CHAPTER TWENTY
Two days later, Thanksgiving at my aunts’ house comes and goes like always, except for subtle sadness lingering in the air. No one mentioned it, but I think we all felt my father’s absence. Of course, my mother, who refuses to talk about it or anything real, and my many aunts, uncles, and cousins found their usual distraction in picking apart my love life. I’ll be thirty soon, and apparently, in my Southern family it’s a sin to be that “old” and unmarried. “Where them babies at, Bex?”
The irony is I know who I want. And I can’t stop thinking about how I left things with Rose. But she won’t answer her door, won’t answer my calls, and from what I can tell, she’s disconnected me from her life completely. The call yesterday from her lawyer’s assistant, who advised me that “Miss Hale” required a statement to settle her account with me, was a clear sign: “Stay the fuck away.”
It’s not what I want. Not in the least, but what choice do I have?
This morning, I decide to take Sophie out for a little window-shopping. Christmas is coming. I’ve never been much for the holidays, but I want to do something more than just order pears and cookies online and tell everyone how sorry I am about not having time for a better gift. Maybe because it’ll be the first Christmas without my father and I don’t want it to be a sad repeat of Thanksgiving—that unspoken gloominess hanging over us. Or maybe it’s because the glimpse into Rose’s world has made me see what it’s like to be alone, and I want to try harder. As pushy, overbearing, and flawed as my family is, I’ve never been left wanting. Not as a child. Not as a man. They’re always there for me. They’ve given me a life versus an existence. And it’s something I never would have realized if it weren’t for Rose Marie Hale.
I enter the small bookstore not too far from my office. I come here at least once a month, but rarely buy anything. It’s more for Sophie, who’s allowed inside and enjoys the free treats. The owner, Jerry, was a friend of my father’s—or maybe more of an acquaintance. I don’t think anyone ever knew Murdoc Hughes well enough to really claim him as a friend.
“How’s it going?” I jerk my head at the young woman behind the counter. I think she’s Jerry’s niece or something. Either way, she smiles politely, and I make my way toward the self-help section.
I think I go there for amusement as much as I do inspiration. I’ve always wanted to write a book, and someday I will once I have something valuable to share. It’s not to say that I feel invaluable. My process works. My patients will attest to it. But there’s more to learn, more to understand before I’m ready. Until then, I come here looking at what’s new in…
Cat Therapy? I chuckle at the cover showing a man petting his calico. Letting Go of Stress is Furrrtastic? I show the cover to Sophie. “What do you think?”
She blinks those golden eyelashes at me.
“I guess you’re more of a TV person.” It’s true. She loves watching movies, too. Really, just about anything with animals will hold her attention.
I return the book to its shelf and decide to hunt for something in the biography section. Or maybe a good travel book. This year I want to give gifts to my family that mean something.
After twenty minutes I give up. My head isn’t in the holiday-shopping mood. I head out with Sophie, pulling on the leash. “Sophie, come on.” But as I’m dragging her down the romance aisle, a display catches my eye. Hale all Things Hale. I stop and look at the twenty-something books on display. The covers show everything from couples walking hand in hand on the beach to a woman in a leather corset gripping a raised sword. For the life of me, I can’t understand why anyone would want to read these books, let alone write one.
I pick up the book with a bright yellow sticker on the front that reads “The Finale. Lana Hale’s last book.”
I turn it over and read the back.
Julie Cross wants love. She’ll do anything for it. But when true love eludes her, she takes a trip around the world in search of Mr. Right.
“Do you see this, Sophie?” I show her the book.
“Don’t read that one,” says a soft voice to my side.
I turn my head and find a petite brunette staring up at me. Jerry’s niece.
She adds, “Everyone hated that book. I’d go with Nookie Cookie Magic, Fanged Love, or even Accidentally King—you can’t go wrong with those. But The Boyfriend Collector,” she crinkles her nose and glances at my ringless finger, “your girlfriend will hate it.”
I look at the cover again. It shows a woman in a red dress sitting on a white couch, surrounded by a bunch of men in tuxedos. “Why did everyone hate it?”
“No happy ending. It’s like”—she exhales with deep thought—“Lana Hale didn’t want us to find love there. Almost like she rejected romance in the end.” She shrugs. “Honestly, I wish I knew, because that was the last book she wrote before she died, and I don’t think any of her fans understand it.”
I hold out the book. “I’ll take it.”
“Are you sure? Because it’s—”
“Ring it up,” I repeat.
“Okaaaay.”
I know Rose has read these books, and I wonder if there’s something in this one that will help me understand her. Because the truth is, I really want to.
I pay for the book, walk home, and that evening I read it. Cover to cover. When I finally put the book down at three twenty in the morning, my eyes are burning with exhaustion. I know I’ve made a huge mistake. I slammed the door in Rose’s face when she reached out, offering her heart to me.
I pick up my cell on the nightstand and dial Rose. It goes to her voicemail like I expect. “Rose, it’s me. I just want to say…” I inhale slowly. “You were right to be pissed. I’m a fucking asshole, and I’m sorry. Call me back.”