The Bookseller's Secret

by Michelle Gable

“We can’t wait to read what’s next!”

  When cocktail hour ends and dinner is served, Katie seats herself between her grandmother and her stepbrother’s new girlfriend, whose name, she thinks, might be Jill. Nanny Carol is hunched over her phone, too concerned with fantasy football to worry about Katie’s career prospects.

  “You must have something coming out soon! It’s been so long!”

  Like a batter with pitches she doesn’t like, Katie fouls off questions, left and right. She’s skilled at this by now. After all, she’s a bestselling author—or so her book jackets proclaim—who’s not had a book out in three years.

  “Come on, Katie! Spill the news!”

  This, she understands, is done out of love, and the mistaken belief that “novelist” is more interesting than other jobs. No one asks her brother-in-law about being a patent attorney, that’s for damned sure.

  “You should do a sequel to A Paris Affair!”

  “Oh, yes!” someone else agrees. “A Paris Affair is one of my all-time favorites! My book club is reading it. Again.”

  By the time someone presents the platter of turkey, Katie’s polished off the champagne Charles left on the table.

  “I’m sorry,” says Chuck’s lady friend. “Did you say you’re a writer?”

  “I’ve written a few things, yes,” Katie mumbles. “I love your earrings. Are they real turquoise?”

  Charles sidles up, just in time, a freshly opened bottle of wine in each hand. After he describes the white as “shy in aroma,” and the red as earthy, or beefy, or some such, Katie gestures toward the Pinot Gris and asks for a heavy pour.

  “I think they’re real,” Jill(ian) says, touching her earrings. “I’m an aspiring writer myself.”

  Great, Katie thinks, though it’s possible she’s said this out loud.

  Katie angles herself toward Nanny Carol. “Rodgers doing all right by you today, NC?” she asks, though she doesn’t really want to discuss fantasy football, especially not with her grandmother, who’s been nothing but a hassle since joining her league. Incessant smack talk has turned Nanny Carol into the least popular member of the league, made worse by her first place standing and team name. No one appreciates seeing “Pussies” mocking them from atop the leaderboard, and Katie is constantly reminding them the woman is ninety-five years old. She lost her husband twenty years ago, and her only son—Katie’s father—fifteen years before that. All she’s left with is her daughter-in-law’s family and the strangers in a fantasy football group text.

  “Rodgers is not doing right by me,” Nanny Carol gripes, jabbing at her phone. “He’s not doing a G-D thing.”

  “You’re such a screenager,” Clem jokes.

  “Yeah, Nanny Carol, put away the phone,” Dani says.

  “If I lose to Sacks in the City this week,” she goes on, “then y’all can cut the lights and pull up the hearse. It’ll be goodbye, sweet world! Over and out.”

  “Nanny Carol!”

  “Glad to know you’re not taking it too seriously,” Katie says.

  “I’m sorry,” says Jill(ian). “I’m not trying to be a pest, but I have so many questions! Is there some reason you don’t want to talk to me?”

  Katie closes her eyes, awash in regret. What does this new girlfriend need with some failed writer giving her a hard time? The poor thing has enough problems if she’s dating Chuck Swift.

  “I’m sorry,” Katie says. She straightens her back and throws on a smile. “I’m distracted tonight. Long week. You’re Jillian, right? Or is it Jill?”

  “Gillian with a hard G. Like go.”

  “Nice to meet you. Would you like bread?” Katie drops a sourdough roll onto Gillian’s plate.

  “I apologize if you thought I was interrupting,” Gillian says, “but I’d love to pick your brain. You’re a novelist?”

  Katie bobs her head. “That’s what they say.”

  “What do you write, specifically?”

  “Oh, fiction. This and that. Does anyone need more wine? I’ll find Charles!”

  “He left six bottles on the table,” Katie’s sister, Britt, says.

  Gillian asks what kind of fiction. Katie wipes her brow and pushes up her sleeves.

  “Historical?” Gillian presses. “Contemporary? Domestic suspense? I’m a huge reader! All genres, really. I just enjoy a good story.”

  “She writes historical and contemporary fiction,” Britt pipes in, and Katie cuts her with a glare. “What? It’s true.”

  “Katharine, what is going on with you?” says a voice.

  Half the table jumps. It’s the inestimable Judy Cabot-Swift, appearing out of nowhere in her one-size-too-small zebra-print dress. “Believe me, Gillian,” she says. “It’s not just you. Katharine likes to be difficult these days, so I’ll tell you myself. My daughter has written three novels, one of which was a New York Times bestseller.”

  Gillian’s eyes swell. “That’s incredible! Congratulations!”

  Katie murmurs a thanks and takes several gulps of wine. She pours more and braces for what will come next.

  “Three books,” Gillian says, and nods approvingly. “Anything I’ve heard of?”

  Katie slams both hands on the table. “There it is!” she says, hot with rage, despite having heard this question a thousand times, at least. “Listen, Gillian with a hard G, I just learned your name. How the hell would I know what books you’ve read?” For the slimmest of moments, Katie feels a lightness from having spoken the words she’s repeated so many times in her head.

  “For Pete’s sake, Katharine,” Judy says with a huff. “Gillian, I’m sure you’ve heard of Katie’s first book. A Paris Affair. It’s very famous.”

  “I’m sorry,” Gillian says with a small wince. “It’s not ringing any bells, but I’ve had quite a bit of wine!”

  “You’re not the only one,” Dani stage-whispers to Clem.

  Gillian reaches for her phone. “Maybe if I saw the cover. I’ll look right now! Katie...what’s your last name?” she says, and slides her thumb across the screen.

  “Cabot,” Judy says. “Katharine Cabot. Katharine with two A’s, like Katharine Graham.”

  Gillian glances up. “Do you mean Hepburn?”

  “Honey,” Judy says. “You live in Washington and you don’t know who Katharine Graham is? You’re not that young.”

  “Mom!” Britt yelps. “Jesus, what is wrong with everyone?”

  “I’m sorry.” Judy shakes her head and flails around her hands. “I forget that the Post hasn’t been an integral part of everyone’s lives. Katharine Graham was its publisher and chairwoman. She presided over it during Watergate. My late husband, Dan, insisted we name Katie after her.” At mention of her son, Nanny Carol lifts her head. “He was a reporter at the Post during Graham’s heyday,” Judy continues. “Part of it, anyhow. Her heyday was pretty long. Longer than his life, in any case.”

  “Oh. Neat.” Gillian looks down at her phone, face flushed. “Here it is! I found it! Four stars. That’s pretty good.”

  Katie snorts. If Gillian has a drop of intellectual curiosity, she’s filtering for one-star reviews.

  Absolutely hated the protagonist.

  Pretty sure English is not the author’s first language.

  This is not high literature.

  The funny thing is Katie doesn’t necessarily disagree.

  “I’m downloading it right now!” Gillian sings. “I’ll crack it open the minute I get home.”

  “You will love it,” Judy says, and arches over the table. “But I must warn you...”

  Katie stiffens, watching as the candlelight beats against her mother’s skin, highlighting in unflattering detail the sixty-nine years she’s lived.

  “The book starts slowly. Very slowly. Everyone agrees.”

  “Really, Judy?” Katie says. “Do they? Everyone?�
��

  “Ha!” Gillian chirps. “Who’s to judge what’s slow? Most of my favorite novels start that way! I don’t need the proverbial gun in the first act. I prefer easing into books!”

  For a second, Katie softens. God bless the poor girl; she’s working like the devil tonight. “You’re doing a great job,” Katie says, and gently squeezes Gillian’s hand. “Good on you. You’ll need that relentless cheer if you’re going to make it work with Chuck.”

  “Hey!” Chuck says, followed by Britt, speaking of people who are working hard that night.

  “You haven’t told us?” shouts a voice from two tables away. “When is your fourth book coming out?”

  Katie’s eyes skip around the room and she sees that, for the first time in the history of Thanksgivings, they’re all part of the same conversation.

  “You must have something in the works,” a cousin says, “and it must be big, since you’re so tight-lipped about it.”

  “That’s truly not the case.”

  “Give us the scoop!”

  Voices bubble, frothing to the surface in a collection of what and where and when. Tears prickle Katie’s eyes. Someone says that his dentist has a compelling background, and she should write about him. Judy makes another mention of the book’s “slow start” and Katie hops to her feet.

  “Please, Mom!” she cries. “Stop! Just stop asking about my damned books! I didn’t have one out this year, as everyone’s rightly pointed out, and it’s already too late for next year, and probably the year after that. I’ve tried a dozen things, and they’ve all failed. I think I’m done with this novel-writing experiment.”

  Though the admission is bleak, Katie has no compulsion to take it back, and why should she? It’s the truth.

  “Write a sequel to A Paris Affair,” Judy says, predictably.

  “Thank you, Mother, for that innovative idea,” Katie says. “It’s a miracle no one’s thought of it before.”

  In fact, Katie would love to write a sequel. It’d solve ten problems, but that skill belongs to a type of writer that Katie is not.

  “What will you do for money?” someone wants to know.

  “Go back to my day job, I guess,” Katie says.

  “Grant writing?” Britt says. “That’s so...dull.”

  “I liked it, and my goal was always to work my way up at a large not-for-profit. We’re in the right city for it. I just got sidetracked by other things.”

  “Other things,” Judy grouses. “Like your real dream. You loved your old job, and it paid well, yet you willingly gave it up because writing is your destiny. Honestly, Katie! What would your father think?”

  “I have no idea because I last saw him when I was four.” Katie exhales. “I do need to figure out some way to make money, unless you want me moving in here.”

  “You’re always welcome!” Charles trills.

  “No. She’s not,” Judy says. “This is hogwash. You need to be a writer, and Armie is perfectly capable of supporting you both. I doubt he’d even let you send out a résumé, much less buy a pair of nylons.”

  “Let me?”

  “Nylons?” says Britt.

  “I’m not sure what Armie has to do with this,” Katie says as her nose tightens, and a hiccup builds in her throat. “This is my problem, not his.”

  “Darling, now that you’re engaged, you have to agree on major life decisions. You’re in this together, and for the rest of your lives. I know you like to play the lone wolf—”

  “Do I?”

  “Listen to your old mother. I’ve had two very successful marriages. I understand relationships.” Without warning, Judy produces a phone, seemingly out of thin air. “That’s it,” she says. “I’m calling Armie. He’s the only person who can talk sense into you.”

  Judy puts the phone to her ear and Katie lunges up onto the table. As she stretches toward her mom, something clatters. Two people scream.

  “Watch out!” a guest yells.

  “Oh my God!”

  “The candles!”

  Katie freezes, one knee in the mashed potatoes. Though she’s saved herself, and the food, from a flaming candelabra, Katie’s not getting away clean, not after toppling gravy across the gold-hued tablecloth. Meanwhile, the guests gawk, unblinking. They’ll be telling this story for years.

  “Sorry,” Katie says, and slumps back into her chair. She deftly scoops the potatoes with a napkin, as if picking up dog poop.

  “I’m calling Armie,” Judy threatens again. “I’m calling him right now.”

  “You can’t,” Katie whispers. “We broke up.”

  She holds her breath, expecting a sad and respectful hush to fall across the room. Instead everyone looks at each other blankly, waiting for someone to speak. Finally, Britt tosses her hands into the sky.

  “Uggggghhhh,” she moans. “Not again. Don’t worry, people, it’ll be better by tomorrow. Can we eat now? What are we going to do about the potatoes?”

  “It’s different this time,” Katie says. “The engagement is off. Armie moved out.”

  “He’ll be back.”

  “I bought out his portion of the house.”

  This gets Britt’s attention. “With what?” she says.

  “You’re wearing your ring,” Judy notes.

  Katie glances down. “You’re right. All part of the costume, apparently. Ha!”

  “This is hardly something to laugh about,” Judy says.

  “It’s fine, Mom. All very amicable. We still talk.”

  “You’ll be back together by Christmas,” Britt says. “Anyone care to make a wager?”

  Nanny Carol’s hand flies into the air.

  “He has a new girlfriend,” Katie says. “I think they’re living together. She seems very nice!”

  “They’re living together?” Britt says. “Jesus, when did this so-called breakup happen?”

  “Six months ago.”

  “My, my.” Judy makes a sour lemon face. “That was fast.”

  “Don’t get any ideas, Mom. She just moved here from Chicago, and they didn’t even meet until after the fact. For the record, I think it’s great. Everyone needs to get on with their lives.”

  “Good God, Katharine,” Judy clucks. “What did you do?”

  “I didn’t do anything,” Katie says as tears trickle down her cheeks. “And neither did he. Sometimes things just run their course.”

  “Damned long course,” Britt says.

  “You must’ve done something,” Judy insists. “Armie is the nicest guy in the world! Don’t get mad at me, sweetheart. You have to admit that you can be dramatic and Armie’s always so levelheaded. I can only assume you had some sort of fit, and he was good and fed up.”

  “That’s it.” Katie stands again, and tosses her napkin onto the chair. “I’m leaving. I can’t do this right now. Thanks, Judy, you really know how to make a gal feel swell.”

  “Just speaking my truth.”

  “Always,” Katie seethes, winded by how quickly she’s switched from sadness to burning red heat. “Perhaps a touch less truth-speaking in the future. What do you think?”

  “Here we go.” Judy rolls her eyes. “Histrionics.”

  “With all due respect, Mother, I’d appreciate it if you’d...”

  “Be quiet? I’m sorry, I can’t.”

  “Fine. If you can’t be quiet, maybe you should go ahead and fuck off.”

  Black Friday

  Arlington, Virginia

  Katie wakes up the next morning in her potato-caked jeans. On the side table is a note signed by Dani and Clem.

  Call us if you need anything, they wrote. Feel better!

  Millie the dog eagerly wags her tail at the side of the bed.

  “There’s my morning girl,” Katie says, and scratches the dog’s head, grateful to have another creatur
e in this house.

  Millie—full name Millicent—was a rescue from Thailand’s dog meat trade, which explains the scars on her nose and stomach, and her missing eye. With her floppy ears and ropy, forty-pound frame, she’s usually mistaken for a young yellow Lab, but her curly tail and DNA workup indicate seventy-five percent Jindo, or “Asian Village Dog.” That Katie paid two hundred bucks to genetically test her dog is yet another sad fact of her life.

  During the fifteen years (on and off) they were together, Armie performed a great many deeds but saved his largest generosities for the end. He let Katie buy him out of their house at a below-market price and, more importantly, she got to keep the dog.

  Millie is whining now, and pawing impatiently at the bed. Katie staggers to her feet. As she swipes a sweatshirt from the floor, something glints on the dresser. Her engagement ring. She shoves it under an empty CVS bag. As Millie shimmies under the bed to retrieve her crusty, tattered toy crow, Katie tries to remember if she let her out last night. There might be a puddle—or worse—in the dining room.

  “I’m sorry, Mills,” she says. “Bad mom.”

  Katie trudges toward the kitchen, her stomach a mess. She’s hungover, sure, but also afraid to see her messages, unchecked since yesterday afternoon. “God help me,” she says, grabbing her phone and coat. She steps into her sheepskin boots and clips on Millie’s leash. After choosing You’re Wrong About from the list of podcasts, Katie pops in her earbuds and they venture out into the sharp, cool air.

  “Can’t put it off forever,” Katie says, pulling up her messages.

  Or can she? Who would really know?

  Right away, Katie sees she’s missed some forty-odd calls and texts. Everyone is predictably concerned. Did she get home okay? Does she need something to eat? It will be fine, Katie. Life has its ups and downs.

  Katie opens a five-day-old message. Armie’s new girlfriend is out of town, so can he come by and see Millie, maybe have her for a night? Unless she thinks it’d be too traumatic.

  “Traumatic for someone,” Katie says, and swallows the emotions crawling up her throat. She’d nearly convinced herself he really was in Puerto Rico.

  Katie’s phone buzzes with an incoming message. It’s her best friend, texting from London. Although only monsters call instead of text, Katie presses the phone icon and waits for the telltale double ring.