owner can take a walk-through and take possession by—”
“New owner?” Khela gasped. “This building’s been sold?”
“All I know is what’s on my packing form,” the man said. “I’m to have this place emptied for an inspection by the new owner. I don’t know if it’s the whole building, just this unit, or—”
Khela took off again, digging her cell phone out of her purse as she hurried down the stairs. Once she had it, she dialed Carter’s number. It picked up on the third ring: “We’re sorry, you have reached a number that has been disconnected or is no longer in service. If you feel you have reached this recording in error—”
She closed her phone and shoved it into the back pocket of her shorts. While waiting for two movers to maneuver Carter’s shrink-wrapped king-size mattress through the front doors, Khela caught sight of a notice posted above the five narrow mailboxes in the opposite wall.
It was addressed personally to the tenants of the townhouse, and Khela had to read it twice before she fully absorbed what it said:
As much as I have enjoyed owning and residing in this building, I must inform you that I have sold the property and will vacate the premises on October 15. There will be no changes to the rental agreements currently on file for each tenant. CR Management will continue to maintain the building and handle its leasing and rentals; however, I will no longer have a day-to-day hand in the operations and tenancy of this building.
Very sincerely yours,
Carter M. Radcliffe
The notice was dated October 1. Turning away, Khela’s heart sank into her gut. Two weeks…for two weeks, his tenants had known that he’d sold the townhouse and was moving out, and he hadn’t bothered to call, e-mail, or walk across the street to tell her. Panic exploded in her as she exited the building, nearly colliding with one of the movers. She dashed around the moving van and into Commonwealth Avenue, where two cars had to slam on their brakes to avoid hitting her. They leaned on their horns, the ugly blaring following Khela as she sprinted to her brownstone, up the stairs and into the lobby.
Breathing hard, she went to the mailboxes and scanned the wall. Had Carter posted a notice there, too, and she just hadn’t seen it? She searched all the walls, and seeing nothing out of the ordinary, she calmed somewhat. But her heart continued to throb painfully.
He’s leaving, she told herself. He sold his building and he’s leaving.
Her heart heavy, Khela bypassed the elevator and went to the stairs. She was accustomed to being alone, but as she climbed to the top floor of the brownstone, she had never felt lonelier.
* * *
Caravan Books was situated between Fa-Shoe-Nista and Bixby’s Olde Style Good Eatin’ Buffet in a strip mall in Dorchester. This particular Caravan store was new, and the manager had requested a signing by Khela as part of an effort to increase customer traffic to the entire mall, which had been completely renovated as part of an effort to revitalize the economically depressed neighborhood.
Cameo and Khela’s publicist had wanted her to decline the invitation, but the minority-owned bookstore, the largest bookstore in the area, was less than a block from Crispus Attucks High School. Even though she was in no mood for a signing the day after finding out about Carter’s sale of his townhouse, Khela had no intention of turning her back on the community that had so embraced her and her work. She showed up at Caravan with a smile, eager to do what she could to draw customers to the store.
Cortez and Luisa were among the first in line to receive signed copies of A Runaway Romance, Khela’s latest. Customers, some toting copies of Khela’s previous books, were lined up at her signing table before her arrival even though her driver had delivered her to the location a half hour early. Her handlers and the store representatives were experienced and patient, the magical combination for a successful signing.
Khela graciously thanked them for all the hard work they had already invested in displaying her books, positioning signage and keeping the waiting readers happy and amused. Calareso’s Market had provided coffee, tea, soft drinks and fresh bakery goods, giving the independent store the café atmosphere of a Borders or a Barnes & Noble.
Khela always provided her own signing favors—promotional materials designed to stand out from the usual bookmarks and ballpoint pens other writers typically offered their readers. Taking her time so as not to forget anything, Khela positioned stacks of oversized refrigerator magnets, Post-It pads, boxes of wooden matches, miniature chocolate bars and tea bags adorned with the images of her book covers. One of her handlers questioned her choices of promotional schwag, noting that the items didn’t seem to go together.
Khela’s explanation had been simple. “I want people to think of my books at times when they aren’t typically thinking of books. If my book cover is on the fridge, the reader will see it every time she opens the door to take out milk or eggs. The next time she’s at the bookstore, hopefully she’ll have my name, if not my book cover, in her head.
“As for the other stuff, I like to give people things that are useful. It’s always nice to have matches in the house, and Post-It pads are handy in your purse, on your desk, or by the phone. And I’d love it if someone relaxed with a hot cup of tea brewed with one of my custom tea bags and munched a few chocolates while reading one of my books. Everything actually does go together because it all has something to do with my books.”
Now, with what looked to be the entire female reading population of Dorchester lining up before her, Khela was glad that the bookstore had provided A Runaway Romance tote bags for her readers. Determined not to have to lug all of her promotional items back to her hotel, she knew that she would be handing over schwag by the handfuls.
“Are you ready, Ms. Halliday?” her petite brunette handler asked.
“Send ’em on,” Khela responded. “And please, call me Khela.”
The first hour of the signing passed quickly, with customers familiar with her books taking A Runaway Romance from one of the tall, spiraling stacks, bringing it to her for a signature and then moving on to do the rest of their shopping.
Khela rose to greet and kiss the cheek of a reader named Mary, who always turned up at her signings no matter where she appeared in New England. Khela signed Mary’s book after writing a long personalized message, and then placed a gold star on the book. Gold stars signified a complimentary copy of the book for which the customer was not to be charged.
Midway through the second hour of her signing, Khela found herself meeting a number of what she called “newbies,” readers who had ne
ver heard of her or her work, but who showed an interest because she was live and in person in the store. At every signing, at least one person made a point to approach her, study her book cover, flip it over and read the back blurb, ask her questions about herself and her publishing history, and then slap the book down, telling her that romance wasn’t real literature and that she—or sometimes he—wouldn’t waste money on it.
Khela, her attention on a customer, caught a flicker of movement at the end of her signing table. The person had taken a book from the dwindling stack, and was standing there reading the back cover while Khela spoke to the woman in front of her.
“I have loved you ever since your first book came out,” the woman said, her eyes as shiny and gray as her hair. “I only buy Cameo romances, and I’m so glad that you write so many books for them.”
“Thank you,” Khela said. “I think my publisher would be very happy to hear that.”
“I introduced my sister Gustine to your books, and now she can’t wait for your stuff to come out,” the older woman continued. “She won’t buy them, though. No, she waits for me to finish them, then she borrows ’em from me and won’t give ’em back. It’s been like that between us for some forty years.”
“It’s nice that you have a sister that you’re so close to.” Khela slid the signed book to the woman, whose name was Justine.
“You know,” Justine said, lowering her voice. “I wrote a book.”
Khela’s face stiffened behind her smile. If she’d had a panic button, she would have slammed her hand on it.
One of her handlers noticed her panicked expression and swooped in to move Justine along before the inevitable request—to read or forward a manuscript—was spoken.
The lurker to Khela’s right beat the handler to it, as a copy of A Runaway Romance was laid before Khela. She opened the book as the handler politely escorted Justine away, luring her with a pastel pink tote bag emblazoned with A Runaway Romance in glossy black letters.
“To whom shall I make this out?” Khela asked, flipping to the title page.
“ ‘Dumbass’ will do.”
Mr. Fix-It Page 25
