7. Now
Now: October 10th
R eluctantly, I’ve agreed to the book signing. Under a few conditions. It has to be a private event, tickets are required upon arrival, and the number of guests allowed will be set to a max of one hundred. If your name isn’t on the list when the doors open, you won’t be allowed in the building, period.
At first, Wendy balked and tried to make me loosen the reins. But saying yes to this in the first place was a huge compromise on my part.
I never did officially tell her no, though I’d tried plenty of times. It wasn’t until she showed up at my house one afternoon, despite the chilly autumn air, and spent the next half hour running through a slide show she’d prepared herself to try and convince me that the pros outweigh the cons. Her list reminded me of all the lists my mother used to make around the house.
Like I said before, Wendy doesn’t easily back down from something. But neither do I. It didn’t help that Dad had been home and sat through her presentation and completely sided with Wendy. Thus, it was a losing battle, to which I gave in.
So, here we are, a full month later, with our table set up in the middle of the new bookstore, Books and Beyond . I’m not sure I get the “beyond” reference. Sure, they sell other things besides books… such as journals, calendars, tote bags, candles, etc., but I don’t get what is so beyond about it.
At my table, Wendy is seated at my right to help greet customers, hand out free stickers and bookmarks, and help me with whatever else I may need. Truly, I don’t think I would have even considered doing this if she couldn’t come.
I may be the one who wrote the books, but she’s done so much for me. I should find a way to let her know how much I appreciate her after the event.
The doors open in five minutes and I can’t sit still. I’ve already had to refill my water bottle twice, thus resulting in multiple trips to the bathroom. Breathe. I can do this.
All one hundred spots were filled. People were lined up at the doors well over an hour before opening time. It amazed me. I had only done one public signing early on in my career. When I’d finally received my first Best Choice Book Award, a local venue had asked me to speak about my book. I was young and terrified, shaking the entire event. I left with pit stains underneath both arms. Needless to say, it was a one-and-done type of deal. The fact that I am even here today is a very big deal. It’s still hard to believe all these people are here for me.
It takes over three hours to get everyone through the line. Some ask me to personalize a message in the books they’ve brought with them, and somehow I don’t mind. I might even enjoy it a little.
I don’t notice the cramp in my hand because I’m having such a good time chatting with everyone like we are old friends rather than strangers. I take the time to pose and smile for a picture with each fan. Wendy, or someone else in line, snaps the pictures for us.
By the end, I can’t even count the number of books I’ve signed, the pictures I’ve posed for, or the hands I’ve shaken. I can’t help but feel both exhausted and on fire. In the best way possible. But I’m not ready to admit this to Wendy yet.
I start to gather what’s left on the table to wrap up for the evening when I feel her nudge my side. The slight jab tickles, forcing me to look up. She isn’t looking at me though, there’s someone else waiting in front of our table.
My gaze follows hers. First, I notice the man. He’s tall, at least six foot, and his hair is a little longer than I’m used to seeing on the opposite sex, sweeping just below his ears in a soft curl. His hair is a light brown and his eyes are an intense bluish-green. Teal. But he’s not alone.
Standing beside him is a young girl with light, long blonde hair that cascades down her back and the same intense eyes as the man beside her. There’s something familiar about her, yet I can’t put my finger on what it is. Wendy’s kids are a lot younger, and I don’t get out enough to recognize many in our small town.
Her smile is kind and innocent. In her arms, she’s clutching my novella, Murder at Midnight. I didn’t think anyone still read that anymore. I wrote that book so long ago that I’d nearly forgotten about it. Until now.
After a few moments of silence, Wendy comes to my rescue, as she often does. “Hi, there! Sorry, we almost missed you. Do you have a book you’d like Nicki to sign?”
The girl doesn’t take her eyes off of mine, and it makes me slightly uncomfortable, but I nod my head gently and usher her forward .
“Yes, thank you! That would be great. I’m a big fan of yours. When I told my dad you’d be here, he got us tickets right away!” The girl glances back at the man and then back to us, handing over her copy.
“Well, I’m glad you made it then. I’m happy to be here.” I don’t realize how robotic I sound until the words come out, and I frown. Embarrassment takes over and my cheeks flush.
This book is well-loved. The edges are bent and faded, and the slightly yellow pages are starting to curl. This is a book that has been read over and over. I carefully open the book. There’s already something written inside the front cover. It’s a name, and I don’t think it sounds like a name that would belong to a young girl: Denver. But then again, who knows? We live in the middle of the Rocky Mountains, and the city of Denver is only a couple of hours from here. Maybe she was born there.
“Are you Denver? Would you like me to make it out to you?” I ask politely.
The girl smiles, and this time the man grins as well. I don’t mean to stare, but I can’t help myself. His whole face lights up with his smile. It’s infectious. His teeth are the perfect white I strive for daily, and a dimple peeks out of his cheek. Quit staring!
The man with the perfect smile laughs. His laugh is deep and perfect too. “No, I’m Denver. This is my daughter, Marvel. She borrowed the book from me and never returned it. Make it out to her, please.”
So his name is Denver, and that’s his daughter. Daughter. Wow. I would have thought maybe she was his niece or something. I’m terrible at guessing ages, but he doesn’t seem old enough to have a teenage daughter. He looks like he’s just a little bit older than me. I can already tell he’s way out of my league.
The girl named Marvel— where did they get their names— elbows her dad and nods at me.
I write her name into her book and sign my name underneath. Wendy offers Marvel a few stickers and a couple of bookmarks, which she excitedly accepts.
I think that’s it when the man, apparently Denver, asks me something else. “What inspired you to write? Most authors I know only write one genre but not you. You write in many. Why?”
His questions catch me off guard. Some of the other guests tonight came with prepared questions, but nothing like this. I don’t know what to say. After all, he came with a worn copy of my debut novella. A book I wrote forever ago and thought nobody read anymore. A book that I hadn’t ever seen on shelves in stores. How did they even come across this?
The pages are folded and the spine is cracked, as though one of them has read it many times over. But which one? Denver, the handsome man standing before me? Or his daughter, whose eyes lit up the moment she saw me? I tear myself away from my thoughts and back to his question. What inspired you to write? More like who inspired me to write. But he didn’t ask me that, and unfortunately, I don’t think Wendy can help me out of this one.
“I… um…” I stutter. I can’t find the right words. I reach for my water on the table to buy me a few precious moments, only to realize it’s empty.
Marvel’s eyes lock with mine and it’s a look I recognize all too well. It’s a look of worry and concern. A look I’d often given my mother. A look I’d forgotten about until now.
Suddenly, I can’t breathe. The walls are tightening around me, and my vision is starting to blur. I hear a soft voice in the background calling out something that sounds a little like my name. But it’s not Nicki that my brain hears. It’s Phoenix, and the voice sounds a lot like my mother’s.
I picture her face hovering above mine for a few moments before it morphs into somebody else's. It’s always somebody else that I see. And that’s the last thing I remember before everything around me goes black.