Finding Ms. Write Read online

  A warmth spread through Patricia, like those tiny tsunami waves that looked harmless but kept flowing ever farther inland. They talked for an hour. Turned out Julia didn’t come to the shop for the Wi-Fi. She liked the sunlight in the window, the soft chatter in the background. It made her feel settled to see Patricia and her staff straighten shelves.

  “I love how you can pass a table of books and, without appearing to be conscious of it, you fix the piles, move misplaced books, make sense of things. It helps me believe there is an order to the universe. That it isn’t just chaos. You may have noticed I’m pretty shy.”

  No kidding. Julia’s gaze dropped to her hands, over to the books, and then out the window, only briefly making eye contact.

  “This is a way for me to be out there while still in my own world.”

  Patricia understood. She knew talking about books was one of the best ice breakers at parties. “I’m really honored you chose my shop. Look, I’ll carry your book. I’ll order it from the distributor. You don’t need to worry about consignment.”

  Julia looked stunned. “Thank you.” It came out in a whisper.

  Patricia stood. “I should let you get back to your writing.” She started to leave but stopped. Considering the Rhonda Fernly disaster, she surprised herself by asking, “Would you be willing to give a reading?”

  Julia’s expression switched from stunned to fearful. “I’m not sure…”

  “It doesn’t have to be right away. Let’s get your book in here and selling. As a local author, you’ll have a ready audience, I’d think. Plus, the book is damn good! Think about it.”

  “I will.” Julia nodded. “Thank you. I’m so glad you liked it.”

  Patricia fairly hummed through the rest of the day. Her mood had improved so much that Sally confronted her in the office after closing.

  “I saw you talking to that woman. Did you eviscerate her? Is that why you’re so happy?”

  “Eviscer—?” She picked up Julia’s book and thrust it at Sally. “Read this, and tell me it isn’t the best thing you’ve read all year. We’re going to carry it, feature it on the front table, and I’ve asked her to do a reading.”

  It was Sally’s turn to look stunned. “A reading? We don’t even know her. She could be worse than Rhonda. Probably would be if she’s a newbie. Are you sure?”

  “Read it, and then we can discuss.”

  Sally loved it. Jean loved it. Even the part-time stock boy loved it. They placed piles by the door with a staff-pick tag from all of them, a first. Sales began slowly, but momentum built until Patricia was reordering every week. Julia signed piles of copies. Patricia took her to lunch, to convince her to do the reading. “Every week, we sell a few more. Signed ones aren’t enough for your fans, I’m afraid. People have been asking about you, knowing you’re local.”

  Julia sipped her tea. She nodded, not necessarily in ascent, but clearly thinking. “I don’t know. I like my anonymity. I worry about losing my muse.”

  “It’s just one evening. I promise I’ll let you go home right after.”

  It took a few more weeks, a few more lunches, during which Patricia found herself becoming friends with the shy writer who laughed at her jokes. They liked different authors, so they pushed each other to try new ones. Patricia learned Julia did not write full-time. She worked nights at a call center. That was why she could sit in the shop during the day.

  “My writing time is precious,” Julia said, during one of Patricia’s break-down-her-resolve lunches.

  Finally, she agreed to a reading. Six months to the day after Rhonda’s. Auspicious, Patricia thought. This time, the to-do list was much shorter. Chairs, podium, microphone, Julia. The Globe did not list it, but it didn’t matter.

  The reading was a huge success. Standing room only. Julia read like an actress, giving each character a unique voice and mannerisms. She chose a compelling passage that rendered even the toddlers quiet. She answered questions endlessly. The only bad part was they ran out of her book. But rather than disappoint those who wanted a few words with her, she talked to everyone in line, writing down their name so she could inscribe a copy when more came in. “The benefit of being a local author,” she said. “I’m in here all the time.” That prompted everyone to prepay, making Patricia even happier.

  Like Rhonda’s reading, it went long past closing, but this time Patricia wasn’t upset. She still sent her staff home to rest, but Julia insisted on helping her pack up the chairs. How many diva writers do that?

  “So, it went well?” Julia asked. They were in the back room while Patricia put the bank deposit together.

  Patricia grinned. “Oh, yes, it went very well.”

  “I’m so relieved.”

  “Don’t you know how good your book is?”

  “Not really. My publisher loves it, and obviously that’s an objective opinion. They’re not going to take on a money loser out of sentimentality. But you still wonder. I got some good reviews online, but not a ton. I’m an unknown with a first book. I have no ‘brand,’ I’ve been told.”

  “I think brands are overrated,” Patricia said, thinking of Rhonda.

  Julia shrugged. She sat in a quiet stillness. Patricia zipped up the deposit bag. They could leave now. Instead she said, “I’m kind of wired. Any chance you’d be up for some decaf and day-old scones? I know this café…” She nodded toward the front of the store.

  “Sounds lovely.” Julia’s face brightened.

  Patricia tossed the deposit in the safe and made coffee. They were about to settle on the couch in the LGBT section when her phone buzzed. She scowled. “The security company.” She took the call and explained she was still in the store—that was why the alarm hadn’t been set.

  Julia looked around. “Are there cameras here?”

  “Yes, each section.” Damn, the realization hit her. They were being recorded even now.

  “It’s late,” Julia said. “I should probably go, but I walked here, not thinking I’d be going home after midnight.”

  Patricia tried not to sound disappointed. “Say no more. I’ll give you a ride. I just need to drop the deposit off. I shouldn’t have kept you so long.”

  “It’s not that. In fact, bring the picnic. We can eat at my place.”

  Patricia’s stomach jumped a bit. She felt warm all over. “I’d like that.”

  They chatted as they walked to the bank a couple doors down, then drove to Julia’s. Patricia had to admit, she liked her. A lot.

  Julia lived on the third floor of a Victorian over the line in Arlington. Her cat greeted them with a hungry meow. Julia poured her some food, and then they settled on her couch.

  Patricia couldn’t say either of them started it. Once they’d finished eating, they seemed to move closer simultaneously. They kissed. Both were startled, but only for a fraction of a moment. A tiny hesitation, as though to reassure each other, before ardor replaced surprise.

  A good kiss, Patricia had long ago realized, can make you lose all sense of yourself. Pure sensation, no self-consciousness, almost no consciousness other than blazing joy. This was such a kiss.

  Did Julia push her down onto the couch or did she pull Julia on top of her? Either way, she liked the weight of her. They fumbled with each other’s clothes, but Julia, after nearly tumbling off, sat up, grabbed Patricia’s hand, and led her to the bedroom.

  She said only, “Will you stay? After.”

  Patricia whispered, “Yes,” and kissed her throat.

  After, Patricia was glad Julia had asked her to stay. She didn’t want to leave. She lay awake, cradling Julia, asleep in her arms.

  In the morning, they made love again. After breakfast, Patricia left, reluctantly, because she had to get ready for work.

  Sally followed her to the back room. “Last night with Julia
was great, wasn’t it?”

  Patricia stopped, suddenly faint. “What?”

  “The reading?” Sally snapped her fingers in Patricia’s face. “What’s wrong? You look like you’ve seen a ghost. Did she throw a tantrum after we left?”

  Was that just last night? “Oh, yeah. Terrific reading. No, no tantrum.”

  “Can’t trust these writers. You sure you’re okay? You look pale.”

  “I’m fine.”

  What had she done? Her thoughts swirled. She wouldn’t mind telling Sally what she’d done. Well, not everything, but that she was seeing Julia. She’d have to tell her sooner or later. But not yet.

  Her phone beeped with a text. From Julia. Hi.

  Patricia smiled and typed back, Hi, too.

  Sally was busy getting the cash drawer out of the safe.

  Another text from Julia. I probably shouldn’t fling myself at you next time I’m in the store. But know I want to. No abbreviations. How writerly.

  Patricia responded, That might be best until I have time to let staff know. She paused. What, exactly, would she say?

  Julia typed back, Understood. Then a little heart.

  A little heart! Patricia smiled. She looked up to find Sally staring at her.

  “You? Texting? What’s up with that?”

  “Nothing.”

  Sally’s eyes narrowed. “Something’s going on.”

  Not now. Patricia needed time to get used to this. “Don’t you have a store to open?”

  Because of Julia’s night job, they only saw each other on weekends. When Julia came into the store, Patricia avoided even looking in her direction. When she spied her on the security camera, Julia was usually staring out the window. She was having trouble concentrating on her writing but said she didn’t mind.

  Once they settled into a kind of routine, weekend dates and sleepovers, the occasional morning delight on Patricia’s day off, she prepared to tell Sally and then the rest of the staff.

  After closing, Patricia and Sally were in the office. Patricia stammered, “So…Julia and I have become…friends. Well, more than friends…”

  “Are you making her a partner in the store?” Sally leaned back in her chair and put her feet on Patricia’s desk.

  “Partner? No…”

  “Then what is it?”

  “You see…” She stared at the floor.

  Sally snorted. Patricia looked up to see her friend grimacing, trying not to smile.

  Confused, she asked, “What’s going on?”

  Sally burst out laughing. “I’m sorry. I couldn’t hold it in anymore.”

  “Hold what in?”

  “Do you seriously think no one knows what’s going on between you two lovebirds?”

  “Lovebirds! You know?”

  “Only since the morning after the reading. God, you were disgustingly happy.”

  Patricia’s mind raced. “Does everyone know?”

  “The UPS guy might not have made the connection yet. But yeah, pretty much everyone else.”

  “Oh.”

  Sally leaned in and squeezed Patricia’s hand. “Hey, I’m happy for you. We all are. Just be careful. I don’t want you to get hurt. You haven’t done this in a while.”

  “Thanks for the reminder.”

  A palpable relief lightened Patricia. Like coming out. Now she was free to see Julia, smile at her in the store, talk about their dates the way Sally talked about hers. Life began to feel very complete. Successful business. Successful relationship.

  Until Julia started declining dates. She didn’t hide why. “I’m not getting any writing done.”

  “I’m sorry.”

  Julia pulled her into a hug. “Don’t be. I’m happy. Except, well, my editor is on me. I had a nice break after I sent my manuscript in, but I’ve got the edits back. And now people come up to me in the store all the time. It’s hard to concentrate.”

  “Shit.”

  “It’s just for a few weeks, but I need to pull back.”

  “A few weeks?” Patricia’s insides hollowed out. Crystal clear, she realized she had consigned her heart to Julia. Was it now being handed back? Unwanted?

  “I’m sorry.”

  “Don’t be,” she said, pretending to be understanding. “This is what you want.” But is it all you want? She wanted to ask but didn’t dare.

  Julia stopped coming to the store. They limited their time to one date a week. For Patricia, it meant a harsh withdrawal from a sweet addiction.

  “Where’s your new pal?” Sally asked.

  They were rearranging the remainder table. Books that were once hot sellers got sold off at bargain basement prices after losing their glow. Patricia tried not to see her relationship with Julia as losing its glow.

  “She needs time, apart, to get some writing done. I seem to be a distraction.”

  “It’s probably just as well,” Sally said.

  “How so?”

  “Think about it. Married to a writer. Clearly, you’d hardly see her.”

  “Who said anything about marriage?”

  “I’m just saying, a writer can’t be monogamous. She’d be cheating on you with every character in her head.”

  “Thanks for that image.” Patricia adjusted the pile of Barbara Kingsolver’s latest. “But I like her.”

  “Does she like you as much?”

  “I don’t know. I thought so.”

  “If she does, it’ll work out. If not, you’re better off without her. Give her time.”

  “Set her free? And if she loves me, she’ll come back?”

  “Exactly.” Sally leaned close, conspiratorially. “And if she doesn’t come back, hunt her down and kill her.”

  Patricia laughed. “You’ve been spending too much time in the horror section.”

  The days without Julia dragged by, reminding Patricia how much better life was with her in it. She shouldn’t need Julia to make her happy, but damn it, maybe she was one of those people who operated better when partnered. Julia wanted to quit the call center job and write full-time, and Patricia could offer her that. But it was way too early in their relationship to suggest it. Julia’s first love was writing. Patricia had to accept that before she could take any next steps. What if Sally was right?

  Two weeks dragged into three and crossed into a fourth before Patricia got a text from Julia that made her heart soar and forget any misgivings.

  I finished my edits!

  Congratulations! Patricia typed back.

  Let’s celebrate.

  After a sumptuous dinner, they cuddled on Patricia’s couch in front of a roaring fire. Life was, once again, good.

  Patricia played with a strand of Julia’s hair. “I know writers can be funky about this, but can you reveal what the next book is about?”

  “I’d rather not.” Julia twisted around to look at her. “It’s purely superstition. I just get weird about things like that.”

  “So what should we talk about?”

  Julia fingered a button on Patricia’s shirt. “I was hoping we didn’t need to talk.”

  “Oh. I’m good with that.”

  Words are a singular form of communication, common to both writers and booksellers. But there are many ways to communicate without words, and Patricia and Julia explored them all. They went for walks around Fresh Pond, holding hands. They watched movies at the artsy theater in Kendall Square. They danced. They kissed. They touched. They melded together and flowed apart, only to rejoin and rejoice. Patricia’s hands made order of chaos. Julia’s fingers created ecstasy, elation, bliss. An entire thesaurus of emotion.

  One Sunday morning, they lay entwined on Julia’s bed, bright sun warming their bodies. Julia slept, spent. Patricia trace
d words across Julia’s back, kissed her shoulder. She had come back.

  The next morning, back at her own place, Patricia watched TV while eating breakfast. Rhonda Fernly had a new book coming out and was going to be interviewed on The Now Show.

  The host, Matt Lager, gushed, “Your hundred and twentieth book! How do you keep it so fresh?”

  “Story is everywhere, my dear,” Rhonda said.

  The low lighting and soft-focus lens made her look thirty years younger than she had at the store.

  “So, this new book,” Matt burbled, “is it based on a real bookseller?”

  Patricia choked on her toast.

  Rhonda winked and smiled. “I only tell tales between the covers.”

  Patricia turned off the set. When she got to the store, she rummaged through her box of advance reader copies. There, in the corner, Rhonda’s latest, Lust Among the Stacks. She barricaded herself in the office and spent the day reading—and nearly retching.

  The main character, Mary Sue, was a world-famous romance author. While on tour, she has hot, throbbing sex with a bookseller in, gasp, Cambridge, Massachusetts. Patricia wanted to throw the book out the window but didn’t want anyone else to find it. Dear God. She had to sell this in her store. In Cambridge! She forced herself to read the whole thing. The plot deteriorated into a murder for hire as the bookseller attempts to kill off Mary Sue and take her place on the tour. She’s saved by a sexy police detective. Really, Rhonda? You come up with this?

  Patricia tossed the book into the recycling bin and rubbed her face. It was even worse than she had imagined when she’d told Rhonda off. What could she possibly do? This, unfortunately. What was that saying she always saw on Facebook, “Don’t piss off a writer”? Well, shit and a half.

  She thought of Julia. Is this what she had to look forward to? Where do writers get their ideas?