by Amy Harmon
“Why am I feeling really unlucky right now?” I asked.
Chad laughed. “I have to chaperone the Sadie Hawkins dance next weekend. I can go alone if I have to, but I think I’d have a lot more fun if you went with me.”
“You might have more fun, but what about me?” I said.
“Come on. Are you saying I’m not fun?” Chad asked.
“You’re not the problem here. The problem is you’re inviting me to a high school dance. I might hyperventilate just thinking about it.”
“I don’t want to be the cause of any maladies, but you might actually have fun. This could be a good opportunity to face your fears.”
I laughed. “I’m not afraid of high school dances. Well, maybe a little.” I took a sip of water. “If you’re taking me to a high school dance, aren’t you supposed to ask me in some dramatic, over-the-top way?”
“Darn, I guess I dropped the ball. I should have sent you on a scavenger hunt around Portland and had you end up at the Paul Bunyan statue where you’d find a message taped to his shoelace.”
“Did you really do that?”
“I did. I sent her all over Portland.”
“Wow. How long did it take you to set it up?”
“Hours and hours. No wonder the girl wasn’t very interested. I probably cost her $25.00 in gas.”
I laughed. “How did she answer?”
“She had her brother tie a note that said ‘yes’ to my shoes during a swim meet.”
“After all your hard work, that’s all she did?”
“Yep. She probably didn’t want to spend any more time and money.”
“I guess I should be thanking you for just asking me and sparing me the tour of Portland.”
“So? Will you go with me?”
I sighed. “I suppose. But if it’s Sadie Hawkins, isn’t the girl supposed to ask.”
“Okay. Go ahead. Ask me.” I rolled my eyes. “I promise I’ll say yes,” Chad said. His crooked smile was way too cute.
“Chad, will you go with me to Sadie Hawkins?”
“I’d love to. Thanks for asking. By the way, where are you taking me to dinner?”
Chapter Six
Lights from inside The Pink Salamander left bright patches on the dark ground. Two restaurants on the street were lit up but the other businesses were dark.
“This must have been an amazing house,” Janessa said.
“I know. It’s really beautiful.”
“When did they turn it into a bookstore?”
“I’m not sure,” I said. “I remember noticing how pink it was my second year of college, so it’s probably been about three years.”
The bell jingled as we walked in and the exquisite girl from behind the counter stood just inside the door.
“We’re closed unless you’re here for the Nanette Eggleston event,” she said. Her long, slim skirt and delicate white blouse looked incredible and I felt underdressed, even in my favorite outfit—a knee-length printed skirt, a lace tee and cardigan, with mustard-colored tights and brown boots. Janessa said I looked elegantly quirky, but next to Miss Exquisite, I felt much more quirky than elegant. I just hoped Mr. Dawson would notice me.
“We’re here for the Eggleston event.” I felt pretentious just saying it.
“Go straight down the hall to the parlor on the right.”
Just inside the parlor door was a table with stacks of Ms. Eggleston’s books. A couple that looked promising. I’d never owned a signed book before. Maybe tonight I’d own two.
A small platform with a stool and microphone sat in the corner. Chairs faced the platform in tight semi-circled rows. A few people were already sitting in the chairs, flipping through the pages of books. A small fire burned in the fireplace next to the platform.
“Let’s sit by the fire,” Janessa said. We took two seats on the second row.
A few minutes later, Mr. Dawson and Ms. Eggleston, a woman in her thirties, walked in. They stood at the edge of the platform, just a few feet from us.
“Wow, I see what you mean,” Janessa said. “Grow out his sideburns and put him in a waistcoat and it’d be hard to tell the difference.”
“See, I told you. And watch him. He carries himself the same way, too.”
We discreetly watched him for a minute. “I thought you had to be exaggerating but you weren’t.”
I was glad Janessa had come with me. It was much easier than coming by myself and I felt a little thrill to hear her confirm what I already thought. Now she’d understand why I wanted to make him notice me.
No. Why I had to make him notice me.
“However did you come up with the name The Pink Salamander?” Ms. Eggleston asked Mr. Dawson.
“I let my younger sister name it. It was her idea to paint the exterior pink, as well. I suppose that’s what you get when you let a teenager make important decisions.”
“Well, I think it’s perfectly charming.”
I wasn’t eavesdropping on purpose. They were just standing close enough to hear and I couldn’t help it.
“It gets people’s attention. We’re happy you included us on your book tour. I must confess I haven’t read The Dawn of All Tomorrows, but my employee, Meg, said she loved it. Romance isn’t really my thing.” Janessa jabbed me with her elbow.
“You really should read it. I assure you it isn’t just a romance. It’s much more socially relevant than that. There’s a whole set of readers who only read romance. I like to trick those silly women into thinking they’re buying a romance and then throw in some of my pet social issues.”
Mr. Dawson was nodding. Ms. Eggleston leaned in closer and continued. “I find most romance readers to be quite shallow. My goal is to raise their social consciousness without them even realizing what’s happening.”
“Bravo. Like putting a little sugar with their medicine. Cloak something of meaning in a love story and you may teach some of these women something after all.”
Janessa leaned in close. “He’s certainly got the arrogant thing down.”
“So did Mr. Darcy,” I whispered.
Mr. Dawson surveyed the half-filled room. At first, his eyes passed over me but a moment later they came back to where I sat. His gaze bored into me and although my instinct was to look away, I didn’t. A few moments later, he gave me a curt nod and then looked at his watch.
Mr. Dawson stepped up to the microphone. “Welcome to The Pink Salamander. You’re in for an enlightening evening with one of Oregon’s brightest authors, Nanette Eggleston.” The scattered crowd clapped politely. Ms. Eggleston reached for Mr. Dawson’s hand and he helped her up the step onto the platform.
Really! One small step and she needed help? “I present to you, Nanette Eggleston.”
It was hard for me to take Ms. Eggleston seriously since I now knew she thought all the women in the room were intellectually inferior. Mr. Dawson took a seat at the far end of the front row. The row of chairs curved so I could see him. And he could see me.
The first time our eyes met, I smiled. He didn’t smile back. After that I tried not to look his direction, but just as they were when Matthew Macfadyen was on the screen, my eyes were dragged to him against my will. I saved a crumb of dignity by refusing to smile at him each time our eyes met.
Ms. Eggleston droned on and on. First she read a passage about the leading lady who was fighting an internal battle about whether she should sacrifice for the man she loved or put her own desires first. The passage ended before the decision was made, but after hearing her earlier speech to Mr. Dawson, I imagined she chose the selfish route.
When the reading was over, she asked for questions.
“What inspired this novel?” a woman toward the back asked and Ms. Eggleston graced us with a ten-minute discourse about a friend who had gone through a divorce because she’d spent her life putting her husband and children first only to discover that if she didn’t put herself first, no one else would. She left her family and went on a pilgrimage to find her best true self
.
“Where is your favorite place to write?” an older woman asked.
“I find I do my best work at Starbucks,” Ms. Eggleston said. Several people snickered.
Ms. Eggleston bristled and her voice became defensive. “You may laugh but I’m quite serious. There’s a creative energy in a coffee shop. It’s palpable. Smart, intellectual people mingling together and sharing ideas. I like to sit in a corner and soak everything in over a Skinny Caramel Macchiato. And then I start writing. It’s actually quite exhilarating.”
Ms. Eggleston pointed at an eager, plain young woman with thick glasses, who asked, “What advice would you give to someone who wants to be an author?”
“You want to be an author?” Ms. Eggleston asked and the young woman blushed as she nodded. Ms. Eggleston looked the girl over before she continued. “My best advice to you would be to forget about it. Get a job in a restaurant or a bank. Writing is only half the battle. Even if you manage to write a good book, you have to learn how to turn yourself into a brand. It isn’t for the faint-hearted, I assure you, and although you may be very bright, thriving in the literary world is very difficult.” The young woman looked deflated and I was afraid she might cry.
At first Ms. Eggleston’s haughtiness had been a little amusing but now I was beginning to feel anger. Who was she to stomp on someone else’s dream? I didn’t like her. “Any other questions?” she asked.
I slowly raised my hand and she nodded at me. “I see you’ve written seven novels?”
“Eight, actually, but the last one hasn’t been released yet.” Her voice and her smug expression told me she was quite proud of herself.
“Have any of these books become best-sellers?”
A flash of surprise crossed Ms. Eggleston’s face and quickly turned to a several-second glare. I wondered if she was counting to ten in her head. Finally she took a deep breath and responded, her words slow and precise as if she were responding to a difficult little child. “No, I have not had a best-seller, but let me explain a few things to you. It’s very difficult to become a best-selling author. Very few are able to do that. It bears no reflection on your talent as a writer. It has more to do with the marketing dollars your publisher is willing to spend.”
“That makes sense,” I said. “I guess your publisher hasn’t been willing to spend enough of those dollars on you. Hopefully you can convince enough shallow, silly women who read romances to buy your books. Those Starbucks lattes aren’t cheap.”
Janessa’s shocked expression quickly changed to a look of pride. I glanced over at Mr. Dawson. It might have been my imagination, but it looked like he was suppressing a smile. After an uncomfortable moment, he stepped up to the platform and thanked Ms. Eggleston for coming.
“Ms. Eggleston will be signing copies of her books at the table by the door. Thank you all for coming out tonight.”
I took Janessa’s arm, pulling her out with me. I paused just long enough to drop Ms. Eggleston’s books on the table.
* * *
I left The Pink Salamander feeling quite proud of myself. I wasn’t usually shy about speaking my mind, but I’d surprised myself with my candor in front of a room of people, especially a room that included Mr. Dawson.
“I’m so proud of you for sticking up for that girl,” Janessa said. The adrenalin coursing through me left me short of breath and a little giddy.
“That woman was a bully and someone needed to say something,” I said.
“The question is will Mr. Dawson like you more or less because of it?”
That tempered my enthusiasm. In the moment I’d raised my hand, indignation had compelled me to speak up, but maybe I should have been the one counting to ten.
By the time I fell into bed, I worried my outburst might have embarrassed Mr. Dawson. If my actions had somehow reflected badly on The Pink Salamander, he’d likely be angry with me. What if speaking my mind had cost me the chance to fulfill my dream?
I didn’t sleep well and I woke the next morning with a headache. When I thought of seeing Mr. Dawson at the bank, I considered calling in sick. That seemed like a wimpy thing to do and most likely I’d have to see him eventually so I showered and got ready for work.
Just before ten, Mr. Dawson stepped through the door. I felt his gaze before I saw him. His eyes didn’t waver as he looked at me. Just before I pulled my attention back to my work, he nodded. I knew nothing about what his expressions meant, but I felt a little relief that he didn’t seem to be frothing at the mouth. I relaxed a little for the first time all morning.
Courtney’s window became available before mine but instead of stepping up to her window, Mr. Dawson turned to the woman behind him and indicated she should go next. He was choosing my window on purpose. My heart did a clumsy somersault.
I finished with my customer and Mr. Dawson stepped forward. I unfolded the slip of paper with the pink lizard at the top and began filling his request.
“Your name is Elizabeth?” he said.
“It is.”
“Is that what people call you?”
“Some do. Some people call me Lizzie.”
“What would you prefer I call you?”
I lost track of the bills I was counting. This was a significant question and I wanted to answer it right.
What did Mr. Darcy call Elizabeth? I needed time to think. Even though I’d watched Pride and Prejudice a million times my mind was malfunctioning and I couldn’t remember if he used the more formal Elizabeth or the more casual and intimate Lizzie? I certainly couldn’t suggest he call me his pearl. We didn’t even know each other.
Since I couldn’t remember and Mr. Dawson was standing there waiting for an answer, I blurted out my best guess.
“You can call me Elizabeth.”
Great. Now he’d think I was trying to keep things more formal? I had to stop analyzing every little thing and count the money.
“Elizabeth, how long do you have for lunch?” I stopped counting again and looked at him. “Lunch, Elizabeth. I assume you take a lunch?”
“Um, yes. I do. I have an hour.”
“What time is your lunch hour?”
“I go from 12:30 to 1:30.”
“I’m planning to order sandwiches for lunch today and wondered if you’d come to the bookstore and join me.”
I gaped at him. Was he teasing me? “Sandwiches? Today? At the bookstore?” Had I really just repeated everything he’d said? He was going to think I was a moron. I was starting to think the same thing.
“Yes, I’m inviting you to lunch. Today. At the bookstore.”
“Okay, sure. That would be nice.” I finally finished counting the money and placed it in the bank bag.
“I’ll see you at 12:30,” he said. Before I could even process what had just happened, Mr. Dawson was gone. There were no customers in line so I stood there, staring at the door he’d just walked through. Courtney finished her transaction and called my extension.
“You should probably close your mouth. It’s been hanging open since he left.” I clamped my jaws shut. “Congratulations. He picked your window today.”
“Courtney, he just invited me to the bookstore for lunch.”
“Is there a restaurant in the bookstore?”
“No, he’s ordering sandwiches.”
“Ooh, you must have made quite an impression on him.”
“Right. I’m just not sure if it was a good one.”
“Of course it’s a good one. You look adorable.”
“Thanks, but that’s not what I mean. I went to a book signing last night and insulted the author. I may have insulted Mr. Dawson, too.” Dread snaked its tentacles around my stomach. “Do you think he’d invite me to lunch to tell me off?”
“Whoa. That’s kinda scary. I guess you’ll find out in a couple of hours.”
“I feel sick.”
“Don’t worry about it. If he chews you out, you’ll know not to waste any more of your attention on him.”
Courtney’s logic made
sense but she didn’t understand. Years of hopes and dreams hung in the balance. I needed him to adore me, not berate me. Dread kept its firm grip all morning.
* * *
I needed The Pink Salamander to be further away than two short blocks. I needed more time to convince myself it didn’t matter what he thought about last night. But it did. I didn’t want him to be angry with me. I’d been waiting for six years to meet him and I was tired of waiting. I wanted to find someone to love, someone who would love me back. I didn’t want to blow this, especially before he even had a chance to fall in love with me.
I put on a confident face even though I felt scared and fearful inside. Elizabeth Bennet never cowered and neither would I.
“Can I help you find something?” Miss Exquisite behind the counter asked. Why couldn’t Mr. Dawson’s employee be plain and shabbily dressed? I felt dowdy just looking at her. Today’s ensemble was a gray tweed skirt and an ecru blouse trimmed with crocheted lace. Her skin was flawless and her hair was sleek and smooth, a look only the prettiest face can pull off.
“Mr. Dawson is expecting me,” I said.
A look of surprise crossed Miss Exquisite’s face but she quickly recovered. “His office is down the hall on the left.”
The door to Mr. Dawson’s office was directly across the hall from the parlor, the scene of last night’s brouhaha. The rows of black chairs were gone and in their place was an arrangement of comfortable couches and chairs.
“In here, Elizabeth.” Mr. Dawson’s office was bright and modern. His chrome and glass desk and credenza were at odds with the Victorian styling everywhere else in The Pink Salamander. Mr. Dawson stood as I walked into the room. His chair looked like it belonged on the deck of a spaceship—all mesh and metal. Two red Eames chairs sat opposite the desk.
“Hi,” I said from the doorway.
“Come in. Please. Sit down.” He came around the desk and we each took one of the Eames chairs. “I ordered sandwiches from Eighth Natural Wonder.”
“I’ve never eaten there,” I said. Mr. Dawson handed me a sandwich wrapped in waxed paper and a small baggie of carrot sticks.
