Two Hearts Alone

by Harper Bliss

  “I have some white wine open in the fridge, actually,” I say, trying to sound casual, when I walk back into the kitchen.

  To my surprise, Zoe has her nose buried in the book I was reading. It’s called Nights of Passion and it totally lives up to its title. Damn. What must she think of me now?

  “This is… very interesting, Anna,” she says. Her eyes are different when she pins her gaze on me next.

  “Isn’t it?” I say, stupidly. “Is wine okay?”

  She nods while a massive grin appears on her face.

  I turn away from her to get the wine and a couple of glasses. I just hope she didn’t open it on the page I had bookmarked, but chances are that she has. That’s the problem with almost never inviting anyone into your house—your vices are often on full display.

  “You didn’t get these from Mrs. Fincher, I take it,” Zoe says when I give her the glass of wine.

  “No, she didn’t have much of an LGBT section. And most of those wouldn’t be on display in a bookstore anyway. I sometimes ordered them through her, but even that was often difficult. I usually buy them direct from the publisher or author.” I try to say this with a straight face, as if we’re discussing an important piece of business.

  “Is Nights of Passion any good?” She’s still holding the book.

  “Not bad.” I quickly take a sip of wine.

  “Have you read other books by…”—she studies the cover, her eyes narrowing—“Lizzie Harris. Christ, I could barely make out the author’s name.”

  “She’s one of my favorites, actually.”

  “Would you recommend this book to me?”

  “I don’t know, because I don’t know your taste in books.”

  “I thought you were a literary snob, what with you raving about A Little Life like that, although I do feel like I’ve learned an important tidbit about you.” Zoe is having way too much fun at my expense.

  “I can like both. I like all sorts of books.”

  “So I see.”

  “And yes, if you like an engrossing lesbian romance, then yes, I would recommend it.”

  “From what I’ve just read, it’s not exactly a slow-burn.” She actually snickers.

  “These books always have lots of sex scenes. It comes with the genre.” I realize I sound a little defensive.

  “Oh really? All lesbian romance books have lots of sex scenes? Well, I guess I’d better take your word for it, Anna. You sound as though you know what you’re talking about.”

  “The ones you’ll find on that table do, anyway.” I briefly look into Zoe’s eyes. At least the earlier tension has been defused and it no longer looks as though I’ve chased her out of my house. In fact, she looks as though she may stay a good while longer.

  “Let’s see what else we have here.” She puts down her wine and goes through the other books. “Indira’s Lover.” She purses her lips and nods. “Daylight Fading. That sounds quite tame, actually.”

  “It’s not,” I say dryly.

  “Oh right, because the daylight has faded.” Zoe nods again. “I get it, I think.”

  “Don’t you read lesbian romance?”

  “Not really. Especially not these days. Because I don’t sell these books at Bookends and I feel like I should try to at least read some of the books I sell, to make recommendations. And something tells me that these wouldn’t exactly fly off the shelves if I stocked them.”

  “They wouldn’t. Not just because the market isn’t there, but have you seen the covers? Nights of Passion is such a great book. So well written and so engaging. And I really mean that. And then they put on a cover like that? Some horribly pasted together botched-up Photoshop job.” I shake my head. “It’s such a shame.”

  “So when you say well written and engaging.” Zoe picks up the book again and opens it. “Do you mean: she opened her legs and—”

  “I was trying to have a serious conversation about my work,” I half-shout, realizing too late that I have unnecessarily raised my voice.

  “All right.” Zoe takes it in jest and she drops the book. Thank goodness. “I won’t be asking you to read from this any time soon.”

  “This is causing you way too much glee.”

  “Can you blame me?” She drinks from her wine again and when I sneak a glance at her face, I see how her eyes sparkle.

  “Take a look at the one at the bottom,” I ask.

  Zoe slips Alive in Your Eyes from underneath the other books. “This cover is gorgeous. I’d put this in the store window in a heartbeat.”

  “Next to your Valentine’s Day display, no doubt.” I can’t help myself—she set the tone.

  “Seriously. Just the color on this is so alluring. Not a hint of poor Photoshop skills on this one.”

  “That’s because—” I find it hard to say. I don’t know why. “I designed that cover.”

  Zoe nods, as though it all makes perfect sense to her now. “Wow. Yeah, I can see it now. The details that are in your Hemingway painting are in here as well. Subtle, but they’re there. This looks exactly like a mainstream romance cover.”

  “It’s hardly mainstream, but yeah, that’s what I was going for. Trying to change lesbian fiction covers one design at a time.”

  Zoe opens the book to the first page. “It’s signed. To you.”

  “Sometimes authors like to send me a signed copy as a token of appreciation. Not very often, though.”

  “How lovely. ‘For Anna, for making my vision come alive.’ Aw, that must have made you feel good.”

  “It did. It’s always nice to be appreciated.”

  “I can try to sell this at Bookends, you know? By way of experiment. If you can get me the details of the publisher, I’ll contact them. And I would put it in the Valentine’s Day display. It’s perfect for it.”

  “You can try, but it won’t work. It’s just wishful thinking.”

  “Oh, okay. Way to kill the vibe.”

  “But it’s true. I’ve corresponded with Dinah, the author, a lot. She has tried everything to both sell and advertise this book to a more mainstream audience. We even put a cover on it that would appeal to a broader spectrum of readers but the readers just aren’t there. That’s not to say that lesbian romance isn’t a lucrative genre. It can be. Most lesbian romance readers are just as voracious as straight romance readers, there just aren’t as many of them, which makes perfect sense, really. So why would the book buyers in Donovan Grove be any different?”

  “Sounds like you have given this some serious thought, Anna.”

  “Well, yes, because I work with more and more lesbian fiction authors, because I’m so passionate about the genre, but a lot of them believe that they don’t need to pay a few hundred dollars for a pro cover. Readers buy their books no matter what the cover looks like. Many publishing rules are different in lesbian romance because the readership is, by definition, very different. Look at me. Look at my house. I love something well designed. Nothing makes me happier than good color composition. Look at the cover for Nights of Passion. It doesn’t appeal to my design aesthetic at all, yet I bought it. I loved it. And when the next Lizzie Harris comes out, I’ll buy it again, regardless of the cover design. Because to me, it’s of far lesser importance than the experience I know I’ll get from reading the book.” I hope I haven’t gone off on too much of a tangent.

  “So the number of hot scenes in the book eclipses the need for a good cover.” Zoe looks pretty pleased with herself again after that statement.

  “No. That was really not what I was trying to say.” Her easy jokes do make her a delight to talk to, which is not an experience I have with many people. The first fifteen minutes she was here, I felt very ill at ease, now I want her to stay for the entire afternoon.

  “I do get what you’re saying, Anna. You’re always starved for a good lesbian romance and there isn’t the plethora of choice that other genres have, so a cover is not what makes you buy a book.”

  “Which doesn’t mean that I don’t wish the cov
ers were better. Then I wouldn’t have to hide them away in the basement after reading.”

  “Have you contacted Lizzie Harris? Asked her if she’d consider you as her cover designer?”

  “I don’t do cold calls like that. I actually don’t have much direct contact with most of our clients. Sean’s in charge of that.”

  “Really?” Zoe arches up her eyebrows.

  Another one of my flaws revealed. They’re coming out at breakneck speed. “I—I’m not very good at it.”

  “And Sean is?”

  “Maybe not stellar, but better than me. And most importantly, he doesn’t mind it. An unexpected email from a client doesn’t throw off the rest of his day like it would mine.”

  Zoe nods as though she understands although I suspect it’s extra hard for her to understand because she comes across as ultra-sociable.

  “So you hate Valentine’s Day, but you love romance. Phew.”

  “One doesn’t exclude the other, you know.”

  “Hm. I beg to differ.”

  “Valentine’s Day has nothing whatsoever to do with romance. It’s all about making money from unsuspecting people’s romantic feelings.”

  “And a romance novel isn’t?”

  I knot my eyebrows together. “Of course not. Reading a book is an experience. In the case of romance novels, it’s a means of escape. Of being transported into an impossible dreamworld for a few hours. That’s very different from being goaded into buying the person you love all year round a tacky gift on one specific day just because the calendar of capitalism tells you to.”

  “The calendar of capitalism?”

  “You know what I mean.”

  “Maybe, but I refuse to be cynical about love, and for me personally, that includes peddling Valentine’s Day gifts. I’ve never objected to getting a present on the day. Not ever. I always loved it.”

  “Good for you.”

  “Your ex never got you anything for Valentine’s?”

  “She tried. Once.” Because it’s Zoe sitting across from me, I can’t suppress a smile. “She never did again.”

  Zoe snickers. “What did she get you?”

  “Flowers.” I roll my eyes.

  “You don’t like flowers?” Zoe asks.

  “I love flowers, but—” Zoe’s phone starts ringing and I’m glad for the interruption. I’ve made my point and I hate repeating myself, even though I know I do so much more often than I would like.

  “It’s Brooklyn,” Zoe says before she picks up.

  I get up and pretend to do something in the living room to give her privacy.

  “Brooklyn forgot her keys. Again,” Zoe says on a sigh. “I’ve threatened to make her wear them on a collar wherever she goes, but to no avail.”

  I nod. I guess this means she has to go. Inside of me, a sense of deflation wars with relief. Because she’s so easy to talk to, I want her to stay, but her being here, in my personal space where hardly anyone ever sets foot, has also drained my energy.

  “No key under the mat?” I joke.

  Zoe looks at me as though I’m being serious. “Do people leave keys under the mat here? Is that something you can actually do?”

  “My parents used to do it when Jamie and I were little, but that was quite some time ago.”

  “I have to go, Anna. I’m sorry, because I was having such a lovely time.” She sends me one of her super-radiant smiles—the kind that could melt all the lingering snow from yesterday’s snowstorm.

  “Me too,” I say. I walk her to the front door. Hemingway follows on our heels. He probably thinks he’ll be treated to an extra walk. He has that special bounce in his step.

  “See you soon.” Zoe turns to me, that smile still on her face. Then she lunges forward and tries to kiss me on the cheek. I should have expected it, but I didn’t. It’s not how I greet or say goodbye to the people in my life. Instinctively, I pull away. Her lips barely graze my cheek.

  She takes a step back and looks at me, her eyes quizzical under knotted eyebrows.

  “I’ll pop into the store soon,” I say, because I have no idea what else to say, to erase the uncomfortable moment I created. It reminds me of a T-shirt I bought and only wear in the dead of winter, when I can hide it under layers of other clothes. It says: I came. I saw. I made it awkward. It could be my life motto.

  Zoe grins at me, then nods, and goes. Hemingway and I watch for a while as she walks away. Even from the back, she’s gorgeous. Even if you didn’t know Zoe, if you saw her from behind, you’d know that her face would be utterly captivating.

  “Oh shit,” I mutter to Hemingway, “I think I have found the subject for my next painting—and we both know what that means.”

  16

  Zoe

  On Tuesday, my first customer of the day is Sherry. Anna was right. While they have the same bright-blue eyes, high cheekbones, and set of their jaw, their demeanor couldn’t be more different. Sherry looks as though she wants to give me a hug and doesn’t seem to have much knowledge of the concept of personal space.

  “How are you settling in?” she asks.

  “Very well. Thanks for asking, Sherry.”

  “Good. And how’s business?”

  “The Valentine’s stuff is flying off the shelves, although I fear all the Donovan Grove wives might get the same heart-shaped candle this year. They’ve been selling like hotcakes.”

  “I’ll have to get my own, as usual, although Jamie might get me one. No such luck with my husband. Suffice to say that Anna doesn’t get her aversion of all things Valentine’s Day from a stranger.”

  I have to chuckle. I’m also happy that Sherry has already started talking about Anna. I wonder if she knows that Anna and I went for a drink. Anna doesn’t strike me as the type to tell her mother these things, while Sherry is very much the kind of woman who would know every little thing going on in this town.

  “Has she been in yet? Don’t let her linger too long without buying anything.” Sherry smiles broadly at me. “She can stare at book covers for hours.”

  “She’s allowed to. She’s so talented.” I’m not entirely sure how I feel about Anna. She blows so hot and cold, it’s kind of exhausting.

  Sherry quirks up one eyebrow. “Have you seen her work?”

  “I went to her house on Sunday. She showed me—”

  “Hold on.” Sherry leans farther over the counter. “Anna invited you into her house?”

  “Yes.”

  “Okay. Sorry, that’s just quite unusual. Even I hardly ever go there. She prefers to come to our house. And woe is me if I ever dare turn up at her door unexpectedly. Sometimes she doesn’t even open the door to her own mother.”

  While I’m very interested in hearing more about Anna, I wonder how she would feel about her mother divulging all this information about her to me. It’s as though Sherry feels she somehow has to make up for all the things Anna doesn’t say out loud.

  “The painting of Hemingway hanging in her hallway is so beautiful. So lifelike, yet also special in a way that a photograph could never convey.”

  “She’s a very good painter.”

  An idea takes root in my brain. “Has she ever exhibited her work? Or sold any?” I can already see the Hemingway painting on the wall above the door.

  “Anna?” Sherry says as though I would suddenly be referring to another person. “No, she would never ask money for her paintings. She only ever paints people or objects or, mostly in her case, animals that she really likes. Then she gives the paintings away. It’s her hobby. Why do you ask?”

  “In New York, every coffee shop is basically also a gallery with the work of a local artist. Often, bookstores will promote local artists as well. I have a shop; she’s an extremely talented painter…”

  “She must have invited you into her house for a reason, Zoe,” Sherry says. “But, as her mother, and the person who has known her the longest, I would bet Anna would have zero interest in that kind of attention. She likes to keep herself to herself. But you
can always ask. She might make an exception for you.” She narrows her eyes. “You aren’t…” she starts, then waves off her own words.

  “I’m not what?” I’m almost fifty and over the decades I’ve developed a sixth sense for the question I’m about to be asked.

  “I don’t mean to pry into your personal life, Zoe, although my grandson couldn’t be excused from Sunday lunch early enough to hang out with your daughter.” She throws in a wink.

  Here it comes, I think.

  “Are you a lesbian?”

  It’s actually quite refreshing that Sherry just comes out and asks it, that she can be much more direct about it than most people. “Yes, I am.”

  “You don’t look it,” she blurts out.

  I can’t help but chuckle. “What does that mean?”

  “When I think of the word lesbian, I can’t help but picture my own daughter. Or Cynthia. But not someone like you.”

  Sounds to me as though Anna should have a word with her mother about stereotypical, narrow-minded thinking. “Well, Sherry”—I can’t keep a hint of condescension from creeping into my tone—“just like any other group of people, lesbians come in all shapes and sizes.”

  “Not in Donovan Grove, they don’t.” Sherry has a comeback for everything.

  “I guess they do now.”

  Sherry’s smile has faded from her face. Have I offended her while she was actually in the process of offending me? It wouldn’t be the first time that has happened while I was in conversation with a white cisgender person, even though she’s the mother of a lesbian. “Are you and Anna… involved?” she asks. Contrary to what Anna told me about her mother, Sherry doesn’t sound very enthusiastic about the prospect.

  “No. We’re just friends.” I’m not even sure we’ve known each other long enough for that, but I have to qualify it somehow.

  “More than anything, I want my daughter to be happy. I spend a good part of every day worrying about Anna’s happiness. She’s not like most people. She’s not like you and me. She—” For the first time, she catches herself while speaking. “She needs certain things in a relationship that not every person is capable of giving.”