Chapter 16
16
We showered—separately—and twenty minutes later, were having brunch with the entire family. Everyone had slept in, returning from Seward either by car or train and returning late. Before us were blueberry pancakes, hash brown potatoes, caribou sausage—it seemed Jubal had shot, no, taken, a very large caribou—scrambled eggs, toast, OJ and coffee. The only seat vacant was Goldie's, who'd received a phone call as we were setting the table.
For this meal, Jubal left the saber behind but wore his confederate pants with a white shirt and maroon vest, adorned with large brass buttons. Everyone else was dressed more traditionally in jeans and fleece, worn to ward off the cooler temperatures. To be polite, I once again threw the Civil War religious bling over top of my hot pink pullover. It was quite the combination.
“Jefferson, that's rude!” Goldie said from the kitchen. The door between the rooms swung wide. “Violet, you're not going to believe this!” She came into the room, heels clacking on the wood floor as she wiped at the front of her skinny jeans. Besides the jeans, she wore a sweatshirt with a very large embroidered moose on the front. It worked because she was in Alaska, but I would make sure it never made an appearance again once she left the state.
Everyone stopped eating once again. I had a forkful of pancake halfway to my mouth.
Mike took a sip of his coffee. “Now what?” he murmured over the top of his mug.
“I know you wanted me to keep this to ourselves, but this is too big not to share. That book of yours?—”
Oh, no. This was going nowhere good. I felt my breakfast turn to lead in my stomach. I put my fork down with a clatter. It was possible I might puke again, validating the morning sickness story even more. “Goldie,” I scolded.
“It's a bestseller!”
I stared at her, trying to process her words. “A bestseller where?”
“Online. MeMe finished the cover and my neighbor's nephew's girlfriend volunteered to format the book and she helped me publish it for you online. You will not believe how many copies it's sold!”
“The new panties book?” Mike whispered.
I nodded my head numbly. I wondered if that was the title. The New Panties Book by Violet Miller.
“Goldie, how do people even know about the book? There are so many online these days,” I wondered.
“You think I know people in Bozeman, but my reach is much further. How many”—Goldie glanced at Alex—“stores like mine do you think there are out there? I just sent out a group email telling everyone, then they told everyone, and they told...well, you get the idea. It's like a prayer chain for grown up things.”
“Now everyone online—God, the entire world—is going to know I wrote that. Olive Perlnutter is going to have me fired, for sure.”
“What's this about a book?” Mrs. O asked, stirring cream into her coffee. Nothing seemed to faze her. I had a feeling if Goldie announced I was chosen for the next NASA shuttle, Mrs. O would remain calm.
“You wrote a book, Violet? That's great!” Jubal added. “Is it about fishing?”
“Wow, that's amazing. I didn't know you were a writer,” Trish said, clearly impressed.
The twins were trying to figure out what was going on, and obviously Goldie noticed. “Tell Jean-Luc and Paul what we're talking about, Violet. It's rude to keep them in the dark.”
“I am not telling them about my books!” They might be the only two in the world who didn't know about it.
“You speak French, Violet?” Jubal asked.
“I didn't know you spoke French,” Mrs. O said at the same time, clearly impressed.
“Yes, a year abroad in college.” I was distracted, and my mind was overwhelmed by Goldie's actions.
“Translate.” Goldie gave me a look she'd give a five-year-old with bad manners.
“Fine.” I stopped to think and translate what I wanted to say into French. I had to tell them about the book, but I didn't have to tell them the whole truth. Wait a minute. No one spoke the language but me, so it was time for a little payback. I stumbled over my stilted French, but was able to piece together: Goldie wrote a book and people are buying it on the computer. She writes about love and....I stopped to think about how to translate the word sex.
Both men—and everyone else for that matter—stared at me, clearly surprised of my language skills. I'd done a good job so far because one of the twins made hand gestures that all grownups easily recognized.
“Alex, why don't you get George the Gnome off my dresser and hang out with him and watch TV for a bit, if that's okay with your mom and dad.” No way was I going to corrupt a minor with universal hand gestures or my book.
“Can I? Can I?” Alex chanted.
Banks nodded and the boy shot off like a cannon down the hall. “Jefferson!” he screeched. He must have been waylaid and crotch sniffed by the dog on the way to get George.
With the boy gone, I continued in French. “Yes. She wrote a book about a man and woman and there's lots of sex in it.”
Both men's eyebrows shot up and looked at Goldie.
“Ooh la la?” Marc, the one with the scar on his eyebrow, said.
“ Oui, ooh la la,” Goldie replied with a sharp American twang, then nodded happily, probably thinking they were surprised I'd written word porn. “Thank you, Violet. That wasn't so painful, was it?” Goldie sat down in the empty seat and started filling her plate.
I inwardly grinned.
“You have to take maternity leave anyway to have the baby, so maybe you can consider not returning and be a full-time writer instead,” Trish commented.
“That's a good idea, Violet,” Mr. O added.
I'd forgotten about the baby. Crap. I did some speedy math. A spring baby. What she said made sense, if I was actually having a baby. But, remove the baby and her idea of just quitting to be a writer was intriguing. But not if everyone in town knew about the kinds of books I liked to write. It would be a reputation killer.
“Coffee?” Mike held the pot and when Goldie nodded, he poured her some and refilled his cup. How could he be completely indifferent to the magnitude of what Goldie had done? Didn't he know that writing, especially romance, especially erotic , was like baring your soul, letting everyone who read it know what was in your sexual makeup? Either he was confident in his sexuality—which I could easily believe—or he'd paid Goldie money to read the book and knew what I really wanted. And was confident that he could give me just what I needed. Crap, I could believe that idea, too. Oh, God!
“I didn't use your real name, Violet. A romance novel needs to have a really good pen name. Everyone knows that. It's half the fun.”
“Romance?” Mrs. O asked. “I didn't take you for a romance writer.”
I winced because I wasn't really sure what she did take me for. Children's books?
“I love romances. Is it contemporary or historical?” Trish asked, pouring more OJ in her glass. “My e-reader is full of them.”
Banks chuckled. “It is. There's no way I'd share books on vacation with her.”
Trish gave him a playful slap. “You don't mind when I whisper about what I read to you.”
Banks grinned like a whipped husband—who was getting some. “True. So true.”
“It's...um...it's a contemporary,” I offered, not wanting to elaborate.
“What's the pen name?” Mike asked, taking a sip of coffee. It was as if he was finding out the name of a dentist referral.
“Cherry Bottoms,” Goldie said, pouring syrup on her pancakes.
Mike spit his coffee out across the entire table, hitting all of the food and his mother's shirt.
“Mmm, I like cherries,” Jubal commented, cutting his pancakes up.
Mrs. O used her napkin to wipe her shirt. “I guess we're done with breakfast.” She gave her son that motherly evil eye.
“Translate, Violet. The boys look lost.”
“I have no idea how to translate that into French!”
I wished the earth could swallow me up. Dying would not be too bad right now. Perhaps stomped by a moose. Eaten by a bear. Anything would be better than this moment. I thought I had one up on her, but no. She'd done it. She'd actually hit rock bottom. Or cherry bottom. “Oh my God. Goldie!” I all but squealed.
Goldie looked surprised, as if she'd done nothing wrong. “What?”
“Are you insane? Cherry...The book was supposed to be just for fun. It was private !”
“Well, that book, young lady, has sold over fourteen thousand copies.”
It was my turn to choke. On my spit.
“Fourteen thousand,” Mr. O repeated. “That's a lot of books.”
Mike leaned close to me, reached down and squeezed my hand. “That's a lot of new panties.”