Chapter Twenty-One
The thing I loved about big cities was that you could be as invisible as you wanted to be in them. It was one of the reasons I loved taking the bus into Portland so often growing up. It was the one place I felt like I belonged. Those streets owned me and protected me. They made me feel wanted and free. My parents had thought they were making me free, but I could always tell when my choices displeased them. When I didn’t give them the data points they were hoping for. It made me second-guess my choices or choose what I knew they wanted me to. Anything to make them happy. Anything to make them see me, claim me, and belong to me. Now the cities had turned their backs on me just like my parents. There was no more safety in the crowd. I became the bullseye in the middle of the target. I had become the reason for a crowd.
It all started by being followed to the airport by two persistent men with cameras, giving Peter more concern for sending me to New York alone. I kept my hand on his tense thigh all the way to O’Hare as he weaved in and out of traffic trying to lose the men in the black car with tinted windows. For a moment, I thought he was going to swear. I always thought I would be happy to hear him be a normal human, but the man driving well over the speed limit, gripping the steering wheel, breathing heavily, was not Peter. It didn’t help when those two men rushed me as soon as I was out of the car. Peter placed himself and my luggage between me and the rather large men taking picture after picture. Thank goodness for airport cops. They don’t take kindly to people leaving their vehicles unattended. If they hadn’t intervened, I was afraid Peter was going to throw a punch.
“I should go with you,” he breathed out, upset once the men were shown back to their car.
I placed my hand on his warm red cheek. “I’ll be fine.”
His right brow raised. “There’s that word ‘fine’ again.”
I mustered a smile for him. “I meant to say fantastic.”
His lip twitched. “I might have believed you, but you never use words like that.”
“How about, I’ll survive? And I’ll bring you back a cheesy My Wife Went to NYC and All I Got Was This T-shirt shirt.”
His genuine smile appeared. “Only if you promise to be the one who wears it.”
I pressed a kiss to his lips. “Now you sound like my husband.”
“Do you really think that’s her?” A voice caught our attention. We turned to find several cell phones pointed at us.
“I hate this,” Peter whispered.
I did too. More for him than me. Peter didn’t use words like hate. But I was determined to be me and not Autumn. And Delanie wouldn’t miss the opportunity to kiss her husband goodbye. I pulled on Peter’s shirt and yanked him toward me. “Let’s give them what they want.”
His eyes widened before my lips collided with his. This was no peck on the lips. This was a, I’m going to miss you, soul reaching, lips parted, I’m going to taste what you ate last week kind of kiss. Peter had stage fright at first, but it didn’t take him long to wrap me up tight and let his emotions bleed into my lips. His kiss bordered on hungry and angry, the kind of emotions that normally would have led to the shedding of clothes, but not even I was that risqué.
He pulled away too soon only to smile down at me and shake his head. “You know how to get to me.”
I had to take a breath. “That was a kiss for the books and probably going on several social media pages. Good job.” I winked.
Peter cringed.
“I love you.”
“I love you more. Please be careful.” His eyes roved over the cluster of people staring and taking pictures of us.
I grabbed my suitcase and slung my laptop case across my shoulder. “I will. Joan is tougher than ten bodyguards.”
“Call me when you land.”
I nodded while we gave all the lookie-loos a picture-perfect departure with Peter grasping my hand until only our fingertips touched as I walked away.
A group of women shouted, “We love you, Autumn!”
I put on another show and smiled and waved at them. It was the first time someone had called me Autumn. I wasn’t sure how to feel about it.
Not everyone was as pleasant. While I was checking in, some women behind me hadn’t learned the art of whispering. “OMG. Did you see her husband? He’s freaking hot. I heard he was a priest. If my priest looked like that I would go to church more.”
Ignore them.
“I heard last night on the news that she’s not even catholic and he had to leave the church because they were caught together in the rectory.”
What the hell? I’d never been in a rectory. Did Mimsy say that? Maybe I should have watched the entire interview. If everyone thought we were like that novel The Thorn Birds, they were sorely mistaken. We had nothing to be ashamed of. No vows were broken. We didn’t even consummate our relationship until we were married. Admittedly, that was hard, but I knew Peter would have regretted it any other way. It took everything I had not to lash out at those women who should really learn to whisper properly.
It didn’t get any better once I was on the plane. In first class, of all places. I’d never flown first class. All that meant, besides more comfortable and roomier seating, was that everyone who boarded the plane who recognized me, which was more than I would have guessed by this point, had a chance to gawk at me or ask me for an autograph. The flight attendants didn’t appreciate it and ushered people along, to my relief. Signing autographs was weird. I’d never done it in person. I’d signed stacks and stacks of books, but never in person. I had to remember to write Autumn Moone, not Delanie Decker.
I quickly realized no one was interested in Delanie, except for the sordid, untrue details of my life. And maybe the slick businessman who became my seatmate. He didn’t have a clue who I was but stared at my empty ring finger and tried to engage me in conversation. Not even my earbuds deterred him from talking to me, and he asked me for my number after I told him I was married.
The only good thing to come out of the two-hour flight was when we landed, a savvy flight attendant took mercy on me by personally retrieving me and letting me deplane before anyone else. For her kindness, I gave her Fiona’s email and told her to contact her. I would be sure she got a signed copy of each one of my books in hardback. For that I received a genuine hug.
I hustled through the airport, well, as much as you can hustle through JFK. Like the city where it resided, it was wall-to-wall people. I only had a carry-on, so I was calling Joan as I walked, letting her know to come pick me up. She promised she would be on time and waiting in the cell phone lot when I arrived. She lied.
“Ten minutes. Traffic is hell.”
“You don’t know what hell is. People are staring and pointing at me,” I whispered into the phone.
“That’s because you look like a Calvin Klein model and FYI, you’re all over social media and the news. Go hide in the bathroom or something. On second thought, don’t use the bathrooms there.”
“Just drive fast.”
“Kid, you’ve been to New York; there’s no such thing.”
“Fine. Call me when you get here.”
“Will do, darling,” she mocked me.
I tried to blend in and headed toward Starbucks, but my phone rang. I assumed it was Peter. I was planning on calling him from the car so it would be somewhat private, but I guessed he was anxious to know if I landed. And I was eager to find out how it was going there.
More surprises were on the horizon. It was Cat. We’d already had our quarterly call. It hit me that maybe I should have told her about my big secret, but she never knew any of my other secrets, even the biggest one of them all. A sudden pang hit my heart. I had to catch my breath. No one would find out about her. I’d made sure. I tried to calm myself. I answered the phone as a distraction, not because I wanted to talk.
“Hi, Cat.”
“Hello, Autumn.” She didn’t sound pleased. What did she expect?
“Funny,” I brushed off the slight.
“I wasn’t trying to be humorous. Our phones have been ringing nonstop thanks to you.”
“Sorry about that.”
“A heads-up would have been nice; we are your parents after all. Ron says hello, by the way.” How did they call themselves my parents when they didn’t want me to call them Mom and Dad?
“Tell Ron hello for me.”
“The rumors are true then.”
I maneuvered around a crowd and tried to find a corner to hide in. All I could find was a sparsely populated gate. “It depends on what you’ve heard.”
“You’re a romance author?” She didn’t even try to hide her distaste.
“I have written a few romance books.”
“You’re the biggest name in romance right now.” She wasn’t taking kindly to my attempts to keep it light. “You do realize you’re perpetuating unrealistic fantasies that hurt the general population? Books like yours only fuel unmet expectations. Ron and I see this all the time in our practice. I never thought our daughter would be part of the problem.”
Resentment boiled inside of me. I tried hard to keep it to a simmer, but my mouth was burning. “Daughter? Since when have you called me your daughter, or better yet treated me like one?”
“I have no idea what you are talking about. Ron and I did our best to raise you.”
I scoffed. “On more than one occasion among your friends you referred to me as your subject.”
“You heard that?” she whispered.
I gave her some credit for not denying it, but it still hurt, maybe even more now that she gave it validation. “Yes, Cat. And for once, I wish you would be proud of me. Me. Not the experiment you had already written your desired conclusion about before the test was even conducted or concluded.”
She stayed silent for a moment, but she came back swinging. “Judging by how successful you are, you should be thanking us for giving you the tools to accomplish your goals.”
This was never one of my goals, but she wouldn’t have known that because she didn’t know me. And she would never be proud of me.
I sighed. “I’m sorry for any inconvenience this is causing you. I’m in New York now to do some promotion and interviews, so hopefully the calls will die down soon.”
“You’re in New York?” her voiced perked up.
“My publisher is here.”
“You know Ron and I have written several books and have been published in the most prestigious scientific journals in the world. We would be happy to explore some new ideas we have with one of your contacts there.”
I had no words. My own mother wanted to use me. “My publisher only takes works of fiction.” I bit back my retort that I had read some of their works and some of it bordered on fiction. “I have to go.”
“I’m sure you will be thrown in the path of those who might be interested in what we have to offer. I’ll email you our latest outline.”
That was going to be deleted.
“Goodbye, Cat.”
“Delanie.”
“Yes?”
“I’m . . . well . . . I . . . well . . . goodbye.”
I think she hurt herself there at the end, but nowhere near as much as she hurt her daughter.