"Oh, man... I'm so sorry I invited her," Bethany said. "It's just her last book hit the New York Times list, and it's set in Maine, and I thought... "
"You did the right thing," I reassured her. "It's the right thing for the shop, and there was no way to know. But now," I said, "it's time to face the music. The show must go on. Or something like that." I touched my face again. "As soon as I get rid of the blotchiness, that is."
"I'll go down and get her situated while you do what you have to do," Bethany said. "I'll do the author-wrangling if you'll schmooze. Are you sure you'll be all right?"
"Right as rain," I lied, wondering if I was going to be reduced to communicating in idioms for the rest of the day. At least the day can't get any worse, I told myself as I hurried to the small bathroom and turned on the cold water tap.
Sadly, I was dead wrong.
4
True to her word, Bethany handled Kirsten and Ted for me as I finished a few last-minute chores, such as sweeping the front porch, figuring out how to turn on music, and starting the coffee pots.
It was ten minutes to opening when my mother reappeared. "Not much of a crowd, is there?" she commented as I let her in the door.
"We're not open for another ten minutes," I pointed out. "But Ted is here. Although he goes by Theodore now, apparently."
"Ted? Awww. That was so nice of him. He still cares for you, you know," she said, and patted my cheek. "It's so good of him to support you!"
"He's not here to support me. He's here with his girlfriend. The author." I pointed to the sign on the table with the glamour shot of K. T. Anderson front and center. Her cheekbones looked like someone had sculpted them with a chisel, and her lips were as full as a twelve-year-old's. I resisted the urge to make some alterations with a Sharpie. "Apparently they're taking a trip to Europe soon."
She blinked at me. "What? Ted never wanted to go to Europe before."
"He does now. And he goes to literary readings these days, too, apparently."
My mother's face softened into a sad look that threatened to make me cry a little again. "Oh, honey, I'm so sorry."
"Thanks. I'm glad he's happy," I said staunchly.
And I was. Our marriage had died a slow, inexorable, natural death, crushed under the strain of day-to-day-living and divergent growth, and although both of us were torn up when it ended, we were also a little relieved to no longer have to live with the constant tension. But it stung to think that the things I'd wanted in our marriage for so long were suddenly on offer to someone else. A glamorous bestselling author, no less.
Who was doing a reading in my store with her adoring boyfriend looking on in just a few minutes.
"You never know. He could come back," my mother attempted to reassure me.
"Mom, I know you're trying to help, but we parted ways for a reason. I want to be friends with him, and share parenting our daughters, but our relationship..." I trailed off.
"You never know!" she repeated, then, at a slitty-eyed look from me, thankfully dropped it. "Anyway. Where is he? I'd like to say hi."
"On the back porch,” I said in a voice that sounded surly even to me.
"Are you sure it's okay if I say hi?"
"It's fine," I said flatly.
At five minutes before the opening, I turned the sign to OPEN and said a little prayer.
At three minutes before the opening, I began to worry.
At two minutes before the opening, I began to panic.
And then, just as the minute hand on my watch turned to 12, about twenty people materialized on the sidewalk in front of the store and trickled onto the store's front porch.
I threw open the door and welcomed them, trying not to look as relieved as I felt, and within fifteen minutes, the little store was full of locals and tourists, browsing bookshelves and plowing through the cookies and coffee.
"I told you it would be fine," Bethany murmured as she drifted in to check up on things. "Free food works every time."
"How's Kirsten?" I asked.
"She and... well, I set them up on the back porch for now, and your mother's there, too," she said. "We're already running out of cookies... I'll go refill them."
"Thanks," I said, and turned to greet another customer.
When we were five minutes from the start of the reading, the chairs had all filled up and folks were standing on the edges of the room. I was edging back toward the front door when someone tapped me on the shoulder. I turned around to face a handsome man about my age, with salt-and-pepper hair, high cheekbones, and very familiar brown eyes.
"Max? Is that you?"
"Nicholas?" I blinked.
"That's me," he said. "A bit grayer than I was," he said. "You look just the same, though."
"No," I said, flushing. "Two kids and a lot of years have taken their toll."
"Married, then?" he asked, and I thought I caught a flash of disappointment.
"No," I said. "Well, not anymore. You?"
"Never married," he said. "Came close a few times, but it never clicked." He gave me a familiar grin that made my heart turn over; some things hadn't changed. "You never said what you're doing here. Are you in town visiting your mom?"
"No... I bought the book store!"
"What?" he asked.
