Chapter 43
Tessa leaned closer to Dorrit, both of them stationed in the wings of the bookstore’s event space, trying to spot the woman in the gray maybe-wig. Rosalie was finishing her introduction.
“Do you see her?” Tessa whispered. “The locket woman?”
Dorrit shook her head. “No. I don’t. Ro couldn’t find her, either. Weird.”
“Yeah. Weird.” A roar of applause interrupted them, and even in her curiosity and increasing fear, Tessa felt the audience’s approval as she approached the lectern. In front of her, a patchwork quilt of periwinkle, her book on hundreds of laps in rows of taupe folding chairs.
“Aw, thank you,” Tessa said into the bulky microphone, and she touched one palm to her heart. “The idea that you all came to hear me—and Annabelle, of course—”
She paused, hearing the admiring murmur.
“Was not even part of my wildest dreams. So to each and every one of you, thank you.” She pointedly made eye contact.
Scanning the audience. It would look, she hoped, as if she was connecting.
Which she honestly was. But she was also searching the rows of upturned faces for maybe-wig woman. Who did not seem to be there.
Unless she had taken the wig off. But what would be the point of that?
She buried her fears as she eased into her book talk, the themes and stories familiar, the music of her speech, chorus and verse. The moments where people cheered, and the ones where they hissed in disapproval at the villains in her life.
So far, so good , she thought. Almost done .
“In closing, one more thing, you all. You have the power to control your life. Your one life . If I can do it, thanks to Annabelle, you can, too.” She paused, trying to telegraph her genuine gratitude. “Thank you.”
Rosalie approached her, smiling, applauding, as the crowd came to its feet. The women clutched their blue books, hugging them even as they clapped, and their blue earrings bobbed and danced.
“Aw, sit, sit, sit.” Tessa waved them to their seats, but nowhere in the audience was a woman in a gray wig and glasses. Where had she gone?
Rosalie was still clapping, and Dorrit, too. “Time for Q and A?” Rosalie asked.
“Sure, but—” Tessa picked up her phone. “First let’s take our photo. I want to remember you all.”
True. But tonight, a photo could also be evidence, if Dorrit could identify the face of the woman who’d apparently vanished. “But don’t hold the books in front of your faces, okay? I want to see you .” She positioned herself in front of the group. “Then we’ll do Q and A.”
The prospect of the audience questions made her more uneasy than usual, with wig woman—maybe—lurking. She felt her insides twist, even as she made sure her expression was joyful. All the blue earrings grew disconcerting now, as she imagined the ones stashed in her suitcase. Gift? Or warning?
And still no sign of the woman. Yet. Again, gift? Or warning?
Back at the podium, photos stored in her phone, she hoped the questions would be unthreatening. About her outlines, her workspace, her favorite books.
“Yes?” She pointed, stolidly smiling. “Red coat in the back?”
“Is Annabelle based on a real person?”
The audience murmured, as if that was the question they’d all hoped she’d answer.
“Well, let me put it this way.” She’d thought about this, and now she had a different answer from her usual.
A truer answer. “Annabelle is all of us. Our alter ego, the person we wish we were, the person whose voice remains with us, but whose words we are sometimes afraid to speak. Annabelle—the thought of Annabelle—allowed me to channel the hope I’d had for a better self.
And if I could speak for Annabelle, I know what she’d hope for you.
Fulfillment. Empowerment. Love. Whatever your personal happiness might be. In your one life.”
For a moment, the audience was silent, so silent that Tessa feared she’d gone too far. She was too tired, or too pressured, too worried about her past. And her home. And the family she’d left three time zones away.
Then a woman in the front row stood and applauded, and even as Tessa saw she was crying, so did the woman next to her and next to her and next to her.
Yikes, Annabelle said.
“Oh my goodness.” Tessa stepped from behind the lectern. “You all. You somehow asked exactly the right question at exactly the right time. I am so honored to be with you to share this.”
The rest of the signing was a blur—a few reverential questions, then a rush of people buying books, readers carrying multiple copies, Rosalie’s eyes wide with delight, and Dorrit rushing to retrieve the ones Tessa had already signed, supposedly their backup stash for future customers.
Tessa’s hand cramped and the night swirled by; teary-eyed women sharing their private dreams, their personal stories, their gratitude.
“You gave me courage,” one woman whispered as she waited for her signature. “I escaped a terrible marriage. Because of you.”
“And Annabelle,” Tessa said. “But remember, it was really you, yourself, who did it. You. ”
The right thing at the right time, Tessa had alluded to that earlier. If the bad thing hadn’t happened, she wouldn’t have Annabelle now. The unsettling paradox haunted her as the line continued. That bargain again. What had been lost, and what had been gained?
It was ten o’clock when the last book was signed. Wig woman had not appeared.
“Wow.” Rosalie stood by Tessa’s signing table as the final reader left. “What a night.”
“Agreed, terrific. Thank you.” Tessa sat back in her chair and capped her pen. “Let me ask you, though, d’you think it’s odd that the person who wanted to talk with me about the necklace didn’t show up?”
“I’m bummed, Tessa, tell you the truth. I thought we might have a big viral Locket Mom moment. But you’re viral enough on your own, my dear. You made my goals for two whole weeks. I owe you. What’s next for you?”
Food. Sleep. Seattle tomorrow.
“Flying, talking, and Zooming with my family. The writing life.” Tessa tried to convey it as the most exhilarating existence imaginable. Which, often, it was.
“Ro?” Dorrit, still in her ducklings T-shirt, hurried toward them. “You guys? I was tossing out the empty book cartons. And, um—”
“Um what?” Rosalie frowned. “We have to get Tessa to her ride.”
Tessa saw the concern in Dorrit’s expression as she accompanied them toward the glass front door, opening it into the street-lighted evening. Tessa’s stubby black Uber, its insistent hazard lights flashing, idled on the street in front of them.
“Yeah well,” Dorrit said, “Look. I found this outside. Hanging on the fence.”
Dorrit came closer, and in the spotlights illuminating the sidewalk, Tessa recognized what the clerk was holding.
A wig. A sleek gray wig.
“What the hell?” Rosalie took a step forward. Stopped.
“A wig?” Tessa said, unnecessarily. “Is that the one—”
“I think so,” Dorrit said. “Yeah.”
The Uber driver buzzed down his window. “You call an Uber, ladies?”
“Yes.” Tessa held up one finger at him, wait a minute . “That means—”
“Yeah,” Rosalie said. “She might have been there.”
Tessa stared at the mop of gray. Imagining the woman who had worn it. The woman who said she had something she knew Tessa wanted. The woman who brazenly discarded her disguise—obviously hoping someone would find it.
I know exactly who you are, she might have been saying. And I can always find you.