She shook her head now, dispelling the image, and took another swallow of her Cosmopolitan. Why was she suddenly thinking about her husband so much? But the answer was obvious. It was Thomas. And the feelings he was stirring inside of her.
At moments like this, she longed to have someone to be with. She imagined now what it would be like to have a man take her hand, lead her onto the parquet floor, then pull her close. For a moment she closed her eyes, listening to the music, feeling her head on his shoulder as they swayed to the slow rhythms. The fantasy never went further than that. It wasn’t like she imagined making love to a man. It had been too many years, and something she put out of her mind long ago. It was simply the thought of being held, hearing the beating of his heart as she laid her head on his chest. It was Thomas that she saw.
He was a big man, well over six feet, and broad in the shoulders and chest, his brown hair shaved close, as Colin’s had been in the army. When she’d first met him he reminded her of a big teddy bear, but she’d had to keep reminding herself that he was a prisoner. That despite his gentle demeanor and kind brown eyes, he’d done something terrible.
She jumped as a hand touched her shoulder, startling her back to the present. It was Harry. Behind him she saw Iris walking toward the Ladies’ Room.
“Thanks for the rescue,” she said a moment later, when they were out on the dance floor. They were the same height and she looked him in the eye.
“Don’t be silly. I like to dance.”
She smiled. Harry had been working part-time at her store for about five years. Ruth knew there were more lucrative places to supplement his income as a high school custodian, but Harry loved sci-fi, and he knew how to pick and hand sell a book. These days sci-fi and fantasy were very popular genres.
“So what’s going on, Ruth?”
“What do you mean?”
“I don’t know, lately you seem really distracted.”
“Oh, let’s not spoil a good time, okay?”
“Come on, out with it.”
She hesitated, glancing over at Megan and Oliver, who were kissing at their table. “I’m going to have to cut hours.”
“I see.”
“I hate to do it, I just don’t see any other way.”
“I understand.”
“I’m sorry.”
“I know you are. How much?”
“As little as possible. It’s just that I’ve cut out the radio ads, and I’m scaling back on the newspapers. I’m not sure what else I can do. Our revitalization efforts don’t seem to be doing much.”
“Maybe we need a big event.”
“We’re doing signings nearly every week now.”
“No, bigger than that,” Harry said. “You realize this is our thirtieth year coming up?”
“But we just had our twenty-fifth…”
Harry was grinning. “Yeah, it was four years ago, Ruth.”
“Already? It doesn’t seem possible.”
“Yup, and it’s time to start thinking about the thirtieth. It’ll be here before we know it.”
Ruth nodded and went back to dancing in silence. They had until November. She hoped Harry would still be working with her by then. For that matter, she hoped she still had the store.
She stayed for the cake cutting, then gathered her purse and shawl, saying goodbye to Megan, Oliver, Harry and Iris. She found Kris on the patio, sneaking a cigarette.
“I almost forgot to tell you,” Kris said, “I finished that book, A Quiet Wanting. Oh my God, it was just beautiful, I couldn’t put it down. That scene where she remembers being a little girl and her father tells her he’s leaving, it just broke my heart.”
“I loved it, too. It’s funny, but I haven’t heard a word about her, or her book,” Ruth said.
“Why don’t we get her for a signing? I could sell the heck out of that book. And I’d love to make it a ‘Kris Pick.’”
Ruth agreed, then told her everything had been perfect, and slipped out.
Ten minutes later, she paused in front of her store, looking through the window at Jenny at the counter, her blonde hair behind her ears, reading glasses on her head, looking more like a coed than a high school teacher. It was hard for Ruth to believe at times that her daughter was in her forties now, like Alex. Colin wasn’t far behind.
“Busy day?” she asked hopefully when she walked in.
“Not bad,” Jenny said, looking up from a stack of books on the counter. “A few special orders. An elderly woman who bought ten books, which was great.”
“God bless her.” Ruth came behind the counter and turned on the computer.
“Oh, and we’ve got twenty-eight more copies of the Oprah book coming.”
The title had been leaked that morning, and they’d scrambled to get as many as they could.
“You’re a love. Where’s Colin?”
“I told him he could leave early. I think he had plans.” Jenny smiled. “Hopefully they’re with Gloryanne. I have a feeling she’s ready to go back with him.”
Ruth said nothing, deciding she didn’t have the energy right now to get into Colin with Jenny.
“You know, Mom, Dad’s birthday is coming up.”
“I know, honey. I haven’t forgotten.”
“It’s a big one, sixty-five. I think we should do something, don’t you?”
No, she didn’t. Not really. “Of course.”
Jenny grabbed her purse and jacket. “Oh, I almost forgot. A man called a few times. He said his name was Thomas. It sounded like a pay phone, and he wouldn’t leave his number.” She unzipped her purse and pulled out her car keys. “Who is he?”
Ruth stared at the computer. “I have no idea. He must be a customer, I guess.”
“Well, he said he’d call back,” Jenny said, then gave her a peck on the cheek. “I didn’t know pay phones even still existed. Anyway, see you for brunch tomorrow?”
“Sure thing. Bye honey.”
* * *
THE SCENE AT THE BOOKSTORE HAD BEEN A DISASTER and Lucy sat now with a big glass of wine, telling herself to forget it. But it was hard. She couldn’t remember the last time she’d been so mortified.
After leaving Tia’s, she’d gone home, gotten her car, and driven to Book-World, which was in one of the many strip malls that lined Route 1. Although she was sending review copies of her book out to small bookstores on the east coast, she’d yet to go into a store in person. The moment she walked in, a surge of nerves sent her heart racing.
She headed to the customer service desk.
“Can I help you?” a young man with short black hair, a goatee, and a diamond stud in one nostril asked without looking up from a computer.
“Yes, I’m a local author and I—” her brain froze.
“Oh, we love local authors,” he said, looking up with a smile. “What’s the name of your book?”
“A Quiet Wanting. I brought you a…”
But before she could finish, or hand it to him, he was typing on the computer again, and the book slipped from her sweaty fingers onto the floor. She bent to retrieve it.
“I don’t see it here, who’s your publisher?”
When she stood, he was looking at her, waiting, the diamond stud glittering from the overhead lights.
“I…it’s a small press, actually.” She handed him the book.
“So, you’re Lucinda Barrett. Nice cover,” he said, turning the book over.
See, relax, it’s going to be just fine, she told herself.
“I never heard of this publisher.”
“Well, they’re actually a Print-On-Demand company in California.”
He looked at her and his eyebrows shot up. “So it’s self-published?”
“Yes, it is, but—”
“I’m sorry, but we can’t stock self-published books, store policy.”
“Oh, I…” She stood there, flummoxed. “I’d be happy to give you this copy anyway. Maybe you’ll like it enough to perhaps change your mind?”
He sta
red at her for a moment. “Look, you have to realize how many people walk in here every week with self-published books. There’s only so much shelf space, and we need to fill it with books that are going to sell, so we can make money and stay in business.”
She heard a cough, then someone else whispering behind her, and she wanted to pinch his nose, like her mother used to do when her brothers got fresh. She wanted to tell him that her book was different, if he’d only give her a chance, but he was already back on his computer.
Turning, she raced past the other customers toward the exit, then stopped suddenly. She stood there, looking at the thousands and thousands of books sitting on those shelves, books by bestsellers, authors people had heard of with major publishers. Then she pictured the piles of books in her dining room, where she now sat in front of her laptop. She wished she had even a shred of the certainty and optimism she’d had when she was a girl.
Or was that simply the innocence of youth—that if you tried hard enough, you could make anything happen. Like she did to have a baby. Oh Lucy, don’t go there now, she told herself. Stay focused. Because certain or not, she was plowing forward with this plan. And if nothing happened, then yes, she would do as she’d promised. She would give up writing. Just as she’d given up on having a child.
But the nagging scene at BookWorld kept playing in her head, her screen kept freezing as she continued trying to upload her book cover onto her website, and her frustration mounted, because in the background all she kept hearing was the phone ringing in David’s office, like a shrill version of water torture.
She slammed her glass down, deciding to sneak a third cigarette out on the patio, since David wouldn’t be home for a while. But the ringing started all over again and she marched instead to his office to turn the damn ringer off. The machine was blinking furiously. Walking around the desk, she saw there were…sweet Jesus, forty-seven messages. Her fingers began pulling through her hair as a weird feeling came over her. Something was horribly wrong. Why would someone keep calling this line over and over? Why wouldn’t they call David’s office, or his cell if they couldn’t reach him? It couldn’t possibly be Jason, his new assistant, not that many times.
She hesitated, then pushed the PLAY button. There was a long pause, and she almost hit ERASE before she finally heard a soft laugh, and then a voice so eerie it made her heart stop.
“You’re a dead man, Barrett. You’re a dead man.”
She sank to the chair, horrified. Rewinding the tape to the first message, she played them all, each one a chilling repeat of the one before.
“You’re a dead man, Barrett. You’re a dead man.”
Suddenly the edges of the room began to disappear and she leaned forward in the chair, letting her head hang between her knees as the blood rushed to her face, the beautiful colors on the Oriental rug swimming before her eyes.
3
FROM THE MOMENT SHE’D TOUCHED HIS FINGERS, as they barreled down a runway on the same flight back to New Jersey, when she’d closed her eyes, terrified, reaching for the armrest and finding instead a warm, reassuring hand, Lucy had always felt safe with David. He clasped her hand, a stranger’s hand, holding tight until long moments later when she felt the plane level off. She opened her eyes, mortified, only to find a comforting smile.
He introduced himself and told her he was on his way home from a legal seminar in Atlanta. She was returning from a writers’ conference in Marietta. He then ordered them both a glass of wine and began asking her all about it. Embarrassed, she confessed that she worked for an accountant but always wanted to be a writer.
“So why are you an accountant?” he’d asked with a smile in his hazel eyes.
“Because when it was time to choose my major for college, and the guidance counselor told me what I could expect to earn as a writer, well, let’s just say the writing was on the wall.”
David laughed, his eyes crinkling at the corners.
“Anyway, making a living writing fiction is like winning the lottery for someone my age, or any age for that matter. So I write on the side, whenever I can.”
“I thought about being an archeologist once, but…I took over my father’s law practice instead. You’re lucky you can do both. Although I do get my kicks with a metal detector when I have time.”
Before the flight was over, she learned he lived in Mendham, New Jersey, not far from where she’d spent much of her childhood in Morristown. He was an attorney with his own one-man office that his father had opened when David was just a boy. He was, perhaps, the most persuasive person she’d ever met. She wound up letting him read the three page short-short story which had won an award at the conference, as she stared out the window at a blanket of thick white clouds just below. She was thrilled by the award, but knew the market for short stories was miniscule and that she needed to start thinking about something bigger. A novel.
She heard him let out a rush of breath and turned. He was smiling.
“Jesus, this is really good.”
“Really?”
“I have absolutely no doubt you’re going to make it as a writer.”
She laughed out loud as she looked at this stranger, David Barrett, not a handsome man, but attractive in his designer suit, his confidence and manner so refreshing from the guys her age. Six months later, when he got down on one knee, holding out an antique platinum ring that had been his grandmother’s, he told her it was fate that had brought them together on that plane. He was just thirty, with a law practice, his own home, and a solid future. She was twenty-three years old, just out of college with a mountain of student loans, and still living at home. Of course she said yes.
David wasn’t afraid to fly; his hand had just happened to be on the common armrest that day. Lucy often wondered, as she did now, watching the clock, waiting for him to walk in the door as he did every night, how her life might have turned out if she hadn’t reached out in desperation and found him. Would she still be alone?
She got up and walked through the kitchen into the yard. The air was heavy with humidity. Just then the entire sky flashed with light. A few moments later, low rumbles of thunder seemed to go on for half a minute. Thank God he’d answered when she called his cell, because she’d nearly dialed the police. He didn’t even give her a chance to speak, just quickly assured her he’d be home within the hour. She knew cell phones weren’t allowed at the card games.
Another flash of lightning illuminated the house, and then it fell into darkness again. The low tile roof, the arched windows and bits of wrought iron were charming. “A piece of history,” David had said when they first saw it and he’d fallen instantly in love. It had taken longer for her, numb as she still was, until it even felt like the possibility of home. Of course it was more than they were looking to spend, being in the heart of the historic district. But David insisted it would all work out and she hadn’t seen him that excited in a long time. Maybe one of them being excited was enough.
Sometimes the loss of Ben, their years in Mendham, seemed surreal, as if it had happened in another lifetime. Or perhaps was something she’d read in a book. Six months after that loss, they’d moved here and David insisted that in order to really start over, they had to let go of the past. After a while, he wouldn’t even talk about Ben, telling her it was just holding them back, dredging up sadness there was nothing they could do about. But she’d needed to talk, despite finding an escape, and a kind of healing, in her writing. She went for therapy, but David refused.
“Don’t push him,” her therapist had told her. “People cope in their own ways. Forcing him to come might make him resentful. He’ll deal with the loss of your son in his own time. Trust me, you can’t bury grief like this forever.”
That was when she started smoking again, just two, like a hard-earned reward for making it to the end of each day.
Tonight, the thought of losing David, too, seemed very real. And made Lucy sit back and think about him, about them, for the first time in a long time. To examine
the petty differences, the bickering, and distance that had grown between them. Yes, she’d been obsessed with her writing, but David used to admire her passion and drive. She’d accused him right back of being obsessed with building his practice, and she needed to stop that. He was still a relatively new lawyer in a town full of good ole boys, so of course he had to put in insane hours. But it was time they got their marriage back on track. David was everything to her.
And she would quit smoking again. She knew how much he hated it. His father had died of emphysema.
She heard the rumble of a car engine, then saw headlights sweep across the side yard as David pulled into the driveway. She raced into the house and nearly crashed into him as he opened the front door.
“Jesus, Lucy, you scared the shit out of me!”
“Oh, David, I’ve been worried sick, I—”
“And I told you I’d be home shortly. Guess what?” His face suddenly changed, filled with excitement. “I had a royal flush.”
“David, listen—”
“I came in first, beating more than thirty people.”
She stood there swaying with exhaustion, wondering if she’d imagined what had happened earlier, because not only did David seem so normal, but despite the fact that it was after midnight and he’d been up since dawn, he didn’t seem tired.
“My first hand alone I had trip aces,” he said, slipping off his jacket and pumping a fist. “Right then I knew I was on a roll. Do you know what the odds are of getting two hands like—”
“David!”
He looked at her, stunned.
“David, something horrible happened today. Remember your phone ringing before you left? Well, it rang all day and night. There are forty-seven messages on your machine! A man keeps saying ‘You’re a dead man, Barrett,’ over and over.”
“What?”
“I think we should call the police.”
“You listened to my messages?”
She blinked.
Book Lover, The Page 4
