Chapter 8
Impossibly, it was Darcy in the driver’s seat en route to Estelle’s book launch in Manhattan.
In the passenger seat was Estelle, jittery and smiley, her face glowing with the late June sunlight that came in through the windshield.
Behind them was Darcy’s mother, Sam, who was in charge of the music, switching from nineties’ pop to eighties’ pop and dancing around.
It was Estelle’s first time off the island since Grandpa Roland’s death, Estelle’s first batch of freedom after the event that had changed the course of her life forever.
Darcy was thrilled that she’d been invited along.
When Darcy had watched the rapid decline of Grandpa Roland, she’d had two very young children and a marriage under five years old.
She’d felt at the dawn of her life, watching what happened when “till death do us part” really happened.
She’d been unable to sleep, watching Steven sleep in the dark, terrified that he’d die right in front of her.
She’d realized that nothing kept you safe from the awfulness of life, that love was the bravest thing you could do, if only because it could so easily be taken away.
When the Manhattan skyline came into view, Estelle and Sam clapped their hands.
“We made it!” Sam cried. “Let’s launch your book!”
Darcy had driven in the city very infrequently.
The bumper-to-bumper traffic meant the impatient drivers were honking.
When their hotel came into view, she breathed a sigh of relief and pulled into the half-moon drive.
After she handed the keys to the valet, she got out and stretched her arms. Grandma Estelle hugged her and said, “Thank you for driving, my dear! I’m so thrilled to welcome my book into the world with both of you by my side! ”
Upstairs, Darcy settled into her bedroom.
Each of them had their own in the three-bedroom suite, which offered a living area and kitchen in between.
Darcy unfurled her dress for the night on the bed, marveling at the fact that she hadn’t worn anything half as nice since, maybe, her grandfather’s funeral.
She itched to call Rachelle and tell her where she was.
It was crazy that she still had that inclination despite not having talked to Rachelle for so long.
At six that evening, Darcy, Sam, and Estelle entered the bookstore hosting the launch.
Grandma Estelle looked incredibly chic in a black silk one-piece and long, jangling earrings.
Darcy’s mother wore a dark green dress, and Darcy herself wore a high-necked brown two-piece with wide-legged pants.
Before everyone arrived, Estelle’s agent, Anne, took a photograph of the three of them, hovering over stacks of The Morning We Knew, the book Estelle had written before Roland died.
Darcy watched as her grandmother picked up a copy of her book, shifting it around to read the back. She looked at it with a sense of wonder, as though she hardly recognized it.
“I wrote it before everything happened,” she said when it was just the three of them again. “It feels like a very different woman wrote it.”
Sam rubbed her mother’s shoulder. Darcy had a flashing image of herself supporting Sam if and when her husband, Derek, passed away. She hoped she could be there for her; she hoped that she could provide the emotional backbone her mother needed.
She imagined her own daughter doing the same for her down the line, and then, she had to excuse herself to the bathroom to clean up her tears. “Pull yourself together, Darcy,” she told herself.
Estelle’s fans began to arrive around six forty-five.
Each chair was filled by seven, and the entire bookstore was packed by seven thirty.
Darcy and her mother stood off toward the side, arms crossed, watching as Grandma Estelle arranged herself in front of the long table and raised the microphone.
She looked every bit the celebrity she was.
“This is quite a turnout,” Estelle said, laughing softly.
“I can’t thank you enough for coming out tonight.
I can’t thank you enough for showing me how much these books matter to you.
They’ve been my life’s work. They’ve saved me on numerous occasions.
And now? Well.” She ticked her nails against the table in front of her.
“Things have certainly changed in my life. I haven’t been public about this.
But I lost my husband a little more than a year ago.
He was everything I knew of romance, everything I knew of love.
And without him in the world, my light has dimmed. ” She hesitated.
Darcy couldn’t believe how open her grandmother was about her heartbreak. She wondered if she’d ever be half as brave.
“Anyway,” Estelle continued, “I’d like to read from a chapter I remember writing when my husband and I were in the Bahamas together. I can still remember what it was like to burrow into this chapter, only for Roland to come find me and tell me it was time for our walk, and maybe an afternoon wine.”
There was light chuckling. Estelle cleared her throat and read clearly, evenly.
Darcy was swept away in the story. She’d never been particularly good with words, not like her grandmother, but she adored a story.
She adored the way her grandmother built her characters, set scenes, and described the beautiful world around her.
By the end of the reading, there wasn’t a dry eye in the bookstore.
Estelle closed her book and thanked the audience. She was crying, too.
The question-and-answer segment brought nearly twenty hands into the air. Estelle laughed, overwhelmed. “Goodness. Where should we begin?”
She called on a woman in the second row.
She stood, reaching for the mic that Estelle’s agent handed over.
She was maybe in her fifties or sixties, with dark hair and tired eyes.
“Thank you for that remarkable reading,” she said, her voice wavering.
“Estelle, I’ve been reading your books for thirty years.
I feel that I’ve entered into so many different stages of my life with you at my side. I can’t thank you enough for that.
“Like you, I recently became a widow,” the woman said. “It’s been a difficult year, to put it mildly. So my question to you is: how do you think about the rest of your life, without your husband in it? How do you find context for yourself, without him around?”
The question had nothing to do with Estelle’s new novel, but it was one that Estelle took on regardless.
Darcy was surprised. Estelle gripped her microphone hard, then said, “I am terribly sorry for your loss. Nothing can prepare you for that.” She cleared her throat.
“How can I answer this? I’m still trying to figure it out myself.
I’m wondering what kind of writer I’m going to be.
I’m trying to find the strength to rewrite a story that I thought was already set.
But the truth is, nothing in life is ever set.
It’s all changing, always. I suppose that’s sort of why I came on this book tour.
I wanted to see the world again. I wanted to figure out what kind of woman I was in that world, now that I’m a widow. ”
The first woman thanked Estelle and handed the microphone to the next woman.
But the next had more questions about Estelle’s new status as a widow.
Apparently, she, too, had recently lost her husband.
As the questions wore on, it seemed clear that many of the women in the audience, many of whom were around Estelle’s age, were now widows.
It was as though they’d all taken this dramatic and heartbreaking step together.
Estelle thanked each of them for their honesty. She said she was sorry because each story was unique. She talked about her concepts around dating—how she wasn’t sure if she would ever be up for it. Roland was her greatest and only love, she knew. The other women nodded knowingly.
And then, the microphone landed in the hands of a man.
Darcy hadn’t noticed him before. He wasn’t the only man in the audience—there were three others, it looked like—but it seemed that this one had come on his own.
This was a surprise, given that Estelle’s readership was mostly women.
He was maybe in his mid-seventies, with salt-and-pepper hair and a handsome face.
It was clear he’d been very good-looking when he was younger, as though he’d been an actor or a model, or could have been.
His suit jacket told them he was made of money.
“Hi, Estelle,” he said. There was a lilt to his voice, something musical about it. “My name is Albert. I’ve been a longtime reader of your works. I wanted to ask you a more specific question about one of your previous books. I hope it’s all right to get off-topic a bit?”
Estelle laughed generously. “I think we’re up for a topic switch. We could talk and talk and talk about widowhood. But there are other things to say, I’m sure.”
Albert smiled. “Good. I wanted to ask about the character of Ronnie in The Dark Foil. I wanted to ask about your characterization of him and whether he was based on someone you knew. He reminds me a great deal of someone in my life, suffice it to say.”
Darcy knew that her grandmother loved it when her readers asked her specific questions about her characters. She knew they were perceptive and caring readers.
“Maybe I based the character on the person in your life?” she teased.
Albert laughed. “That’s what I’m wondering!”
“I can’t say I did,” she said. “He came out of my imagination, I suppose.”
“How disastrous for you!” Albert said.
Estelle tilted her head. “I always kind of liked Ronnie.”
“Everyone likes people like Ronnie,” Albert said. “That’s the biggest mistake any of us ever makes.”
Darcy’s eyes flitted from Albert to her grandmother, and back again.
There was a buzzing in the air between them.
It occurred to Darcy that she’d never seen her grandmother flirt before.
It was a funny thing, but also very sweet.
Eventually, Albert passed the microphone on, and Estelle regrouped.
But the energy in the bookstore had lifted for good.
Soon enough, the Q&A session ended, and everyone grabbed glasses of champagne and mingled.
Darcy hugged her grandmother and congratulated her. Estelle blushed happily. She looked sweaty but eager. She knew she had many conversations left, Darcy guessed.
Now that the talk was over, Darcy decided to step outside to call Steven and check on things at home.
Steven answered on the third ring, sounding breathless.
She knew that bedtime was over, that Steven had probably had to fight their kids tooth and nail to get them to settle down. Such was life at their place.
“How did it go?” Steven asked.
“Grandma killed it, as usual,” Darcy said. She gazed down the long, flat road, watching taxis buzz between other cars, honking. “Thanks for covering things at home so I could come here. I’m loving it.”
“Of course! It’s a pleasure,” Steven said. “And your grandma needs support right now.”
Darcy sniffed. “How was Remy tonight?” Remy, their youngest, had had trouble calming down lately. She’d been jittery and unfocused and unwilling to listen to them.
“Sort of the same,” Steven admitted. “But she’s probably just going through a phase.”
“We’re all going through phases, I guess.” Darcy laughed. “She’s young enough to get away with it.”
It was then that Darcy realized she wasn’t alone outside, that Albert, the man from the Q&A session, had joined her to smoke what looked to be an old-fashioned pipe. He was a good five feet away, so the smoke didn’t bother her. But he looked like someone who’d time-traveled.
Eventually, Darcy and Steven said they loved one another. They said good night. Darcy put her phone back in her purse and headed back inside. But before she could, Albert puffed out the smoke from his pipe and said, “Evening!”
Darcy smiled. “Hi.”
“How was the reading for you?” Albert asked.
“Oh, it was incredible.”
Albert furrowed his brow. “You know, you share some of Estelle Coleman’s features. You aren’t related to her, are you?”
Darcy was surprised. She’d always thought Rachelle looked more like Grandma Estelle than she did. “She’s my grandmother, actually.”
“I wondered as much,” Albert said. “She’s striking, like you.”
He didn’t say it in a creepy way, Darcy noted. She was grateful for that.
“It sounds like you’ve been reading my grandmother’s work for a long time,” Darcy said.
“About five years now,” he admitted. “I started reading them because my wife was reading them. She packed an entire suitcase of Estelle’s books when we went on vacation.
It drove me crazy until I picked one up myself.
I grew fascinated with Estelle’s voice and the way she sees the world.
Of course, I let my marriage fall apart shortly after that.
But I kept reading Estelle’s books. I couldn’t get them out of my head. ”
Darcy’s smile faltered. “I’m sorry about your marriage.”
“It happens,” Albert said. “But you know, when people see me reading Estelle’s books, they think I’m a sad, old sap. They have no idea how sophisticated romance novels can be. Especially hers. I guess I’m on a crusade to show people how important romance can be.”
“Beautifully said.”
Albert put away his pipe. “I hope you don’t mind me asking. Who were you talking to on the phone?”
“My husband,” Darcy said. “He put our two little kids to bed. It’s never easy.”
“No, it’s not,” Albert said. He looked suddenly forlorn and gray-faced. “I remember that time of my life. It went so quickly. It slipped through my fingers. Now, they’re adults. I haven’t spoken to them in years.”
Darcy’s eyes stung. She told herself not to cry, certainly not over a stranger’s life.
“Why don’t you reach out to them yourself?” she asked.
Albert considered this. “Pride, I suppose. Isn’t that awful? Think about all the time I’ve wasted. I’m still wasting it.”
Darcy was quiet. She considered Rachelle, so far away, doing whatever it was she did these days. There was so little Darcy knew about her. And she knew she couldn’t lecture Albert. Darcy had pride, too. It was keeping her from her sister. Maybe they’d never talk again.
How could she be such a hypocrite?