CHAPTER ONE
It began as it always did, another endless book signing in an overcrowded bookstore. The theme du jour was controlled chaos—lots of clerks dashing about, long lines at the checkout counter—a consumer’s nightmare, a store manager’s dream. Any other author would have been thrilled, positively joyful at such a busy book signing. Not Marie Hhermann. Never Marie Hhermann.
She could hear the babble of readers around her. Instead of thrilling her, as it had in the very beginning, she found the enthusiasm profoundly depressing.
Head down, signing like an automaton, she could hear the next two women in line chatting.
“Is that the time? I’ve been here for an hour already.”
“I’ve been here since lunch,” her companion gushed. “Who cares? You know what a signed Jessica LeFleur is worth? I’m still hanging onto the one I got from last year’s book tour. See?” The woman, a smartly dressed brunette, dug a hardcover out of her tote and flipped open the cover, reading the dedication out aloud: ‘Why don’t you try Les Miserables? Jessica’.”
“Doesn’t she have the best sense of humor?”
Oh, puke. “Next.”
The first woman elbowed her way to the head of the line. “Could you sign it, “To my number one fan, love, Jessica?”
Jessica snapped her gum, quelling irritation. She had so many “number one fans”, she needed to employ a census taker to keep track of them all. “I could .” She took the proffered book, her newest release, scribbled, ‘Help! I’m trapped in a publishing contract and I can’t get out!’, and handed the book back.
The customer read the inscription and smiled uncertainly. “Um...thank you.”
Jessica cracked her gum again. “Next!”
Seated beside her, her best friend, Joe Hall, growled to show his disapproval. He knew why she was rude to her fans, but didn’t tolerate it. “Cut the crap,” he muttered in her ear, “or no more M&M’s.” He added to the still smiling, still puzzled customer, “Don’t mind her, ma’am. She’s on medication.”
“Oh! I’m sorry to hear that. I hope you feel better soon. I just love your work.”
“Why?”
“Because—” The woman faltered, then plunged ahead. “Because you write such beautiful love stories. You’re my favorite author. Better than Nora Roberts and Julie Garwood put together.”
Jessica sighed. It never ceased to amaze her. She wrote crap, which people mistook for gold. Libraries were stuffed with dusty classics, and meanwhile people were standing in line for three hours to get a signed Jessica LeFleur. It was beyond ridiculous. Worse, it made you lose respect for them. Almost as much respect as she had lost for herself.
*****
Toward the end of the line, Tony Freeman was amazed at the number of people in line.
“I can’t believe it!” his mother raved, in itself a startling development. Elinor Freeman did not rave. “I can’t believe I’m going to get a signed LeFleur! Now, when we’re up there, smile nice and give her your card.”
“Ma. I’m a nobody. I have exactly zero clients, which is why I still work for Mutch and Munch. She’s Jessica C. LeFleur, worldwide sales in the bazillions. She doesn’t need an agent, she needs an accountant.” His cell phone rang; he pulled it out and answered. “Freeman...I can’t talk right now. Yes, I’m aware of the app, it’s right here on my phone.” He paused, listening, while his mom looked on, unabashedly curious. “Yes, I’ll keep it in mind. ‘Bye.” He hung up and stuffed the thing back into his pocket.
“What in the world?”
“My boss is ‘gently’ encouraging everyone to take advantage of the mental health and therapy apps she had installed on all our phones.”
“Well. That was nice.”
He snorted. “Yeah. A nice pain in the ass. None of us are using it, and my boss likes to remind us that we’re not using it. Which, ironically, is making me nuts.”
His mother’s response was dry. “How awful for you.”
“The trouble with people in therapy—like my boss—is that they think everyone else should be in therapy, too.”
Elinor smiled. “Think about the state of the world for a moment.”
“Okay, fair point. It’s—”
“Look! It’s almost our turn.”
His mother, who hadn’t gotten excited when his brother graduated magna cum laude or when his father won the local lottery, was actually jumping up and down in her size five kitten heels. He had to laugh.
“All right, ladies.” There was a man at the signing table, standing and holding his arms up like a television evangelist. “Ms. LeFleur is finished signing books for the day.”
As one, the crowd groaned. The man winced, but bravely continued. “She’ll be in attendance at the Romance Readers’ Convention tomorrow at the Civic Center.”
Remarkably mercurial, the crowd perked up.
“But now she has to go.”
Tony could see the man standing beside Miss Hot Stuff Author was clearly uncomfortable at being the bearer of bad tidings. Tony could also see Miss Hot Stuff Author didn’t mind making her flunky do the dirty work. She wasn’t even looking at her loyal fans, just slumped over the table, her head pillowed on her arms, eyes closed.
“I’m sorry. She’ll be signing books tomorrow...”
It was maddening. They finally made it to the head of the line, only to be told Miss Hot Stuff Author had writer’s cramp or whatever and was blowing off the rest of her fans.
He cleared his throat. “Um...Miss LeFleur...”
Miss Hot Stuff Author, he noticed, couldn’t be bothered to look up. All he could see was the top of her head.
“Don’t call me that,” she groaned into her forearm. “I can’t take it. My name is Marie.”
His mother tugged so hard at his sleeve, she practically ripped his arm off. “Don’t bother her.”
He ignored her, bending toward the table like a testy maître ‘d. “I realize it’s asking too much of you to sign books for fans, thereby increasing sales and your bottom line. It must be a terrible burden. We’re really sorry to put you out like this. But if you could bring yourself to sign just one...more...book. If you try to make that extra effort that separates champions from schmucks—”
What’s-her-name stood, and then she was gone, stomping past the crowd. At no time, he noticed, did she trouble herself to look him in the face.
Disgusted, he straightened. “And speaking of schmucks...”
His mother shook her head. “She’s tired. We only waited in line for half an hour, but she’s been here all day, signing. It’s okay.”
Bookstore Guy, meanwhile, had been shifting from one foot to another, and now he cleared his throat. “Why don’t you give me your address, ma’am? I’ll send you a signed copy.”
Tony had been about to answer when his mother sent a sharp elbow into his ribs. He glared at her, but obediently reached into his pocket and...
“Here’s my card.”
Bookstore Guy took it, studied it. “Mutch and Munch?”
“It’s a small publishing house,” he explained. “We do mostly poetry anthos and a few literary novels. You can send the book to my attention.”
Bookstore Guy was now looking at him appraisingly, tapping his business card against his teeth. “Ah-hmm. Maybe we could have dinner sometime. I know a charming bistro that doesn’t skimp on the bread. I can give you Love’s Tender Fury then.”
His mother jumped in. “He’d love to.”
“Ma.”
“He’s free for a date tomorrow. Or anytime!”
Tony swallowed a groan. Matchmaking was one thing, but... “First of all, I’m not free tomorrow. Second—”
“What’s the matter with you? He’s about your age, he seems to like you, he’s handsome...if you like skinny...he hangs around writers so he must be smart—”
“But I’m not gay.”
She threw up her hands. “Oh, picky, picky.”
Bookstore Guy grinned. “You can’t blame me for trying.”
“Tony, he’s nice! And how do you know you’re not gay unless you’ve tried it?”
As God and Bookstore Guy was his witness, he had no idea how to answer such a question.
“Well, if you decide you do want to try it...” Bookstore Guy was trying very hard not to laugh.
“You’ll be the first person I call,” he promised.
“I just think,” his mother said with cool dignity, “you should keep your options open, is all.”
“Great, Ma.”