Chapter Four
Darcy
Time for another confession—I hated my father’s Desert Mystic series.
In my dad’s mind, he was the literary equivalent of Gene Roddenberry, the creator of Star Trek. While his brand of writing wasn’t my thing, plenty of people disagreed with me.
His latest book, Ethereal Sand, freaked me out. It had a terrible cover, with a half-naked woman sprawled on a throne, legs apart, with a phallic staff in hand and heaving breasts.
She was supposed to be a powerful sorceress, the heroine of his series. So why’d she look like a geek’s version of a Playboy centerfold? Pfft. Maybe her real power was to inspire magical masturbation.
Then again, it was typical of the sci-fi genre. Princess Leia in the slave bikini inspired an entire generation of men. Maybe I was a hypocrite. After all, I wanted half-naked male models on my romance novel covers.
So I stood in the back of a meeting room at the bookstore, watching as my father read a passage aloud. He was in his mid-fifties with a pudgy middle, salt-and-pepper hair, and a full beard. Alan pushed the glasses up his nose and continued reading. A crowd of men in their twenties and early thirties sat in front of him, and they hung on his every word.
I tried not to be jealous, but it was difficult.
We had a complicated relationship, to say the least. My father could be frustrating and a tad condescending, but he wasn’t all bad. He instilled in me a love of literature. When I was a child, and his career hadn’t taken off yet, he took me to story hour at the library and read me Dr. Seuss.
Back then, he’d been a stellar parent. Since he worked from home, he’d been the one who got me dressed for kindergarten and braided my hair. Sure, more often than not the braids were crooked, and once I went to school with my clothes inside out, but he made an effort.
Sometimes I wondered what happened to the kind, gentle man I used to know. Had the success gone to his head? Why’d he resent my interest in writing? There were many unanswered questions.
What was I even doing here? I shouldn’t have come. Right now, I could be doing something useful with my time, like studying.
“Sounds like a self-important toff, if you ask me.”
I glanced up to see Ian standing beside me, and I jumped. Somehow, I hadn’t heard his approach.
“Oh, uh…” Words failed me. I swallowed the lump in my throat and tried to get a grip. Seeing him unexpectedly gave me a case of butterflies. “Did you come here looking for me?”
“I came to pick up a book or two.”
At a place, I’d casually mentioned? Hmm, it didn’t add up.
“You came to the book signing?” Ian cocked his head to the side. “Funny, I wouldn’t have pegged you for a sci-fi fan.”
“Because I’m not.” I nodded to the podium. “Talin Zed’s my father.”
Yeah, that’s my dad’s pen name. To be fair, he’d chosen it in his late twenties, so now he was stuck with the moniker. But it sounded so…uber-manly? Fake? Why not pick Cyber-Ninja Codpiece and be done with it?
If I ever got the chance to publish, I’d choose something romantic, befitting my genre, but believable.
“Well, blimey, I really stepped in it, huh?” He sank down into the empty chair beside me like the wind had been knocked out of him.
I leaned over to whisper, “Maybe I agree with you.”
He snickered. “Yet another secret about you I’ve discovered.”
“I thought I mentioned it in passing.” I smiled.
“You didn’t. Something tells me the oversight was deliberate.”
“Could be.”
“Regardless, I know where your talent comes from.”
Funny, my dad didn’t think so. And neither did I, lingering doubts about my work plagued me.
Last summer, I’d taken a creative writing workshop with Ian. He encouraged us to pen a series of short stories. Mine had been mini murder mysteries with romantic overtones, two cops falling in love while they solved crimes.
“What really brings you here?” I asked.
Didn’t most people use Amazon? If it weren’t for my dad’s publicity tours, I wouldn’t have a reason to set foot in a bookstore.
“Call me old school, but I like to hold an actual book in my hand. I love the weight of them, the smell.”
“You smell books?” Somehow, I had this image of him roaming the through the aisles, sniffing the pages.
“Yes, which you can’t do on an e-reader. Today, I’m looking for a volume of famous love letters, the ones Keats wrote to Fanny. Besides, I’m craving cheesecake, and they make an excellent chocolate one here.”
The man liked love letters and cheesecake? I felt a bit weak in the knees. Unbidden, a fantasy came to mind, the two of us spending lazy Sundays perusing bookstores, walking hand in hand.
So it was official.My crush had gotten out of control.
“Let’s take a quick spin through the shelves, then get a cup of tea? Maybe a dessert?”
I glanced up at the crowd again. A long line had formed near the table where Dad was seated. My father would be occupied for a while, and I’d fulfilled my daughterly duty.
“Sure. Why not?”
Eventually, Ian and I found a volume containing one of Keats’ love letters to Fanny. He’d written several over the years—all of them were filled with a passion and pining I related to.
“She married another man.” Ian ran his fingertips over the spine. “Keats had neither love nor fame in his lifetime.”
It happened to many creative types. Their work had been discovered after they died. They never got to enjoy the fruits of their labor or accolades, which must be demoralizing.
Yet another reason I should stay the course and not pursue a career as an author. While I had my trust fund to fall back on, I’d never be happy living on my father’s money. I wanted to do something meaningful.
“How awful to watch the person you’re in love with marrying someone else,” he said.
“Yes, it’s devastating to want someone you can never have.”
His gaze lit on me, and my heart skipped a beat. Like earlier this morning, we found ourselves in a moment thick with tension.
And I couldn’t decide if I’d lost my mind, or if there was something here.
“Listen.” Then, in his soft British accent, Ian read the words aloud. “I cannot exist without you—I am forgetful of everything but seeing you again—my Life seems to stop there—I see no further. You have absorb’d me. I have a sensation at the present moment as though I was dissolving—I should be exquisitely miserable without the hope of soon seeing you.”
Exquisitely miserable indeed. I could’ve written those words myself. When I wasn’t with Ian, I thought about him. No, I obsessed about him.
It’d been slowly building for years, but it was coming to a crescendo. I could feel it. And it would end painfully. I could see it coming, barreling toward me like an out-of-control train, and I’m the stupid girl who stood on the tracks.
All of this was senseless, anyway. Ian probably considered me a student, and nothing more.
“What do you think?” Ian closed the book.
For a moment, I stood there, with no idea how to respond. I was afraid I’d let something slip, tell him how much I admired him.
“I think we need some cheesecake.” I turned my back to Ian and made a beeline for the eatery.
We ate in uncomfortable silence. I searched for a safe topic but came up empty.
My dessert probably tasted delicious, but I hardly noticed. It was a shame, too, since I didn’t often indulge myself. Ian seemed preoccupied too—I’d never seen him so subdued.
“Darcy?” My father walked up to the table.
Oh, no.
“I wondered where you’d run off to.” Dad placed a hand on the back of my chair, and my entire body clenched, bracing for impact. He extended a hand to Ian. “Don’t believe we’ve been introduced. I’m Talin Zed. And you are…?”
Seriously? He used his nom de plume?
“My father’s real name is Alan James.”
“Pleasure to meet you, Mr. James. I’m your daughter’s English professor, Dr. Sterling.” Ian politely shook hands with Dad. “Quite a crowd you’ve got here.”
“Isn’t it?” My father beamed. “These events keep getting larger and larger.”
I resisted the urge to roll my eyes. Modesty wasn’t a quality my father possessed.
“Are you a fan? I’ll sign your book.” My dad retrieved a Sharpie from his pocket.
“Actually, I came here looking for a book and ran into Darcy.”
“Oh.” My dad’s face fell.
Talk about awkward. I didn’t know what to say, so I kept my mouth shut and prayed this would be over soon.
“Darcy took my creative writing class last summer. Her short stories were riveting. Now I know where she gets her talent from.”
“Yes, well, Darcy writes romance. It’s a good hobby, I suppose.” Dad’s lips pressed into a thin line.
A hobby? I enjoyed reading and writing about relationships instead of spaceships. Why did he consider it less prestigious?
“How fortunate for her. Romance is half of the fiction market. The remaining genres share the rest.”
I could’ve kissed Ian, and not only for the remark.
Dad narrowed his eyes. Uh oh. I recognized the look. He was about to lose it.
“Um, Dad, I’m actually about to head out—Dr. Sterling, too.” I gave him a one-armed hug. “Good seeing you. Bye!”
I led Ian out of the bookstore before my father exploded.
On the sidewalk, we stared at one another, an uncomfortable silence stretching between us. I wanted to spend more time with Ian, but couldn’t find the right words.
“I should be going.” Ian glanced at his watch. “There’s a meeting I should get to.”
“Right. Well, see you next week—in class, I mean.” I shouldn’t be looking for excuses to be around him.
He nodded and took off in the opposite direction.
I wasn’t proud of myself for not turning around so I could watch him leave.
See? I could handle this.
No problem.