“I don’t think we necessarily have a bad reputation. I think we have a fun reputation. And that will entice people.”
“It might entice people who actually are going to live here, but it might not entice the people who are going to be paying for the people to live here or the ones who are scouting out a facility for their parents or their grandparents.”
I raise my eyebrows, and she has to admit I’m right. The people who are looking for a place for their parents or grandparents to live are going to have higher standards than the actual parents or grandparents.
They’re not going to care about whether or not their parents or grandparents are having fun, they want them to be well taken care of at a facility that has a great reputation and a full schedule of activities that normal people enjoy.
Like bingo.
And movies.
And nature walks.
“I can’t argue with that,” she concedes.
We stare at each other for a moment until she finally says, “Did you have an idea for this compromise?”
“I really didn’t, but since I suggested it, I suppose it’s only right that I come up with something.” I steeple my hands together and try to sound conciliatory. “Maybe you could promise to run things by me before you do them, and I will promise to not say an automatic no.”
“That sounds great. Can we have a whitewater rafting trip?” she says, barely giving me time to breathe.
“No.”
Her brows fly up. My lips press closed.
Right. I think her foot is thumping on the floor, but I’m sitting at my desk and I can’t see.
I search my brain and remember a flyer I saw in the post office this morning. I’d dismissed the thought out of hand when I saw it, but now it feels like common ground.
“There is a book signing and romance author meet and greet at the fire hall tomorrow. How about we let you off your reprimand, and you could take the ladies to that?”
I feel like I’m being very generous. Not to be rude, but romance novelists aren’t exactly known for their upstanding morals and values.
“We were already going,” she says, although she looks a little contrite, like maybe she should have told me about it.
Or maybe she was planning on ignoring her reprimand.
It should be on the schedule anyway. Maybe it is, and I missed it. Something about food fights and hazmat that just blew the schedule out of my mind.
“I think the ladies will enjoy that, and I do believe that while it is probably not the most wholesome activity ever, they will have fun.”
“Not wholesome?” she asks, scrunching up her nose.
“We’re talking about romance novelists, correct? I mean, they live lurid lives full of debauchery and sin.” I really don’t consider myself a prude, but I’ve seen some of the covers on those books. I definitely don’t want my daughter hanging out with a romance novelist. I mean, I’m from California, and I’m not a bigot, but they just don’t seem like moral people to hang around.
Ms. Harding doesn’t seem to have that problem, because her lip pulls back, but she doesn’t say anything.
“How about I take them to the book signing at the fire hall, like you suggested, and you think long and hard about the whitewater rafting trip?” She lifts her brows, and she actually sounds like she’s pleading as she lowers her voice. “It’s on Miss Agnes’s bucket list. And I know you don’t really believe there is a list, and I myself have never actually seen it, but Miss Agnes is trying to cross everything off it before she gets too old. She really wants to do this. I picked out a stretch along the Snake River that will take us four days and three nights to go through. It’s pretty calm, and most of the tour groups treat you like royalty. I mean, it’s not going to be too hard for an eighty-year-old. I promise.”
We’ve already established the fact that my automatic reaction is no, but Miss Agnes is so sweet and such a dear old lady it would be hard to decline anything she wants.
That’s not really my problem though. This is the first time that Ms. Harding has softened toward me, and I find myself struggling to get the words that I know need to come out of my mouth.
I clamp my teeth together because rather than saying what I know needs to be said, I’m tempted to say yes. Or, at least, to promise to think about it, when I know I should do no such thing.
Whoever heard of residents in a senior living facility going on a whitewater rafting trip?
It just isn’t done.
“What if something happens to everyone?”
“Nothing’s going to happen. It’s ‘whitewater,’” she puts her fingers up and does air quotes, “but it’s really not. That’s just what it says. It’s four days of basically floating on totally calm water. Absolutely no chance of anything happening. It will thrill Miss Agnes, and she’ll be able to cross that off her bucket list, and I promise we will give you no trouble. As much as I have control over that.”
The ladies always say it’s not Ms. Harding, and I’ve never believed them, but Ms. Harding kinda slipped up there a little, and for the first time, I think that I might be wrong.
I know I shouldn’t say this, but I do it anyway. “You go to the book signing—take them to see the romance novelists—and I’ll think about it.”
Chapter 5
Leah
“Do you think she’ll sign my book?” Gertrude says, clutching Emma St. Clair’s latest romantic comedy to her chest.
“That’s why they’re here, silly. They want to sign your books.”
“No, they’re here because they want you to buy their books,” Harriet corrects Agnes.
I add, “They get you to the table where they have their pen, and then they snatch you up and make you buy more. So then you come back next time to get them to sign them again.”
“You sound like you’ve done this a time or two. Do you happen to be a romance novelist?” Agnes asks, irony in her voice.
I’m just along for the ride. I’ve never had romance novelist aspirations, and I’ve never actually read romances. But if my ladies love them, that’s what we’ll do.
Thankfully, Emma St. Clair has large-print books, and apparently, they’re pretty funny, since Gertrude tends to cackle when she laughs, and when she’s reading an Emma St. Clair book, no one can sleep.
Probably if Mr. Ripley knew about it, he would forbid her from reading them after 8:00 PM. After all, he would claim the other residents need their beauty sleep.
Maybe he needs it.
Actually, he doesn’t. He looks pretty fine just the way he is.
Regardless, I’m shocked when we arrive at the fire hall and there is a line coming out the door and wrapping around the building, almost clear around and back to the door.
I had no idea romance novels were so popular in Good Grief.
We don’t have to get in line right away, so we decide to walk in and see exactly what’s going on. Maybe there’s just one super popular romance novelist here, and Emma St. Clair’s table will be empty.
We walk in. Agnes allows me to go first. My eyes are slightly better, and I think that’s why.
I scan the room, lifting a hand and waving at my sister Claire who has almost made it to the table with the long line.
I notice right away there are only two tables.
I guess I should have known that having a book signing in Good Grief probably didn’t involve a lot of authors, even though it had been billed as a “Romance Reader Convention” on the flyer in the post office.
Apparently, in Good Grief, “convention” means two romance writers.
There is one woman sitting at the table with the long line in front of her. I read the tag on the corner of her desk: Emma St. Clair.
There is a second romance writer sitting at another table, and she must not be nearly as popular since there is no one standing in front of her.
I have to squint a little to see the name on the tag, since it is homemade and not nearly as nice as the engraved gold on wood of Emma
St. Clair. I can barely make it out.
“Have any of you ever heard of...Jessie Gussman?” I ask, looking at her and thinking that she doesn’t look like a romance novelist.
She actually looks kind of intimidated by the small number of people in the building, and she’s kind of huddled in her chair.
I feel a little bad for her but not bad enough to actually buy any of her books.
I don’t really think about her too much anyway, because I have a rock in my shoe, and I feel like I need to lean down and get it out, but I would prefer to sit in a chair, because somehow I’ve managed to get it in so far there that I will have to take my shoe off.
Annoying.
I have no idea where I even picked it up.
“No,” Gertrude draws the word out. “I’ve never heard of her, and I’m up on all the latest. All the greatest. If she were good, I would know about her.”
“Then should we go back outside and get in line for Emma St. Clair?” I ask, thinking that was the only other option.
“I’m going to, for sure,” Gertrude says with determination. “I can’t even believe that she’s here in our little town. Don’t think for one second that I’m going to miss my opportunity to get this signed.” She waves her book around.
“I’m going with her. As much as she laughs while reading those books, I’m definitely going to pick up a couple for myself. I don’t know anyone who can’t use a good laugh,” Harriet says as she leaves with Gertrude.
“If you’re okay by yourself, little missy,” Agnes says. “I’m going with them. I don’t have much time to read, I’m too busy with my bucket list, but maybe on a rainy day, I can pick up a book that will make me laugh.”
I nod and watch the ladies shuffle out. They’ll be fine outside. I’m going to find myself a chair somewhere and relax for a bit after I get this horrid rock out of my shoe.
“Hey, Jessie?” Emma St. Clair calls from the table where she sits, somewhat like a queen with her adoring subjects, because obviously the ladies in front of her—and there are some men in the group too, surprisingly—adore her.
The other romance novelist lifts her head. “Yes?”
“Be a sweetie and run out to my tour bus and grab another box of books. I’m running low.”
“Oh sure, Emma,” Jessie says, jumping up and scurrying away toward the back of the building, where, apparently, there is a tour bus parked.
I almost go out and see it.
We don’t get tour buses around Good Grief much.
Maybe if we were a little closer to the interstate. But there aren’t any hotels in town, and there is no reason for tourists to come here besides the awesome scenery, but pretty much all of Idaho is filled with awesome scenery, so we don’t see many tourists.
I look around the building again. Other than Claire, none of my family is here.
Tammy, being an English teacher, probably doesn’t read romance novels either, although, again because of the English teacher background, she still might be interested in an author.
If Tammy were here, she was probably here early. Tammy’s always early.
Now, my sister Kori is exactly the kind of person who reads romance novels, but if she makes it, it won’t be until the doors are closing. She’ll squeak in at the last minute.
I know a few other people in line, but I want to get the rock out of my shoe first.
The only chair I see is the one that the unpopular romance author vacated.
As my eyes land on it, the back door opens, and she stumbles in, carrying a big box that looks heavy.
She lugs it over to Emma St. Clair, who gives her a benevolent and beautiful smile.
“Thank you,” Emma says, her voice sounding exactly the way you would think a romance novelist would sound.
“You’re welcome,” the second romance novelist—whatever her name was—says, sounding tired and out of breath.
“Would it be too much trouble for you to unpack them so I don’t have to stop signing books?” Emma St. Clair asks sweetly with kindness in her eyes.
“Oh no. I can do that. The line is clear around the building. You probably better get signing if you’re going to get through all those people.”
Emma nods, and with one more look at the second romance novelist who is already on her knees cracking open the box, she picks up her pen and greets the next person in line.
I probably should offer to go and help the other romance novelist just in case someone comes in and actually wants to see her.
But I’m going to get the rock out of my shoe first.
After a couple of seconds, I tiptoe over to her chair and sit down, glancing in her direction, but she doesn’t even notice, since she has her face in the box. If I’m not mistaken, she might have taken a couple of books out, looked them over, and now it looks like she might have started to read one.
Maybe that poor Jamie person, or whatever her name was, will figure out what Emma’s books have that are so amazing and be able to improve her own writing some.
For her sake, I hope so.
I take my shoe off, and sure enough, there’s a sharp little stone in the bottom of it that pops into my hand as I dump it out.
As bad as the bottom of my foot is hurting, it might have made it bleed.
This isn’t the time to check for that, so I slip my shoe back on and am tying it when I hear, “I should have known.”
My head jerks up. Doug is standing there, his arms crossed and looking at me like I just committed a murder.
I don’t think I have, but I look around just in case there’s a dead body.
I don’t see one, so I look back. “What?”
“You write lurid romance novels in your spare time,” he says, like that explains everything.
Now, I don’t read romance, but that doesn’t mean that I think there’s something wrong with it. It’s just not the type of book I enjoy.
My eyes narrow. If he doesn’t think romance novels are wholesome, maybe he has something against romance novelists too. And even though I’m not a romance novelist, he thinks I am, so I obviously have to be offended on account of romance novelists everywhere.
I cross my arms over my chest and glare at him.
While I want to correct his misassumption and inform him that I’m not actually a romance novelist, I feel like it’s more important to correct his bias.
“Is there something wrong with that?”
His lips purse as though noticing my aggressive stance.
“I guess not.” He doesn’t sound completely convinced of that, but he also looks a little impressed. I might have been wrong with my first impression.
Now, I really feel like I need to correct him, but there’s a small part of me that wants to impress him and a slightly larger part that just wants to mess around a little.
Normally I would never do this, but I slant my eyes over toward the person who truly belongs behind this desk. She’s sitting cross-legged on the floor, her nose buried in one of Emma St. Clair’s books, a little smile on her face, and is completely oblivious to all the noise that’s going on around her.
I decide it’s okay.
“You know,” I say, looking down my nose at Doug who is towering over my table, “writing books is not an easy job. Especially when you have a full-time day job and a very demanding boss who is never satisfied with what you do, constantly breathing down your neck, and always yelling at you and giving you reprimands.”
I’m goofing, really, I am, but I’m not sure Doug knows how to goof.
Before he can say anything, the door bursts open, and three people who look like they might be reporters from the press, judging by the badges hanging around their necks and the fact that they’re wearing Channel 6 News on their shirts, bustle in.
“Can we get a picture of the romance novelists?” the lead one says breathlessly.
“Fast?” adds the older gentleman with gray hair and glasses. “The mayor in the next town over is going to cut the ribbon on a new slid
e they’ve installed in the playground, and we don’t want to miss the commemorating ceremony. Can we just get a quick pic?”
Emma stands gracefully and strides over. “Of course you may. We don’t want to hold you up from your very important job,” she says, and while I’ve never read one of her books, I decide I’m going to. Anyone who can be so sweet and gracious about a small town, and the things that are important to them, has to be someone whose books I want to read.
Doug hits my shoulder. “Aren’t you going to stand up and get in the picture?” His tone says I’m the rudest person ever to hold these people up from the slide commemorating ceremony.
I open my mouth to tell him that I’m not actually Julie-whatever-her-name-was and that she’s back behind us, but as I look over my shoulder to where what’s-her-name is, I see that she’s rolled over on her stomach, with her knees bent and her feet in the air and her nose pressed into the pages of the book, laughing a little, her mouth slightly open, her lips moving, and completely engrossed in the story she’s reading. She hasn’t even noticed that the press walked in.
It seems a little rude to interrupt her, but someone should.
I’ve barely thought that and realized that no one knows who she is anyway when Doug grabs my elbow, the gray-haired man grabs my other elbow, and they pull me over until I’m standing beside Emma St. Clair with the gray-haired man beside me.
I protest, truly I do, but he shushes me and says, “Just smile please. We’ll airbrush it and make your skin look less blotchy, I promise, although we can’t do anything about your hair. We need to get going, or we’re going to miss the ribbon cutting.”
I’m not sure what the expression on my face is—I think I’m insulted about the airbrushing comment and definitely about the hair—but I’m pretty sure I’ll see it on the news tonight, if I watch it. There’s a flash, and maybe they took some video, I don’t know.
Me and the Helpful Hurricane (Good Grief, Idaho) Page 4