man in Truly before they ’ d admit defeat, and that ’ s a prospect that could get very, very scary very, very quickly.
“ So, are you going to see him again?” Vera asked.
“ Of course not,” Mags said before I had a chance to answer. “ What ’ s the point of Flying if you have to see him again?”
“ I don ’ t know,” I said with a shrug, my eyes on the bit of roast I was sawing into. “ He ’ s a pretty big deal as authors go. I was thinking it might not be a bad idea to do a book signing or something.”
Ve ra smiled and leaned forward. “ Really?”
I rolled my eyes. “ Yes, really, Vera. This hadn ’ t occurred to you? We own a bookstore, for crying out loud.”
“ I think it ’ s a wonderful idea,” Vera said, practically glowing with satisfaction as she sat back and reach ed for her iced tea. “ It ’ s a horrible idea,” Bev said. “ He lives in London.”
I looked at them. “ What does that have to do with a book signing?”
Bev stabbed at her green beans. “ Why don ’ t you call up that nice Greg Feeney?”
I spoke to the ceiling. “ Because Greg Feeney hasn ’ t written a book.”
“ Oh, Portia.” Mags raised her glass in my direction to get my attention. “ I think you should go see Pearl McGee.”
I looked at her. “ For what?”
She grinned. “ Well, surely you know that ponytail has got to go.”
My hand fle w to my ponytail. “ No. I don ’ t.”
“ I think if you cut it shoulder length, maybe added a little flip to it? Some highlights, maybe? It ’ d be real pretty. Not that you ’ re not pretty now, baby, but you know we all have to put our best foot forward.”
I stared at her. She smiled back and patted my hand, standing up from the table. “ Who wants more sweet potatoes?”
My eyes flew open on the edge of a dream I couldn ’ t quite remember. I pulled on my glasses and looked at the clock. 2:34. I rolled onto my back and stare d at the ceiling, wide awake. I knew myself well enough to know it was hopeless. The back- home insomnia had set in.
I sat up in my bed and looked around at all the items from my youth. The field hockey trophy I ’ d gotten during freshman year. The shelf wit h all the copies of my favorite books from high school. William Goldman ’ s The Princess Bride. Tolkien ’ s The Lord of the Rings. The Compleat Shakespeare. A collection of Melville ’ s short stories, my favorite of which was “ Bartleby the Scrivener,” about a cl erk who got out of work simply by telling his boss “ I prefer not to” whenever he was given a task. Obviously a man who ’ d never lived with a Miz Fallon.
I got up and ran my fingers along the worn spines of the books, smiling. I moved over to the dresser, to uching the candles that had remained unlit since Ian had blown them out. I opened the wooden jewelry/music box that Vera had given me when I turned sixteen, and it creaked out a few strands of “ Sunshine on My Shoulder” before petering out.
I walked over to my closet and opened it. I hadn ’ t unpacked my duffel bag, so all that was in there were my prom dresses, encased in dusty dry cleaning bags. I laughed and ran my hand over the rip I ’ d made in the mauve taffeta when Beauji and I got caught drinking beer i n the elementary school playground. That was probably the fastest I ’ d ever run in my life.
I looked up to the top shelf of my closet and my smile disappeared as I saw the faded red shoebox peeking over the shelf. I think originally it had held a pair of Mar y Janes I ’ d had in the first grade, but since then, I ’ d been using it to store letters.
I reached up and pulled it down, walking over to the bed and settling in. For a moment I just stared at it, then finally forced myself to pluck off the top.
They were t here, a series of fat envelopes stuffed with letters and pictures. The return addresses were written in my handwriting, which flowed from the scratchy print of my child hood to the fat cursiv e of
“ So, are you going to see him again?” Vera asked.
“ Of course not,” Mags said before I had a chance to answer. “ What ’ s the point of Flying if you have to see him again?”
“ I don ’ t know,” I said with a shrug, my eyes on the bit of roast I was sawing into. “ He ’ s a pretty big deal as authors go. I was thinking it might not be a bad idea to do a book signing or something.”
Ve ra smiled and leaned forward. “ Really?”
I rolled my eyes. “ Yes, really, Vera. This hadn ’ t occurred to you? We own a bookstore, for crying out loud.”
“ I think it ’ s a wonderful idea,” Vera said, practically glowing with satisfaction as she sat back and reach ed for her iced tea. “ It ’ s a horrible idea,” Bev said. “ He lives in London.”
I looked at them. “ What does that have to do with a book signing?”
Bev stabbed at her green beans. “ Why don ’ t you call up that nice Greg Feeney?”
I spoke to the ceiling. “ Because Greg Feeney hasn ’ t written a book.”
“ Oh, Portia.” Mags raised her glass in my direction to get my attention. “ I think you should go see Pearl McGee.”
I looked at her. “ For what?”
She grinned. “ Well, surely you know that ponytail has got to go.”
My hand fle w to my ponytail. “ No. I don ’ t.”
“ I think if you cut it shoulder length, maybe added a little flip to it? Some highlights, maybe? It ’ d be real pretty. Not that you ’ re not pretty now, baby, but you know we all have to put our best foot forward.”
I stared at her. She smiled back and patted my hand, standing up from the table. “ Who wants more sweet potatoes?”
My eyes flew open on the edge of a dream I couldn ’ t quite remember. I pulled on my glasses and looked at the clock. 2:34. I rolled onto my back and stare d at the ceiling, wide awake. I knew myself well enough to know it was hopeless. The back- home insomnia had set in.
I sat up in my bed and looked around at all the items from my youth. The field hockey trophy I ’ d gotten during freshman year. The shelf wit h all the copies of my favorite books from high school. William Goldman ’ s The Princess Bride. Tolkien ’ s The Lord of the Rings. The Compleat Shakespeare. A collection of Melville ’ s short stories, my favorite of which was “ Bartleby the Scrivener,” about a cl erk who got out of work simply by telling his boss “ I prefer not to” whenever he was given a task. Obviously a man who ’ d never lived with a Miz Fallon.
I got up and ran my fingers along the worn spines of the books, smiling. I moved over to the dresser, to uching the candles that had remained unlit since Ian had blown them out. I opened the wooden jewelry/music box that Vera had given me when I turned sixteen, and it creaked out a few strands of “ Sunshine on My Shoulder” before petering out.
I walked over to my closet and opened it. I hadn ’ t unpacked my duffel bag, so all that was in there were my prom dresses, encased in dusty dry cleaning bags. I laughed and ran my hand over the rip I ’ d made in the mauve taffeta when Beauji and I got caught drinking beer i n the elementary school playground. That was probably the fastest I ’ d ever run in my life.
I looked up to the top shelf of my closet and my smile disappeared as I saw the faded red shoebox peeking over the shelf. I think originally it had held a pair of Mar y Janes I ’ d had in the first grade, but since then, I ’ d been using it to store letters.
I reached up and pulled it down, walking over to the bed and settling in. For a moment I just stared at it, then finally forced myself to pluck off the top.
They were t here, a series of fat envelopes stuffed with letters and pictures. The return addresses were written in my handwriting, which flowed from the scratchy print of my child hood to the fat cursiv e of
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