Chapter 42
“Were you in a fire?” Bookstore manager Rosalie McDermott, her face etched with concern, had linked her arm through Tessa’s elbow, leading her into the Coronado Bookstore.
Expansive windows looked toward the ocean, and an airplane flew so low over the water that Tessa flinched, fearing for the passengers on board.
“Yikes,” she said, “is that plane okay?”
“We’re in the flight path,” Rosalie said. “But were you? In a fire? I saw you on the national news, some ungodly hour.”
Rosalie’s close-cropped blond hair was tinted purple at the edges, and she wore the world’s tiniest sweatshirt emblazoned with Lit Happens.
She’d finished her ensemble with an accordion-pleated midi skirt and raffia platform sandals, and now guided Tessa toward the back of the store. “Are you all right?”
“Oh, yes, sure. False alarm.”
“You must be brutally tired, though. Anyway. You’re here, and you look terrific. I have restorative Oreos and lemonade back in the office. And some fresh cherries.”
The fragrance of bookstore-behind-the-scenes smelled familiar now; shelves of incense and ballpoint pens, scented candles and miniature soaps.
Bookstores sold much more than books—had it always been this way?
She had no memories of bookstores, only libraries.
Her mother had never liked buying things. Things for Tessa, at least.
Rosalie opened the door to a room where three shelves full of advance reader copies lined one wall, a shiny, too-big refrigerator and an aluminum sink on the other.
Four book cartons stacked up against the refrigerator’s white door.
Each box had lettering in thick black on the outside: TESSA .
A round Formica table and two padded chairs tucked into a corner.
“Listen to this.” Rosalie dragged a silver box cutter across the brown sealing tape on the top book box. “I have some cool news. Have a cookie. Have some cherries. Have a water.”
“Cool news?” Tessa twisted open one of the Oreos. Ignored the cherries. She hated cherries. Anything cherry.
“This is stock for you to sign. ’Kay?” Rosalie sliced the side flaps of the top box, stacked the books on the table. “Anyway, someone who’s coming tonight wanted me to tell you they recognized the photo in Locket Mom’s necklace.”
Tessa felt her eyes widen. “They did? Who?”
Rosalie put two more stacks of books on the table.
“Man or a woman?” Tessa went on.
“They texted. Here’s some Sharpies, they work for you?”
“Perfect. And they’re coming to tell me? Here? This locket person?”
Rosalie had opened one of the periwinkle books, flapped the paper cover to the title page, then placed another open book on top of that, making a stack of already-opened books for Tessa to sign.
“I guess so.” She rubbed her palms together, greedy. “It’d be cool though, wouldn’t it? If the mystery was solved here at the Coronado? We’d plaster that thing all over social. We could call the news. Reunite whoever with the locket. Happy ending. They love those on TV.”
“You should be a writer.” Tessa chuckled as she signed her name, over and over. “And yes, everyone loves a happy ending.”
So true, Annabelle said.
“What a coincidence that you found it in your room, isn’t it?
And that you took it? I mean, anyone else might have left it, or dumped it at lost and found, but that’s why everyone loves you, if I may say so.
Not to mention how inspiring you were in that video.
Quitting your job. Following your dreams.” Rosalie put her fists on her hips, emphasizing.
“You are so darn brave. And nice. I’m psyched to hear about this, aren’t you? ”
“Aw, thank you. And… yeah.” Tessa stared at the next book, pen in hand. That locket had begun to feel like an albatross. She focused on signing, focused on tonight’s event, focused on good things. But who would be in the audience?
“Can I ask you, before everyone does?” Rosalie was scooting another pile of books toward Tessa. “Is Annabelle based on a real person? She’s so wonderful.”
“I love her, too. But Annabelle is fiction.”
If you say so, Annabelle said.
“Well, she’s confident, like you. Goes after what she wants.” Rosalie said. “I even picture her looking like you.”
She felt Annabelle getting ready to say something, then she didn’t.
“That’s one of the pitfalls, isn’t it?” Tessa signed another book. “A woman writing about a woman, readers envision the author. Hard to avoid.”
A couple of taps on the door, and a young woman with a swirl of beaded braids peeked in. She had an earpiece in one ear, a cord with a flat circular mic snaking down to what looked like an intercom on her belt. Her T-shirt, tucked into skinny jeans, showed Robert McCloskey’s ducklings.
“Hi, Tessa,” she said, “I’m Dorrit. It’s incredible to meet you.”
“Dorrit is our children’s section manager,” Rosalie said, “but she insisted on being here tonight with you. She told me, in her job interview, that you were her inspiration.”
“I was trying to be cool, Ro, thanks for outing me.” Dorrit widened her eyes in clearly pretend annoyance. “But two things. One, yes, your video killed. The book, too. Life-changing.”
“Well, thank you,” Tessa said. “I’m glad the change was good. When readers say they made a decision because of me, sometimes I feel responsible. What’s thing two?”
“Hey, Bodie.” Dorrit had touched her earpiece, then looked down the corridor to her left. “They’re telling me you won’t believe the crowd. Bodie says every seat is full. And he wants to know, should he bring out more chairs.”
“Told you,” Rosalie said. “More the merrier.”
“Yes on the chairs.” Dorrit pulled the mic closer to her mouth. “And what?” Dorrit tilted her head, listening. “Yeah, I’m about to tell her. Tessa, thing number two. There’s a person out there who says she needs to talk to you.”
“She?” Tessa said.
“Who?” Rosalie said at the same time.
Dorrit blinked, seemed to be thinking about that. “She didn’t say her name.” She tilted her head, as if remembering. “Probably your age, ish, Tessa? Gray hair though, but in a cool way. And I probably shouldn’t say this, but I think it’s a wig. And big glasses.”
“You think that’s the person who texted, Rosalie?” Tessa had been the one to unleash this thing on social media, and now she’d have to deal with the result. In public. In front of a roomful of people. With no escape.
Rosalie set down the last stack of books. “Did she say anything about Tessa’s photo? Or Locket Mom?”
“Nope. She didn’t say anything about anything. Want me to get Bodie to ask?”
“Nope. I’ll handle it,” Rosalie said. “Keep signing, Tessa, we need to get this show on the road.”