Book Lover, The

by McFadden, Maryann

  “We’ll see,” Eddie said.

  Ruth watched him leave, her momentary satisfaction deflating like a punctured balloon. She leaned against a bookshelf to steady herself, her knees suddenly wobbly.

  God, how she hated confrontations like this. Where you could feel that sickening grip of anger squeezing, threatening to unbalance you. When you’d say or do something you’d regret later on. The kind of confrontation she’d had with Bill one too many times, and that usually cost her in the long run. As it would now.

  No matter how much of an ass Eddie was, she knew that righteousness was a dangerous thing. It had just cost her $500 a month.

  * * *

  HANNAH NEVER DID SHOW UP. The moment Kris came back from lunch, Ruth left, needing to get away from the store, from the maddening scene with Eddie, and reminders of the anger that was once so much a part of her life. She decided to walk for a while. She could certainly use the exercise, although it was so hot.

  She walked slowly, looking in the store windows, thinking of how many had changed over the years. So much of her life was spent on these streets, from the time she got her first job at fifteen at Aiken’s Pharmacy, which still looked the way it did way back when she spent her after school hours tidying the greeting cards, arranging prescriptions alphabetically, and ringing up her first sale of Trojans, having no idea what a condom even was and wondering why Mr. Taylor had blushed so profusely when she couldn’t find them and had to ask out loud. They’d been tucked out of sight, in a little drawer under the counter.

  She passed Tynan’s Butcher Shop, where her father had supplied beef a million years ago. Now it was a women’s boutique, although locals still referred to the building as Tynan’s when giving directions, which was obviously confusing to newcomers.

  Mama’s Pizza, the big hangout when she was still in school, had been gone for years, relocated to a strip mall on the outskirts of town decades ago. A few years ago, Sandy became the latest tenant when she opened Scrub-a-Dub Doggie. She seemed to be doing well. Ruth stood a moment at the bridge, looking down at the Waywayanda Creek, enjoying the cool damp shade of the huge sycamore that had stood on its banks for as long as she could remember. As a kid, she’d thrown pennies into the rushing water, making wishes. How silly.

  She could almost picture herself all those years ago, a big, gawky girl who got up at dawn to milk cows with her father. She’d loved watching the sunrise, the smell of the barn, the early quiet. It was a simple life, and she’d been unaware of how her parents had struggled. They always had food and books, and so she never realized how much they’d lived without. Until she became an adolescent and the competition for nice clothes, boys, and popularity began.

  Then her tossed pennies began to wish for different things. Someone to love her. A husband, one day children. A simple dream, as old as time. Back then it was all so different for girls. The late fifties and early sixties were still a man’s world. A time when women’s roles were so traditional—when most women got married, had children, and stayed home to take care of the family. Like her mother, and her grandmother before her. It all seemed so quaint now. So hard to fathom that back in those days she’d needed a man to sign for a credit card, or she couldn’t get one. That without a husband, she couldn’t get a loan. Ruth hadn’t questioned any of it at the time. It was simply the way the world worked.

  Then suddenly it all began to change. But she was having one baby after another, barely keeping up with what was going on in the outside world—civil rights, women’s lib, birth control, free love, the British invasion, Viet Nam, all of it a kind of blur between bottles and diapers, cleaning and cooking, ear infections, measles, and sleepless nights. What a turbulent time for the world, and her. Because marriage had turned out to be nothing like she expected.

  She leaned on the bridge now and closed her eyes.

  Oh stop it, Ruth. Why are you doing this now?

  She knew it wasn’t just the scene with Eddie, the flash of sudden anger at him that evoked those other scenes. Memories she’d managed to keep tucked away for years were popping up everywhere she turned lately, throwing her neat, orderly world—her safe world-off balance.

  She knew it was because of Thomas.

  29

  THE DOG DAYS OF AUGUST ARRIVED AND LUCY’S BOOKSTORE runs were now interspersed with little shopping expeditions, spending more than she’d planned, of course, but having so much fun. It had been months since she’d bought anything other than food or essentials for living. As she emptied her trunk, she realized her last big shopping trip had been for the red dress for her book launch. Which seemed a lifetime ago.

  Each time she arrived back at the cabin, she double checked that Colin wasn’t home before carrying bags in. There were blue and white striped curtains and a coordinating floral slipcover for the couch. She planned to spray paint the old kitchen table and chairs black, which would make a great contrast with the bright yellow seat cushions she’d found. She’d even thought of painting the walls, but the soft yellow was so cheerful she decided not to take a chance screwing it up.

  The major job was going to be painting. The old knotty pine was definitely retro, but also masculine, with that hunting lodge feel. She wanted the cabin to have a happy, feminine air. She wanted Ruth to walk in and want to stay.

  It was such a pleasure to do something fun. She’d program music on her laptop, turn on a floor fan to blow fumes out the window, start painting, and the hours would fly by. Her mind would also settle into a quiet rhythm and the next thing she knew, ideas for her story came popping up and she’d stop and jot them down. She couldn’t remember the last time she’d felt so content. After months of doing nothing but marketing A Quiet Wanting, or researching or writing the new book, she began to see now that her life was out of balance. And that it was time she stop escaping in her work, as she’d been doing for years.

  Late afternoons she’d fix a sandwich or salad, then sit at the table by the window and check e-mails. She read one now that left her in awe. It came from a woman in the U.K., who’d gotten the book as a birthday gift from a cousin here in the states:

  “After reading your fine novel I think I have the courage to finally do what I’ve been putting off for years. I love my husband, he’s a good man. But we’ve never had a real marriage and now I think I know why. Thank you for writing this book.”

  She pictured this woman she didn’t even know turning her pages, reading her words, and being so affected. Ruth was right, if things never went any further than this, she’d already achieved the ultimate success as a writer. Hope and Matthew were as real to readers as they’d become to her.

  Word of mouth was spreading from book club to book club and more requests came in, and more book signings. Of course she was still haunted by the rejection from Ruth’s sales rep, and some of the one and two star reviews she found online from time to time. And there were still quite a few bookstores that never got back to her at all. But she kept hanging onto the fact that the book was selling, readers were enjoying it and best of all, she was writing a new novel.

  It was amazing how quickly this new story was falling into place. Of course setting the book right where she was living at that moment helped immensely. She was surrounded by nature and beauty and felt their transformative powers healing her a little at a time, as she would have them heal Catherine, her main character, as well.

  She was like a real author, except for the fact that she didn’t have a real publisher. But she felt a new surge of hope that perhaps there was a chance after all. Ruth would be going to her convention in September and was going to talk up A Quiet Wanting whenever she could. And it was becoming obvious that there was an audience for this book, which was proven by each new reader, and each new bookseller who came on board. This was more than the story of a woman who still loved her husband, despite the fact that he was gay. And that he loved her, despite his sexuality. It was a moving story of a marriage built on a lie. It was obvious women did want to read about that, no mat
ter what agents had said.

  Of course as she answered questions about the lies and betrayals with book clubs now, a little voice began to whisper in her head, asking the same questions about her own marriage. Was it really possible she’d had no idea what was going on? Or did she choose to turn a blind eye to certain truths that were staring her right in the face? And wasn’t she, in a way, guilty, too?

  In the midst of that afternoon’s flurry of e-mails, was another one from David.

  Lucy,

  The last e-mail I sent you was a mistake. I shouldn’t have done it because it makes it sound like I’m still angry with you and I’m really not, not anymore. I’ve learned that anger is a part of the grief process and I’m finally letting go of it, even the anger at myself. I regret not going for counseling years ago, because I’m discovering a lot about myself, things that actually have nothing to do with you, or Ben. But truthfully, having all of this time alone, to think, and pretty much do nothing else, has been a large part of it. Sometimes it’s easier to just escape, like I did with poker, rather than face what we don’t want to see. I used to think that’s what you were doing with your writing. I still wonder about that.

  You’ve probably heard by now through your attorney that the office building sold to the upstairs tenant. My house arrest will be over in a few weeks and then I begin my stint of community service. An appraiser came to the house yesterday to give us an evaluation and it sounds like we won’t lose money, although we won’t make any either. So the financials are just about settled and the final divorce hearing should be soon after that.

  I have a favor to ask you, although I know I don’t have the right to ask it. I’ve already agreed not to go to the divorce hearing, as your attorney said you requested. But I’d like to see you one more time, when you come down here.

  David.

  She sat there, staring at his words, then sent back a one word reply: Why? Within minutes he responded: Because I don’t want you to hate me for the rest of your life.

  Obviously David needed to unburden himself, although she found herself going for longer and longer stretches without even thinking about him. Did she really want to do this? Open this dialogue, examine all the past hurts and finger pointing? Because in the end, she’d begun to realize that the blame wasn’t all his. She thought about it for several long minutes, then sent her reply: Agreed.

  The following afternoon her attorney called to tell her the final divorce hearing had indeed been scheduled.

  * * *

  THE STORE ALWAYS GREW QUIET BY THE MIDDLE OF AUGUST. People were either on vacation or already in the throes of back-to-school shopping. Jenny was busy with lesson plans and taking Olivia and Emma to the mall, and Ruth realized she hadn’t talked to her in several days, which was rare.

  Megan was away, and although Harry was on vacation from his custodial job, he offered to come in and help unload the shipment of vampire books. It was the largest order she’d ever placed. She’d scheduled the task for today because she knew Colin wouldn’t be in. He’d want to help somehow, but it was such an awkward job for him.

  It wasn’t until Danny’s death that she realized she’d become complacent about Colin and his situation, because he seemed to have settled into a comfortable life. But, she reminded herself once again, it would never be an easy life. And her worries would never disappear completely. After her phone call to Lucy a few weeks ago, which had ended abruptly, Lucy had followed up with an e-mail.

  Don’t worry, Ruth, Colin seems a little better each time I see him. The project he’s working on at The Raptor Center is really keeping him occupied and I’ve been going with him as well because I’m doing some research there for my new novel. Yes, Ruth, I’ve started a new book!

  She wrote back:

  Thank you, Lucy. I feel better knowing someone is there. And I can’t wait to see the new book.

  It’s not in any shape to be read yet, Lucy responded. But I promise, when it’s ready, you’ll be the first to read it.

  She was so thankful Lucy was there, and that they’d become friends. It amazed her how much Lucy had changed since they first met. Gone were the worry lines around her eyes, the pinched mouth. She smiled more easily and grew prettier each time Ruth saw her. The Audrey Hepburn pixie was becoming a chin-length bob that suited her heart-shaped face, the big green eyes.

  Lucy would be leaving tomorrow for Florida to finalize her divorce. When they’d first met, Lucy told her that it seemed barbaric that she had to be there, in person, when she’d been the injured party. Sometimes there’s nothing fair about life, Ruth had wanted to say, but didn’t. She’d been hurting enough already. But in her latest e-mail, she sensed a shift in Lucy’s emotions.

  David wants to see me one more time, she wrote. Part of me is dreading it. The other part is almost glad because there are things I need to say to him, too. Is anyone ever blameless in a marriage gone bad?

  That was an easy one for Ruth to answer—of course not. She had to wonder if this softening, on both Lucy’s part and her husband’s, might be the bridge to a new beginning. She hoped so. Lucy had become a true friend. And yet, at moments like this, she seemed more like a daughter Ruth wanted to protect.

  Lucy had also told Ruth about a few horrible events during the past weekend.

  I did two signings, Ruth, where not a soul showed up. It was awful. At one, the store manager barely even spoke to me, spent all her time glued to her computer, and when people walked in, they wouldn’t even make eye contact with me because there I was right by the front door. It was so uncomfortable. They didn’t keep a single book to put on their shelves afterward.

  Of course you couldn’t guarantee people were going to show up, but at least you had to make the author feel welcome, and talk about the book!

  “Okay, the books are all unloaded and stacked in the back,” Harry said, coming up to the counter and breaking her thoughts. “Two hundred copies of teenage vampires running around a high school. Would you ever have bet money ten years ago that something like this would be our biggest seller?”

  “The kids love it. And lots of adults, too.” She shook her head, laughing. “Let’s hope she doesn’t end the series, like J.K. Rowling did.”

  “Well, I guess I’ll shove off now, Ruth, unless you need anything else.”

  “No, Harry, but thank you. Enjoy the rest of your vacation. I’ll see you at the midnight release party next week. Do you have your vampire fangs?”

  “No, but I’m sure Megan will be bringing fangs and capes and buckets of blood for the lot of us.”

  By early afternoon, Ruth was surprised to get a number of calls cancelling the RSVPs for the midnight release party. Each cancellation was also a cancelled book order, which was disturbing. She hoped Megan hadn’t somehow made a mistake, but she couldn’t imagine what it could be. She decided not to worry about it, since Megan would be back in tomorrow.

  Then she went back to the essay for the bookseller’s convention which she’d put off again and again. It had to be mailed in tomorrow.

  “Guess what?” she heard then and looked up to see Hannah in the open doorway, dragging in a small round table. “I found the last bistro table!”

  After Eddie’s visit, Hannah had come in only once, seeming subdued, and Ruth wondered if the café was going to go down the tubes. Then she asked if Ruth was absolutely sure she wanted to waive the rent until she turned a profit? And Ruth realized the future of the café was hanging on her answer.

  “Absolutely, I meant every word I said.” Not that Hannah had to know every word of that conversation.

  Hannah had smiled and nodded, but still seemed uncertain. Now she set the wrought iron table down and went out and brought in a matching chair.

  “What do you think? I’m going to spray paint them black and have red gingham tablecloths. Red is a power color, you know, and I want kind of a country French look. I’m just about done painting the mirrors to look like windows. One overlooks a field of lavender, the other some
rolling green hills.”

  “It sounds very picturesque.”

  The excited Hannah was back and Ruth felt relieved.

  “Are you okay, Ruth? You look tired,” she said with a sudden frown.

  “I’m fine, it’s just that time of year, back to school, half my staff on vacation.”

  There was a long, quiet moment. “You don’t think about them? You know, this time of year and all?”

  Ruth shook her head.

  “I do. I still miss her. Sometimes it’s hard—”

  The door opened and Ruth could have kissed Lizzie, her mail carrier, who nudged Hannah aside and slapped the mail on the counter.

  “Thanks for bringing that in, Hannah,” Ruth said.

  Hannah looked perplexed at her dismissal, and left a moment later.

  After Lizzie left, Ruth stared out the big front window at the quiet sidewalk, the gray afternoon skies. Of course she thought about them. Every August, without fail, though she tried not to. Although this was the first time Hannah had brought it up in years.

  She tossed aside visions of the past, and picked up the mail, sorting through it. Her heart froze as she came to a white envelope. She knew that handwriting as well as she knew each line on her face, even though the envelope wasn’t blue. It was postmarked two days ago in Albany.

  So, he’d finally given up on her.

  30

  THE DAY BEFORE HER FLIGHT BACK TO FLORIDA, Lucy couldn’t concentrate on anything. Each time she’d drifted off last night, images flashed before her, and when she finally got out of bed as dawn rose over the lake, she was exhausted. Luckily she didn’t have to get ready for her morning paddle beside Colin, because she doubted she had the energy. He was probably up already, too, getting ready for the memorial service for Danny, a two-hour drive from there. As she sat at the table in front of the window with a cup of tea and a pad, pieces of her dreams were still swimming in her head and she began a poem.