Chapter 6 At the Café
At the Café
After the event was over, after William had signed dozens of Lambent Souls and Sam three Sodbusters and a Sharecropper’s Daughter for a woman who said, “My book club read this years ago!”; after William had inscribed stock and schmoozed the booksellers
and hugged Laura again and Sam had done the same; after all this, they stood together on the sidewalk beneath the bookstore’s
awning. Sam was aware of the graphite smell of wet pavement after rain, of the heat rising from William’s arm, next to but
not quite touching hers. It was almost nine and nearly dark, but because it was August there was still a pink stripe in the
western sky.
“Woof,” said William.
“Indeed,” said Sam.
They glanced at each other and smiled.
“I’m ravenous,” William said. “Is there a place we could grab a bite? Will you dine with me?”
“I will,” said Sam. “And there is.”
William shifted his battered brown briefcase to his other hand to offer Sam his arm, and she led him toward a French café
she knew would be open late. Halfway there the heavens split and it started to pour again, so they ran the final block laughing,
Sam shrieking, and arrived soaking wet.
“I’m a hot mess,” said Sam as they dripped in the doorway. Her white tank was transparent, and she didn’t want to think what was happening with her face.
“Half of that statement is accurate,” said William.
Sam laughed. “Thanks,” she said, and then thought, Wait.
Their server seated them at the table in the window, lighting the candle between them. They ordered quickly, dinner as well
as drinks, mindful of the late hour. William took off his horn-rims to polish them dry and beamed at Sam. In the way of most
people with glasses, without them he looked completely different: less austerely impressive, more vulnerable and sweet.
“Thank you,” he said, “for coming to my reading. And signing with me.”
“Thanks for inviting me. And for your amazing letter. It was so generous I just slammed my laptop shut and backed away, and
I’m embarrassed about that. I’m sorry I didn’t respond.”
William slid his glasses on and smiled at the server bringing their beer. “I suspected I might have overstepped.”
“I did wonder . . .” said Sam.
“Whether I wanted to get into your pants?” They laughed, and Sam shrugged, feeling her face heat. “It might have been a motive,
had I checked your author photo first. But no, my intention was pure. I was so moved by your magnificent book.”
“I’m grateful,” said Sam. “To Lambent Souls.”
“To Sodbuster.” They clinked glasses.
“That crowd back there was bananas!” said Sam. “Has your whole tour been like that?”
“Pretty much,” said William. “How was yours?”
“It was—fine,” said Sam. “I love tour. I know most authors hate it, but I honestly would drive over an old lady in the street
to get to a mic.”
William laughed. “Same. I relish it.”
“I can tell,” said Sam. “You’re very good.” She thought of how William had charmed the audience with humor, then taken the
emotional deep dive into the Darlings story. You couldn’t capture a crowd like that unless you loved speaking—a rare trait
they shared, apparently.
“If I am any good, it’s because I love the readers,” William said.
“I spend most of my life in sweatpants, in my basement, cranking out pages. And on the other side of that process are angels who read my books and come hear what I have to say. Some filament of me I threw out into the void landed on somebody and connected us. If that’s not a miracle, what is? ”
Sam realized she was staring. If she’d ever written these thoughts down, she might have accused William of plagiarizing.
“Exactly,” she said.
“Do you know, Samantha, how rare it is we make our living writing books? We’re in the top point-oh-five percent, not just
of the general population but the writer population. We’re so lucky.”
Sam was horrified to feel her eyes fill with tears. She pressed her wrist to them, making an embarrassed face at William,
who was smiling kindly at her.
“I see I’ve drawn blood,” he said, “but I don’t know how. What’s wrong?”
To her astonishment, Sam found herself confessing her fears to another writer—a potential competitor at that: her half-empty
tour and flat sales; her feeling of writing the same book over and over; the pressure to get Gold Digger’s Mistress on track. Damn. William was good. Maybe she should join his Darlings support group.
“Samantha,” William said when she was done. “May I call you that?”
“You may, but it’s not my name.”
“Then I’ve been a perfect fool. What is your name?”
“It’s Simone,” said Sam.
“Simone Vetiver . . . ? But that’s enchanting. Why don’t you use it?”
“Because it sounds like an eighteenth-century French prostitute dying of syphilis,” said Sam.
William laughed. “I think it sounds like its owner, utterly beguiling. Simone, is there anything I can do?”
“I don’t think so,” said Sam.
“Maybe kicking ideas around? Verbal brainstorming can help.”
“Oh, I never do that,” said Sam. “I’m sorry, that sounded rude. I just don’t talk about what I’m working on. I guess I’m superstitious.”
“Not even with your editor or agent? Or friends? Or curious male writers prowling outside your castle?”
Sam laughed. “Not even them.”
William raised his glass. “Let’s play a game. Will you humor me, my dear?”
“I . . . think so?”
“Let’s do Writer Lightning Round. I’ll start. Plotter or pantser?”
He meant did Sam use an outline or wing it. “Plotter,” she said.
“Same. Scrivener or Word?”
“Word,” she said, “and longhand.”
William’s brows rose. He looked delighted. “Longhand! Old-school.”
“Yep. I write outlines and notes by hand, then type the actual chapters on my laptop. And I have to use fountain pens. I can’t
read my handwriting otherwise. You?”
“Type it right into my laptop from my brain, baby,” William said. He pantomimed inserting a syringe into his forearm. “I inject
that heroin straight into Word.”
“Well!” said Sam. “I guess that makes our publisher a pimp.”
“People have called them that,” William said, grinning.
“My turn,” said Sam. “Do you write every day? Or when inspiration strikes?”
“Up every day before 5:00 a.m. One thousand words no matter what. No revising. Straight through the draft. Rinse. Repeat.
And when I’m done with one book, I start another that afternoon.”
“Oh, you’re one of those,” said Sam. “I thought you guys were apocryphal. Or that when you said you finished a new book and started another, you meant
reading.”
“Nope!” said William. “Waiting for inspiration is for amateurs, sweetheart.”
Sam sighed. “Yeah,” she said.
William tapped the back of her hand. “Let me guess. You’re inspiration.”
“Yup,” said Sam. “If I’m going to spend a year, three years, five, writing a book, I won’t do it unless I love it. Which means
I have to feel connected. Emotionally inspired.”
William sat back and gazed at her for a long moment. “Simone, I’m about to drop something incredibly paternalistic and pedantic
on you. May I?”
“How could I resist?”
He leaned forward and gripped her hand, encircling it in his.
“However you do it,” he said, “you must get inspired. I don’t care if you go to a retreat in Italy or bonk the pizza delivery guy or stand on your head. You’ve got
to channel that next beautiful book. Because the world needs another Simone Vetiver novel. I do.”
Was it Sam’s imagination, or did his thumb press gently into her palm? He let go of her hand. “If there is any way I can help,”
he said, “I would be honored.”
“Thank you,” said Sam, thinking: Wow. “I might take you up on that.”
“I hope you do.” William reached over and tucked a loop that had escaped Sam’s braid behind her ear. “Forgive me. I’ve been
wanting to do that all evening.”
Sam touched her hair. “Obviously I need to go clean up,” she said. “Excuse me,” and she slid out of the booth, William standing
as she did.
In the bathroom, with its Toulouse-Lautrec prints and hammered copper sink, Sam confronted herself in the mirror. Her eyes
were shining in circles of mascara and her cheeks flushed, her damp tank clinging to her nipples. The overall effect was fetching
in a louche, heroin-addict kind of way. Sam used the facilities and redid her braid, tucking her fountain pen back into it,
then texted Drishti.
Hey D, you there? I’m at dinner with that writer I told you about, the one who wrote me the insane praise letter.
The three dots, then:
hallefuckinglujah! its about time you get laid.
DRISHTI.
dont worry i’m sure youll remember how. they say its just like riding a . . . man!!!!!
DRISHTI. FOCUS.
kk sorry. so ur finally gonna get some????
I’m not 100% sure it’s like that.
what else could it be like????
It could be professional.
nope. not if he asked u to dinner. whats he like
He seems great. Charming, kind. A straight, solvent creative professional. Do you know how rare this is?
mmmhmmmm. so whats the problem?
That IS the problem, I can’t tell. What’s wrong with this picture?
does he have all his hair?
Mostly but with those weird showy silver streaks—and a GOATEE ??
he can shave. teeth?
WTH, Drish, we’re not that old!
married?
I didn’t see a ring.
which means literally nothing
I know.
did u ask?
We haven’t even gotten our food yet!
girl have i taught u nothing? trust but verify
I will. Oh, he did tuck my hair behind my ear.
the man is a MONSTER
Also he runs a support group for writers. Over-giver? Virtue signaling?
ok listen to me. u r SPINNING. props for reaching out but srsly . . . overthinking is just as much a symptom of what u have
been thru as anything else. stay grounded but be open.
Good advice, thank you, D.
just have fun FFS!!!!!! & text the code if you see anything hinky
I will, LOL, Sam typed. Drishti was referring to Sam’s hatred of the acronym, so much so that they’d long agreed if Sam texted LOL to Drishti,
it meant she was in some serial killer’s trunk and Drishti should call 911 immediately.
make sure u dont have anything in ur teeth. & use a condom
DRISHTI