Chapter Fifteen
There had been a time when Maggie might have paid what was left of her life savings for two hours alone in Eleanor Ashley’s
library, but as she inched toward the shelves, the party seemed to fade in the background, and for the first time, it didn’t
feel like some grand adventure. It felt like coming— RJ ! Bring Mummy the hand grenade, darling! —home.
Her fingers ran down spines like the keys of a piano, playing a tune that only she could hear until, suddenly, she stopped.
And gasped.
“See anything you like?” A soft voice came from behind her, and Maggie spun to see blue eyes twinkling back.
“I...” Maggie must have forgotten how to speak, so she just pointed to the books on the shelf. At least a dozen of them.
All by Margaret Chase. “I wrote... You have my books.”
Eleanor laughed in surprise. “Of course I do. I make Deborah send them to me. Didn’t she tell you?”
You’ve been invited to the home of your biggest fan for Christmas.
“Well, yes. I mean no. I mean... You’re Eleanor Ashley, and I’m... no one.”
“Are you? No one? ”
It felt like a trick question.
“I’m...” She was twelve years older, but Maggie would always be the girl who had woken up one Christmas morning in a mansion
where there wasn’t a single present for her under the tree. “I’m just honored to be here.” It seemed like the safest answer.
“I’m glad. Because you’re one of my favorite authors.”
And then Maggie died.
The End.
Well, not exactly. But it felt like it. And she might truly have expired on the spot if Eleanor hadn’t gestured to the next
section of shelves and asked, “What about those? Do you have a favorite?”
“Oh, I couldn’t possibly—” Eleanor gave her a look. “This one.” Maggie pointed to the copy of Roses Are Dead, Violets Are Blue . It wasn’t Eleanor’s best-known title, but— “It was my first. When I was thirteen, my mom decided to go back to college,
which was great, but my dad had to work double shifts and I spent most of my time at the library so we didn’t have to run
the air-conditioning during the day.”
For a moment, Maggie froze, sure she’d said too much. But Eleanor wasn’t going to use that fact as a weapon, and Maggie didn’t
want to think about how she’d spent so much of her life around people who would.
“And...” Eleanor prompted.
“I read it so many times the librarian told me not to bring it back. She said they needed a new copy. It took me years to
realize it was still in good condition and she was just being nice. It was the first book I ever owned.” Maggie was babbling
and rambling. It left her feeling guilty for reasons that didn’t make sense and embarrassed for reasons that did. But, most
of all, she felt... strange. Like there was something hot on the back of her neck, a tingling and a prickling and—
She turned to see Ethan staring at her from the other side of the room.
“And him?” Eleanor’s voice pulled her back.
“Excuse me?”
“What do you think of him?”
“He’s very popular.” It wasn’t opinion; it was fact. Millions of copies sold. Signings that lasted well into the night. Fan
groups and podcasts and (allegedly) a need to check into hotels under fake names to keep groupies from tracking him down.
Maggie had it on good authority that there was a store on the internet that specialized in T-shirts with his face on them.
(Not that she’d looked. Much.) “With... everyone.”
“But not with you?” Eleanor asked.
“I don’t really know him,” Maggie said quickly—not just because it was the safest answer but also because it was true. She
didn’t know him. Not where he was from or where he lived or... anything. Because Ethan was an enigma. The mystery was part of
the brand and the brand was everything .
“Well, somehow I doubt he would say the same about you.” Eleanor’s voice was low and her eyes were mischievous and Maggie
was just starting to wonder what it all meant when James cleared his throat and announced—
“Dinner is served.”