Finding Ms. Write Read online

  Oh God! What have I gotten myself into?

  Dazed, she wandered into the stockroom and stared at the piles of boxes of Rhonda’s book, embargoed till the official publication day. Tomorrow. Patricia wanted to chuck them into the dumpster. Burn them. Hire someone to mur—

  “Hey, boss.” Stewie, the stock boy, greeted Patricia as he punched in. “I’ll get those unpacked today, so they’re ready to go out in the morning.” He nodded toward the boxes Patricia stared at, plotted about.

  “Sure. Thanks.” She retreated to her office.

  She couldn’t face Julia. She couldn’t face anyone, but especially not Julia. What was she writing about? Patricia peered at the security camera image, trying to zoom in on Julia’s laptop. Too blurry. She couldn’t help but replay their every interaction. Was she merely fodder for Julia’s muse? Rather than being distracted, Julia had been writing feverishly. Clearly inspired by something. Patricia didn’t want to be anyone’s muse. Not if it meant being displayed naked, literarily, for all the world to see.

  Patricia fell into a funk. Abruptly, she was too busy to see Julia. Preparing for inventory, she lied. When Julia asked for her, she told her staff to say she was busy with paperwork. When Julia called, Patricia let it go to voice mail. She ignored texts. She needed time to think.

  She had positioned Rhonda’s book on a table by the romance section, not by the door. It was not going to get prime placement, to hell with publisher demands. Still, it sold out in hours. Then Patricia had to avoid the sales floor altogether. Did that woman look at her funny? Had she read it? Did she know it was about Patricia? Was she picturing Patricia nak—? Oh God.

  Sally thought it was funny. “I think we should capitalize on it. Advertise—”

  Patricia’s cold stare stopped her dead.

  “I was kidding. I think you’re making way too much of this. How many bookstores are there in Cambridge, anyway? Dozens.”

  “Maybe in Harvard Square, but not in an ‘out-of-the-way corner of Cambridge, far from the learned miasma of the Harvard’s hallowed halls,’” she said, quoting from Lust Among the Stacks. “Miasma. Harvard’s hallowed halls. She actually wrote that.”

  Sally had her feet up on the desk, leaning back. She flipped through a tattered copy of Lust. “Maybe it’s not you at all. Maybe it’s me. Did you ever think of that? She never says Prunella is the owner, just that she works at—what does she call it? The Bookworm.”

  Patricia glared at her over new reading glasses.

  Sally tossed the book on the desk, stood, and stretched. She glanced at the security monitors. “Julia’s gone. It’s safe for you to leave the cave.”

  “I’m not avoiding her.”

  “Yes, you are.” Sally didn’t stick around to argue.

  Patricia flipped the key in the lock and tucked the night deposit under her arm. She turned and almost bumped into Julia. She froze.

  Julia looked as if she was about to say something, then stopped. She stepped aside and walked beside Patricia past the darkened hardware store and to the bank just beyond.

  After Patricia dropped the bag into the deposit drawer, Julia spoke, the pain in her voice solid and heavy. “I don’t know what I did, but I deserve to know why you can’t stand to see me or even speak to me.”

  Patricia closed her eyes and leaned against the brick wall. Traffic roared by on Mass. Ave., as heavy at ten o’clock as at rush hour. “I’m not sure I know how to describe what’s happened,” she began. “I don’t have the way with words that you do.”

  “Do the best you can.”

  Patricia looked into Julia’s hurt-filled eyes. Sadness filled the night. How had so much happiness turned into so much sadness without either of them saying or doing anything? It wasn’t Julia’s fault. “Not here,” she said. She drove Julia home and turned off the car but didn’t get out. “Here’s the thing…” Then she told her. All about Rhonda’s book, about how betrayed she felt, how scared she was.

  “Thanks for telling me,” Julia said at the end. “What do we do with this?”

  “I’m not sure.”

  “Let’s think about it.” Then she got out of the car and went inside. She didn’t wait for Patricia. She shut her door.

  That was it. Done. Finished. Patricia thought she should feel better, but of course she didn’t.

  The next weekend, Julia again waited for her at the store.

  “I’ve been thinking,” Julia said.

  “So have I,” Patricia said. She hadn’t been able to come up with a way around the hurt. But seeing Julia, so wan and sad, she longed to reach out and touch her hair. To hold her.

  They walked to the bank and then sat in Patricia’s car. She was too nervous to drive. The lot, packed during the day, was mostly empty except for a few cars scattered about.

  “I’m really pissed at you,” Julia said. “But there are things you need to know, at least about me. Writing is part creativity, part business, and there’s no room for intimacy in either of those.”

  Here it comes. “That’s what I’m afraid of.”

  “Wait.” Julia’s tone softened. “I’m not saying there’s no room for intimacy in my heart. That’s my point. You wonder why I won’t tell you what I’m working on. Thing is, until we kissed, I was about to ask you to read my manuscript.”

  “Really?”

  “I wanted your opinion. But not anymore. Don’t worry, you aren’t in it. I’m afraid, too, you see. That first kiss meant you weren’t just a reader, you were someone special to me, and I won’t ask you to comment on my writing. My ego can’t handle that. I wouldn’t believe you if you said it was terrific—”

  “But I’ve already said your writing is terrific.”

  “I know. I’m not talking rationally here. I’m speaking as a writer, with a fragile, egocentric inner monster who finds it easier to trust strangers than loved ones.”

  “Loved ones?”

  “Yes, you moron. I’ve fallen in love with you. And you know damn well you’ve fallen for me. But the fact that you’re willing to let Rhonda Fuck-all destroy us makes me both very sad and very angry.”

  Patricia cringed to hear the hurt in Julia’s voice. “Rhonda humiliated me.”

  “No one knows that was you.”

  “I do.”

  “Did you make the wild passionate love she describes in the book?”

  “Of course not! You read it?”

  “I had to. I had to see if you were justified in your outrage, if anything I might write could hurt you that much. But that could have been any bookseller in the country. She was on a national tour.”

  “It takes place in Cambridge.”

  “So what. Maybe she liked the locale but really had the hots for some chic in Seattle.”

  Patricia supposed she could be right.

  “By the way,” Julia continued, “I thought that whole dildo scene was written for straight readers.”

  Patricia looked at her, incredulous. “You want to get into a literary criticism of a Rhonda Fernly romance? Now?”

  Julia shook her head. “Sorry, occupational hazard.” She relaxed back into the seat. “Look, I can’t promise I’ll never write a character who’s a bookseller. Just because we writers draw on people we know for our characters doesn’t make us paparazzi soul robbers.”

  Patricia stared at her hands. The cold reality of her idiocy sent a shiver through her. “Have you really fallen in love with me?”

  Julia’s eyes welled, and she turned toward the window. “God help me, yes.”

  Patricia looked at her. “Me too. I mean, with you.”

  Julia let out a shaky breath that fogged the glass. “I had no idea what I’d do if you didn’t feel the same way.”

  “Can you forgive me?”

  Julia tur
ned back. “Can you forgive yourself?”

  “As long as you know booksellers can have fragile egos, too.”

  “Noted. I’ll also promise never to write about a bookseller. Unless it’s a man.” She paused, smiling. “A gay man. A really old, gay man.”

  Patricia laughed and nodded. “That works for me.” She took Julia’s hand. “I am so very sorry.”

  “I do forgive you.” Julia squeezed back.

  They sat quietly, holding hands, watching a bus roar by. She came back. How lucky am I?

  “Any chance we could recreate that love scene?” Julia asked, her voice low. “It was pretty hot.”

  “The one with the dildo?” Patricia asked.

  “No. The other one.”

  Patricia thought about that. “I don’t think those positions are physically possible. I might dislocate a hip.”

  “Worth a try?”

  “I’m game.”

  Patricia started the car and drove Julia home.

  Scanning the security images, Patricia noted the empty café. A couple of people browsed in the cookbook section. Julia entered, ordered a coffee, sat by the window, and looked right into the camera. She smiled, blew a kiss, and then opened her laptop. Patricia grabbed her cane and hobbled out to greet her.

  No, not really.

  They’d written a much better love scene.

  CHERRY PARK PULP

  BY JOVE BELLE

  The early spring sun sparkled through the clear glass. The windows, along with the house, still had the shine of something new. Barbara and her husband, Richard, had moved in when they’d married, just after the war, and fallen into a comfortable routine. At seven each morning, Richard drove to the station to take the train into the city, leaving Barb free to do…whatever. He was a money man. A broker that turned nothing into fortunes and fortunes into even bigger fortunes.

  “I’m planning a roast for dinner,” Barb called out as she ran through her mental checklist for the day. Even though she didn’t care for red meat, Richard loved it, making it an appropriate choice for their anniversary. Plus, if he ate enough, perhaps he’d fall asleep right after dinner.

  “That sounds great, darling, but I have a late meeting.” Richard stepped into the room with three ties draped over his arm, one blue, one black, and one yellow. “Have you seen my red tie?”

  “Wear the blue.” Barb slipped the tie off his arm, looped it around his neck into a perfect double Windsor, and rose up on her toes to kiss his cheek. He wore the red tie only when he had a date with one of his women. Of course, she wasn’t supposed to know that, and it made suggesting the blue all the sweeter. Not that it would stop him from fooling around, but he’d have to work a little harder to hide the lipstick on his collar.

  “All right.” He smiled his charming smile that showed too many teeth. “The blue it is.”

  “When will you be home?” Barb took the other ties from his arm. She had to play this just right. She wanted to make him feel guilty enough to buy her a new typewriter, but not so guilty that he canceled his plans. Barb poured him a cup of coffee and slid it into his hand.

  He shrugged and sipped the coffee. “It’ll be late. At least nine.”

  “Oh.” Barb averted her eyes and did her best do look as if she were sad but trying to hide it. “It’s just that…”

  “Can we have the roast another time?” Richard slipped his arm around her shoulders and pulled her into a sideways hug. “Tomorrow night?”

  Barb sniffed and nodded. “I suppose. But today…” She let her voice fade.

  “What?” Richard took a long drink of coffee. If he had any idea what she was referring to, he hid it well.

  “It’s just that today is the twelfth.”

  “The twelfth?” Richard’s eyes opened wide, betraying the exact moment he realized the significance of the date. “Of April. Oh, Barb, I’m sorry. I’ve been working so hard on this new account, and I forgot. I’m a terrible husband.”

  For any other woman, he would have been right, but for Barb, Richard’s chronic philandering and absentee status made him just about perfect. “No, your work is important. I understand.”

  “I should cancel.”

  “No, no. I would feel just awful if you did that.” Barb slipped her apron from around her waist and set it on the counter. “I have plenty to keep me busy here. My book club meets this afternoon, and I promised to make an apple pie.”

  “Well, now I’m really sorry I won’t be here tonight.” Richard smoothed his hand over his hair, tidying his beautiful, boyish curls that he kept slicked back with Brylcreem. With his dimpled smile and easy confidence, combined with the war stories he told with swaggering bravado, he was a charming man. Perfect husband material, really, and exactly what Barb needed.

  She patted his arm and handed him his briefcase. “It’s all right. I’ll make the roast tomorrow night, like you said.”

  “If you’re sure.” Richard was halfway out the back door when he turned, briefcase extended like a pointer in her direction. “Why don’t you take the checkbook downtown and buy yourself something nice. You could do with a new dress or two.”

  “Well, I do have my eye on something.” Not a dress, but that beautiful teal blue Smith-Corona Electric in the window at Woolworth’s… She’d give up ten new dresses for that.

  “That’s decided, then.” He patted the doorframe and stepped outside.

  Barb waited until she heard the car start, and then she rushed to get her coat and purse. If she hurried, she’d have just enough time to make it downtown and back before the ladies arrived.

  “Yoo-hoo!” As usual, Abby from the next street over was the first to arrive. She pushed the door open with her backside and entered without waiting to be invited. To be fair, Barb had propped the screen door open and left the main door slightly ajar. That was as good as an invitation on book club day.

  “Hello, Abby.” Barb glanced up from her work at the kitchen counter. “I know I promised apple pie, but I just couldn’t resist.” As much as she loved apple pie—and she loved it a lot—the smell of toasted coconut outside the bakery this morning was simply too much. When she’d finished with her shopping, she headed straight home, her new typewriter swinging at her side as she walked. As soon as she arrived, she started baking.

  “Oh, that looks lovely.” Abby set a Tupperware snack tray on the table with a heavy sigh. “I know you said not to bring anything.” She touched Barb lightly on the shoulder. “But I had some cold cuts and cheese.”

  Abby had a stout husband and four equally stout boys. It was unlikely she had anything extra just lying around, but that was her way.

  “Oh, you didn’t have to do that, but thank you. There on the table is just fine.” Barb sprinkled toasted coconut over her freshly frosted cake, and Abby dipped a plump finger into the remains of the cream cheese icing.

  The screen door squealed and then slammed against the frame.

  Barb looked up.

  “Oh my. I’m sorry.” A stranger stood just inside the door. She shuffled from foot to foot and smiled sheepishly. “I didn’t mean to bump it.”

  Abby hustled over to the newcomer and linked their arms together. “Barb, this is Muriel. She’s Caren’s oldest.”

  Barb’s mind raced. She had no idea who Caren was or why Abby thought that was a suitable way to clarify who this person—Muriel—was or how it explained why she was standing in Barb’s kitchen. Nonetheless, she smiled her best and said, “It’s lovely to meet you.”

  Muriel returned the smile, a dazzling, brilliant display of teeth that made Barb falter even more. Where Abby was short and solidly built, with extra padding attributed to the birth of her four boys, Muriel was tall and slender. Rather than the traditional housewife dress that was the norm in Cherry Park, she wore a button-down dress
shirt that fit too well to be a man’s, slim-fitting trousers, and sensible, yet highly polished, shoes. Her makeup was straight from the Hollywood rags, and combined with her perfectly coifed curls à la Hollywood glam, she looked like a bona fide movie star.

  Back when Barb had been young and more than a little reckless, she’d had a friend who looked a great deal like Muriel. No, that wasn’t right. They looked nothing alike, but they both carried themselves with the same casual daring, as though they had been miscast as the heroine and were really the dashing hero. Later, that friend had become her roommate, and Barb finally understood what made her different. All it took was the lion’s share of a bottle of very fine brandy and an extremely satisfying round of cunnilingus. They’d remained friends—and more—after they’d graduated and gone off to work. Barb worked for the phone company, kept her Victory Garden to do her part to support the boys overseas, and spent her nights not thinking about how perfect it felt when her friend curled up behind her as they slept.

  The war ended; she lost her job at the phone company, and Richard, along with the other soldiers, returned from flying bombers over tiny islands in the South Pacific with names Barb couldn’t even pronounce. Her friend moved to Manhattan, and Barb moved to Cherry Park. Now, five years later, she spent her nights trying not to think about how much she missed being held at night. Muriel looked to be about the age Barb had been when she’d married Richard.

  Barb reflexively brushed her hands over her hair, patting it gently to tame the frazzled mess.

  “…and so she’ll be with us through the summer at a minimum. Possibly longer, depending upon how her job search goes.”

  Barb missed a good part of Abby’s explanation but smiled and nodded along in the appropriate places. She stared at Muriel, captivated by the teasing glint in her eyes that promised more trouble than Barb could afford. It was the same look that always led to a lot of fun followed by a lot of consequences when she’d been younger—a look she’d never figured out how to say no to.