Chapter 16
The situation had gone from bad to worse. No, catastrophic to hopeless. Parker felt like he was ten years old again, about
to get in big trouble with his uncle.
“Jerome Riddle, good to see you again,” Jay said, ready to butter up Uncle Jerome like a giant spud.
“Not good to see you, Barker. What do you clowns think you’re doing here?”
“Just conducting some man-on-the-street interviews,” said Jay. “The station wants ’em.”
“Right in front of the store where my sister’s doing a book signing?”
A group of women arrived, staring curiously at the men before going into the store. Thank God they didn’t hang around for
the smackdown that was coming.
Jay lifted both shoulders. “We didn’t know.”
“Now you do, so pack it in.”
“Fine with me, I’m freezing my ass off,” Arne said, and followed Butch off down the sidewalk.
“You, too, Barker. Get out of here,” said Jerome.
“No problem,” said Jay, holding up both hands in surrender. Then, he turned and followed them. Another rat deserting the sinking ship.
“Hey, I didn’t know until just a minute ago that Mom was having a signing here,” Parker said as the others made their escape.
Jerome pointed to the poster in the window. “Now you do. And now you’re coming in with me.”
“What? Are you kidding?” Parker protested.
“No, I’m not. It’s the least you can do.”
“Oh, come on, Unk.” Parker sounded like he was whining. Was he?
His uncle put a hand on his shoulder and steered him to the door. To an outsider it looked like a friendly gesture. Parker
knew better.
He also knew better than to make a scene and protest. He may have been a grown man, but Uncle Jerome was still his uncle,
his father figure and his hero. He’d take what he had coming to him. Like a man, as Uncle Jerome would say. Deep down, he
knew he needed to. It hadn’t been his intention to ruin his mom’s night. Yet there he’d been, like a clueless fool, doing
exactly that. He owed her.
But this? He felt like a lost soldier stumbling into the enemy’s camp. He wasn’t far off and that was proved by the wave of
whispers and glares that greeted him. If tarring and feathering was still a thing, they’d be getting ready to smear him with
tar.
“We’re here, Genevive,” his uncle called. “You can start.”
Which, of course, made sure that anyone who hadn’t yet seen Parker did now. He was greeted with more dirty looks from the
women. A couple of guys standing by the punch bowl looked a little sorry for him. Or maybe that was wishful thinking.
If there had been seats available in the front row, Uncle Jerome would have marched Parker all the way up there.
Luckily for Parker, the room was packed and there was only room in the back.
They settled in, heads turned back toward his mom, and he let out his breath.
He was a blip on the radar and they were over him. Maybe he would survive this.
Until he realized Alice Willoughby was still looking at him, assessing him with a frown. He deserved it and it left him smarting.
He wanted to stand up and shout, “I didn’t know there was a party going on.” No one would believe him. She certainly wouldn’t.
He lifted a hand in greeting. I come in peace. She blushed and turned away.
Meanwhile, her mother was busy introducing his. “I know our guest needs no introduction, and you’ve all been anticipating
both her new book and her visit, so I’ll turn the evening over to New York Times bestselling author Genevive Eden.”
The women applauded enthusiastically, and Mom smiled at them all. It was a proud moment, seeing her cheered like a visiting
celebrity. Which, obviously, she was. If anyone deserved to be cheered it was Genevive Eden, aka Jenny Riddle, hardworking
single mom who’d raised him without so much as a penny of child support. He’d never seen her cry (except at his college graduation),
never heard her complain. And she’d spent her spare time turning herself into a writing sensation. Even though he didn’t like
the genre she’d chosen to write in he had to admire her accomplishment.
Everyone was laughing at something she’d just said. Was it about him? He reined in his wandering thoughts.
“Seriously, I try not to base any of my characters on real people. They’re always a composite of people I know or a product
of my imagination.” She pointed to one of many women who had their hands raised. “And what’s your name?”
“Cindy,” said the woman. “And I love your books.”
“Thank you,” Mom murmured graciously.
“I’m wondering why you chose to let Brad off the hook. I don’t think he deserved a second chance.”
“Maybe I should have let him die instead of getting him to the hospital in time,” said Mom. “But I thought he deserved a second
chance. I think we all do,” she added, looking to where Parker sat.
She smiled as she said it. Another one of his mom’s good qualities. She couldn’t hold a grudge against anyone, including him.
Obviously—she couldn’t even hold a grudge for a pretend person.
Another woman wanted to ring in. “I loved that Troy came to the rescue when Jen had lost all hope. And that scene when he
came to the funeral wrecked me.”
Good grief. These women were talking about his mother’s made-up people as if they were real.
The next woman’s question made him sink down in his seat. “What do you think of Parker Black dissing romance novels?”
Mom’s smile was teasing. “I think he’s sadly ignorant.”
It was suddenly way too hot in the bookstore. He slumped down further.
“I hope someday he’ll come to see the value of novels that offer hope. Maybe if he finds his own happily-ever-after in real
life it will open his eyes.”
“I doubt it,” muttered someone, a latecomer with red hair who’d slipped in and was seated on the other side of Uncle Jerome.
She glared at Parker like he was her archenemy. Who the devil was that? She looked vaguely familiar, but he couldn’t figure
out why.
“I love giving my main characters a chance to live a good life together. Like with all of us, that takes some effort, but when I can help those characters work through their problems and shift their attitude it’s as if I’ve put that encouragement out there in the universe, and I like to think that readers will take hope and work to make their own relationships better. ”
“We’ve been accused of not being able to tell the difference between a book boyfriend and a real man. Do you think that’s
true?” asked the Latina woman who’d lit into Parker outside the bookstore.
“I think most of us can tell the difference,” his mother replied calmly. “I also think it’s unfair to make those of us who
enjoy a wonderful romantic tale feel like less. Romance is so much bigger than the pigeonhole its detractors keep putting
it in. Romance is atmosphere and swashbuckling, adventure and sacrifice. It’s beautiful settings and moonlight and sunrise.
It’s nobility and kindness. And think of how many classics we still read that are romances. Think of how much the world of
literature would have lost if Jane Austen and the Brontes hadn’t written their stories. And who doesn’t love the tale of Cyrano
de Bergerac? Not exactly a happy ending but talk about a noble hero. Yes, we all need love in our lives. It’s what keeps us
going.”
She ended her speech and the room burst into applause. Mom had gotten the final word again.
She answered a few more questions and then read an excerpt from her book. It wasn’t a sex scene, thank God, and it was . . .
good. Well, why was he surprised? His mom was a smart woman.
“ ‘Of course, she hoped things would change. What else could she do? Hope was all she had,’ ” Mom finished. More applause.
Nola Willoughby stepped up next to the podium where Mom had been standing. She carried a large wicker gift basket wrapped in cellophane and tied with a huge pink ribbon. He caught sight of a package of coffee and a mug under there and what looked like a box of candy, as well as some kind of scarf.
“It’s time to see who won this lovely gift basket Genevive has brought for us tonight,” she said.
Here came Alice, bearing a large bowl filled with raffle tickets. Her baggy black pants worn over what looked like somebody’s
lost army boots and the long, gray sweater did an excellent job of hiding her curves. Parker preferred the red dress.
She held out the bowl and Nola drew out a ticket and called out a name. The woman gave a happy screech and hustled up to claim
her prize and gush over Mom. It made him think of old game shows he’d seen as a kid where people went wild over the prizes
they won . . . which were a lot bigger than a gift basket.
“I know Genevive will be happy to sign your books, so let’s go ahead and form a line,” said Nola Willoughby. “Help yourself
to the goodies. And, by the way, a big thank-you to Georgia Bishop for contributing those fabulous peanut butter brownies.”
That was it. There was a stampede to where Parker’s mom had settled at a small table piled high with books.
“I hope you learned something tonight,” the redhead from their row hissed at Parker, then moved away to join Alice, who was
gathering more books for his mom to sign.
Uncle Jerome chuckled. “Did you?”
“I learned to check with Mom next time she’s making an appearance somewhere and then be far away.” Uncle Jerome didn’t smile,
so Parker got serious. “I learned that my mom’s a pretty good writer. And everyone loves her.”
“You shouldn’t be surprised by that,” said his uncle.
“I’m not,” Parker admitted. “What’s not to love? Okay, I’m out of here. See you later.”
His uncle grabbed his arm. “Not so fast, nephew. You’re not done yet. You need to buy one of your mom’s books.”
“What? No.”
“What? Yes. Buy a book and get it signed.”
“Now?” He was in an estrogen hornets’ nest. No way was he getting in that line in front of his mother’s table.
“Yes, now. You owe her big-time.”
His uncle was right. He did. He heaved out a sigh and nodded.
The woman at the cash register looked surprised to see Parker with his mother’s book in hand, but she pressed her lips together—probably