Chapter 10
Manhattan, New York
The readers cleared out of the bookstore by ten thirty, leaving Estelle, her agent Anne, her daughter Sam, and her granddaughter Darcy alone.
Estelle’s face hurt from grinning. She gathered everyone in hugs, thanking them for their hard work tonight.
Incredibly, they’d sold all of the books that had been piled high on the table.
She’d signed each of them, her hand cramping as she chatted to each of her fans.
She couldn’t believe how many of them were widows.
It was as though they’d decided to go through every stage of life together.
She wondered what Roland would have said about that. Would he have had a word of wisdom or a kindness that would have lifted her spirits? Regardless, it was incredible not to feel so alone in something so enormous.
But it was awful that so many women had to lose their husbands. It was awful that each of them lived with a shadow on their hearts.
The three of them took a cab back to the hotel, where Estelle, Darcy, and Sam sat in their shared living room and chatted about the exhausting day.
Darcy couldn’t stop yawning, proof of how young her children were and how hard she had to work to keep her house afloat.
Soon, Darcy kissed her grandmother and mother good night and disappeared into her bedroom.
Sam went shortly after that, stretching her arms over her head.
“Congratulations, Mom,” she said. “Can’t wait for many more bookstore parties after this! ”
This left Estelle alone in her room, still in her chic one-piece, watching the traffic stream by outside. She wasn’t the least bit tired, which felt bizarre. She’d overworked herself emotionally, physically, and mentally. She should have been given the gift of slumber.
Eventually, she made her way downstairs for a nightcap at the hotel bar. She’d hardly had time to drink anything at the bookstore, as she’d been in conversation the entire time. Maybe a dark red wine and a bit of banter with the bartender would make her sleepy. She could only hope.
Downstairs, she grabbed a seat at the bar and ordered an Italian wine, thinking again of Rachelle and wondering how she was.
She wondered if Rachelle ever served this at her restaurant and whether, by having it, Estelle was somehow communicating with her granddaughter. Her granddaughter, the stranger.
The bartender was maybe in his thirties, and he wore a serious expression and a thick wedding band on his ring finger.
Estelle itched to ask him about his life, about what had led him to fall in love with his wife, and whether he liked working as a bartender or had dreams of doing something else.
She liked talking to strangers, if only because they sparked her creativity and empathy.
Sometimes strangers from bars and restaurants around the world made their way into her novels.
But before she could get up the nerve to ask the bartender something, a familiar figure entered the bar.
It was the man from the reading, the man who’d asked about a character in one of her older books.
Although it wasn’t out of the question to see men at her readings, it was still a rarity.
To see him here at the same hotel where she was staying surprised her.
He stopped short upon entering, then spread his hands on the bartop and said, “Estelle Coleman.”
Estelle smiled openly. Her mind fluttered with a question that she let out at once. “Are you stalking me?”
The man laughed. “Have you ever had a stalker before?”
“Not that I know of,” Estelle said. “Thankfully, my readership usually doesn’t go that direction with things. They leave me alone.”
The man looked pleased to see her. “I don’t want to intrude on your night,” he said. “I can take my drink to go.”
“Don’t do that,” Estelle said. She could feel the bartender’s eyes on them, watching them curiously. “Have a drink with me. I can’t sleep.”
“Neither can I.” The man slid onto the stool beside her and ordered a glass of wine, the Italian one that she was having. They raised glasses and clinked them. “I’m Albert,” he said.
“Nice to meet you. It’s not every day I meet such a perceptive reader,” she said.
“It’s not every day that I meet my favorite writer,” he said.
“You flatter me.”
“It’s true.” Albert smiled. “My ex-wife read all of your books. I borrowed them and fell for them as well.”
Estelle’s heart felt stung. “I’m sorry about your divorce.”
“Water under the bridge.” Albert waved his hand. “We talked about your books, though. I think we sort of hoped they would bring us together. But the love in them told us how little we still loved each other, I think.”
Estelle was terrified. “Don’t tell me that my books broke you up!”
“No. Not at all. We weren’t meant for each other.
Plain and simple.” Albert smiled. “I don’t know if I’m meant for anyone.
I’m seventy-five years old, and maybe I’ll be a bachelor the rest of my life.
In fact, that’s why I’m living at this hotel.
I never bothered to find anywhere to live after my divorce. ”
“You’re living here!” Estelle raised her eyebrows. “What’s dating like in your seventies?”
“I take it you haven’t tried it yet,” Albert said.
“I doubt I will,” Estelle told him.
“Well, it’s funny. The stakes are very low and very high at the same time.
You know yourself almost too well, and you know what you can’t stand for.
At the same time, I’m more curious about people than I used to be.
It’s fascinating to watch the world change around you.
It’s fascinating to exchange memories with people who’ve been living as long as you have. ”
Estelle thought it was a nice answer. She sipped her wine and decided that he was a good conversationalist. Maybe he was the perfect person to meet in a hotel bar like this, late at night.
“Tonight was wonderful, by the way,” he told her. “You’re a brilliant reader and a brilliant orator. I could have listened to you talking about your books all night.”
Estelle blushed. “I’m sure at some point I started talking nonsense. But I love talking about my characters and my stories and the little worlds I’ve built. I don’t know if I’ll ever publish another book, so I’m trying to enjoy this last book tour.”
Albert looked taken aback. “No more books?”
“I don’t know what I would write about,” Estelle told him.
“But you met all those women tonight who hang on your every word and every experience,” he pointed out. “They’re all widows, embarking on the next stage of their lives. They need you! I need you, too. But it’s only because I love your writing. I love your prose.”
Estelle blushed.
“No pressure, of course,” Albert hurried to say. “I know you need time. Space. You should enjoy your last book tour. You shouldn’t worry about people like me, who need your books to understand the world.”
Estelle felt vaguely flustered. It was an emotion she couldn’t understand at first, not until she saw the bartender looking at them again.
She realized he thought that Albert was flirting with her.
Was she flirting back? She realized that it was very possible.
She was nearly through her glass of wine and considering ordering another.
Would Albert stay with her for a second drink? Did she want him to?
“My books aren’t really based on real life,” she said, her voice shaking slightly. “But they’re based on real emotion, I guess.”
“I feel the full breadth of human experience in your books!” Albert declared.
“I laugh. I cry. I imagine my life playing out entirely differently. No divorces. No animosity between family members.” He let his shoulders sag.
“I was telling your granddaughter tonight that I haven’t spoken to my children in a few years.
Now that I’m going through another divorce, I feel lost, empty.
I mean, I’m seventy-five and living in a hotel! ”
Estelle felt sorrowful for him. “Albert, that’s awful. I’m sorry. You don’t have to say so, but what happened? Why don’t you talk to your kids?”
“They’re angry about things that happened years ago.
Their mother isn’t my most recent ex-wife, which, I know, sounds awful.
They’re angry about my money. They’re angry about properties that they don’t have access to.
They’re angry about things that were said and things that remain unsaid.
And they don’t know what to do about the fact that they love me, and I love them.
Despite all that love, we can’t seem to get along. ”
“Tale as old as time,” Estelle said sadly. “My youngest daughter and I didn’t really speak for years. She and my husband couldn’t see eye to eye. It broke my heart.”
Albert squinted. “But they mended things?”
“A few years before Roland passed, Sam returned to us. Apologies were said. We had some brilliant years together before he died.” Estelle sighed. “Sam’s the daughter traveling with me. We’re going to go all over the place. We’re even going to Europe.”
Albert raised his chin. “You don’t say! I’m about to make my way over to Europe as well.”
“Is that so?”
“I have a few business meetings lined up. I’ll be in Brussels and Paris first. I know you probably think I’m too old to work. That’s what my children think, too. But I’d argue that you’re too old to go on a book tour, if so!”
Estelle laughed. “We aren’t too old to do anything.”
“Thank goodness for that.” Albert smiled.
For a little while, they spoke of other things, beautiful things.
Albert talked about what it had been like to live in Manhattan for so many years.
He talked about how much it had changed since he’d arrived.
“Living in a hotel feels strange and anonymous,” he said.
“It feels like waking up every day and getting to decide that you’re a different kind of person.
Although by the end of the day, you wind up being yourself again. ” He laughed.
Estelle said she understood what he meant.
When they finished their second glasses of wine, it was nearly one in the morning.
Estelle couldn’t remember the last time she’d stayed up that late on purpose, although of course she’d struggled with sleeping since Roland died.
Albert insisted on paying for her wine, which made Estelle feel strange. Did he think they were on a date?
No, she decided. She’d just told him that she didn’t plan to date.
In fact, two people meeting in a hotel bar to talk about the mysteries of being alive wasn’t a date. It was more sacred than that.
They walked to the elevator together, then got on. Albert rode it to the fifth floor, but Estelle had to go up to the twelfth. Before Albert stepped off, he shook her hand and said, “I hope we meet again at another reading. I’ll be the one who isn’t stalking you.”
Estelle laughed. “Good night, Albert. And good luck.”
The elevator doors closed between them.
Back in her room, Estelle got under the covers and shivered.
Although Roland had been gone for over a year, she still slept on the right side of the bed, like always, as though she expected him to slide in beside her.
She imagined telling Roland about the handsome stranger at the hotel bar, then imagined Roland teasing her for flirting with someone else.
“Never,” she whispered to the darkness over her bed. “I would never flirt with someone else!”
With that, she burst into tears. Maybe it was the wine, or all the attention, or the book tour, pressing hard on her chest. But her body suddenly couldn’t take it.
Minutes later, the door cracked open, and Sam appeared. “Mom? Mom, are you all right?”
Estelle nodded into the darkness. But Sam crept through the room and got into bed with her. Just the feeling of someone else in bed with Estelle felt warm and nice. It allowed her to drift off to sleep. She slept far past dawn and deep into the morning because her body needed it.