Dating by the Book

by Mary Ann Marlowe

  This email turned out to be neither—just a disappointing Google alert. Junk.

  I’d set up a search on my pen name and the title of my as yet unreleased novel to catch any mention on blogs, but this alert came from some site spoofing a bootleg of my book. I forwarded it to my editor, disgusted at jerks who would try to scam other people by using my creative output as the bait.

  Then I saw another link below the first. I clicked it, unaware that three innocuous words were about to flip my world upside down.

  Chapter 2

  Funny how so many life-altering moments are accompanied by three little words.

  I love you.

  Kiss the bride.

  Hold my beer.

  The three words of advice my editor imparted when she sent me my advance copies were: Don’t read reviews. Nevertheless, I settled on the stool behind the cash register and scanned the blog post, blood pulsing in my fingertips, hoping to see the words “Brilliant first novel” and some ego-stroking praise. The few advance reviews I’d already read had been fairly glowing, so despite the prevailing wisdom, I’d started to look forward to the external validation.

  The teaser in the email read: “Review of Claire Kincaid’s The Shadow’s Apprentice,” and led to a site called the Book Brigade. I’d never heard of it, but then again, I hadn’t recognized the last few blogs I’d come across. Authoring was all new to me. I had so much to learn.

  My high school English teacher liked to say the author is dead, and, in literature classes, that was usually literally true, so I never gave much thought to the fact that modern-day writers were living, breathing, in-the-flesh real people with feelings and possibly very strong opinions about wrong interpretations of their works. I figured JK Rowling had better things to do than peek her head into a lecture and listen to arguments about the overarching themes in The Prisoner of Azkaban.

  That was before I crossed the Rubicon from reader to writer. Now reviews gave me a weird thrill. Knowing someone out there was reading my book, I couldn’t resist spying on their reactions.

  Today was my reckoning.

  I scanned the review, and my heart stopped in my chest when I hit the final verdict: Three solid stars.

  Objectively, I knew most people would consider three stars good enough, and I tried to tell myself it was one disheartening review, not a presage of doom. But I had lofty, and apparently unwarranted, aspirations of literary praise, awards, and interviews with Terry Gross on Fresh Air. My career was over, and it hadn’t even started.

  Rest in peace.

  Like a straight A student receiving a C, I wanted to challenge the teacher.

  My three word reaction: Not gonna read.

  I barely registered when Charlie gathered his things and approached the counter to pay for his latte. I wiped my eyes and took a deep breath. I didn’t have the luxury to wallow. I had a business to run.

  He paused and cleared his throat. “Are you okay?”

  I reached for the stubborn resilience of Anne Shirley and straightened my spine. “I’m fine,” I lied.

  He narrowed an eye, not convinced. “Gotta go teach, but I’ll return before book club.”

  His shadow lingered in the archway of the door a beat after his body disappeared, but then it grew longer again. I half expected Charlie to emerge, searching for something forgotten, but instead Layla Beckett filled the doorway.

  Thank God.

  Layla, my best friend, roommate, and confidante, was the only person in town, other than my mom, who knew about my burgeoning side career as an author. I’d eventually confessed to her on pain of death to keep it a secret because I needed her mad skills to help set up my website and show me how to use Twitter to promote myself when the time came. At least I knew I could count on her to read my early drafts with gentle suggestions that wouldn’t destroy my confidence, unlike some people around here. In high school, I once asked Max to read a funny short story I’d written. I just wanted to make him laugh, but he turned it into a teaching opportunity and offered me unsolicited advice on tightening the language. I vowed never to let him read anything I wrote ever again. Hence my need for Layla’s utter discretion.

  Layla spent the better part of her day staring at the computer screen, managing a band’s unofficial fan forum, and writing blog posts. She understood the benefit of keeping a dual identity, though she kept her anonymity in reverse. She’d never hidden her passion for her pet band around town, but she fiercely protected her real-life identity from the strangers she met in her forum. She didn’t think of them as strangers, but rather as portable friends. Nonetheless, she went by an alias and never shared identifying information. I couldn’t understand how one could get to know anyone camouflaged behind a screen name.

  “Can you do me a favor?” I pulled up the Book Brigade as she crossed the store to the register. “Some stranger hiding behind an alias left me a review. Would you read it and tell me what you think?”

  I handed her my phone, and she squinted at the tiny print on the screen. “Who’s Silver Fox? Guy or girl?”

  “No idea.”

  “One sec.” She clicked the username to the bio page and pronounced, “He.” She clicked back to the review. “Should I read it aloud?”

  I put my hands over my face and peeked between my fingers. “Sure.”

  “Here we go.” She waggled her eyebrows as if she were talking about doing something fun and mischievous, like sneaking out late at night. I guess it’s always more fun when it’s someone else’s execution. “‘Review of Claire Kincaid’s The Shadow’s Apprentice . ’” Layla reached over and touched my wrist. “I still think it’s awesome you took your birth mom’s first name for your pseudonym.”

  She seemed less impressed that I’d used my adoptive mom’s maiden name as well.

  “You are killing me, Layla.” I wasn’t going to survive if she peppered every statement with commentary. “Can you just read straight through?”

  She turned her attention back to the phone. “‘I received an advance copy of this book in exchange for an honest review.’” She lifted her eyes. “Who sent the free copy?”

  I grumbled. “Not a clue. I’m guessing my publicist wanted to get the book out there ahead of the release.”

  “Okay. Let’s see what this Fox character has to say.” She cleared her throat. “‘The Shadow’s Apprentice is a quest fantasy with a side of romance. I went into this thinking it would be a Tolkien knockoff as the novel opens with a visit from a mysterious wizened old man seeking a willing assistant to journey with him across the land to defeat a distant foe. But the similarities with other quest novels often serve to upend expected tropes, which leads to some surprising and amusing twists. The apprentice chosen to follow the old man is a commoner, a woman named Lela, who has a well-timed sense of humor, and her confidence and power grow stronger over time.’”

  She stopped again. “Lela? That’s almost Layla.”

  “Yeah, he got their names wrong. Keep going.”

  “ ‘A love interest is introduced, but the attempt to shoehorn in a romantic arc proves a lackluster effort at best. The wooden rapport between Dane and Lela—’” she cackled “‘—left me unsatisfied. I’ve felt more chemistry between my kitchen appliances. It’s so stilted that I’m left suspecting the author hasn’t had a single romantic experience.

  “ ‘The world building—though filled with info dumps and heavy exposition—was the strongest aspect. For a debut novelist, Kincaid shows a deft hand at creating a real sense of depth in culture and geography. There were times it seemed like she’d read a real Wikipedia page about some custom and felt the need to show her research. That these were fabricated elements impressed me on an intellectual level, but these were also the places that took me out of the story and made me wish to know less about the Creed and more about what is driving Dane and Lela on their journey.

  “ ‘Overall, a promising debut, though for me it fell flat. Three solid stars.’”

  “Hmm.” Layla tilted h
er head at me. “Not a terrible review at all.”

  I gripped a napkin and twisted it. “He hated it.”

  “I disagree. Did you hear all the praise in there? A promising debut, Maddie.”

  “It fell flat.” By the end of the day, I’d probably be able to quote the entire review like it was The Hitchhiker’s Guide to the Galaxy. If only it had been that funny.

  “It’s only one reviewer. And honestly, you’re hearing only the critical bits. You know how subjective opinions can be.”

  “I do know that. But how can his critique be valid when he doesn’t appear to have read the book? He didn’t even get the character names right.”

  “Maybe fantasy isn’t his thing.”

  “He took specific issue with the romance.” I scrunched up my face to fight tears, swallowing the frog in my throat. “You read it. Did you find the romance believable? Am I such a failure at life, I can’t even tell if my fictional romance rings true?”

  “Let it go, Maddie. You’re likely to encounter much more brutal reviews once it’s released. If you’re lucky enough to get readers.”

  Gut punch. “Ouch. Thanks for the vote of confidence.”

  “Just saying. Champagne problems. It’s a part of the deal, Mads. You should see what people say on my fan forum about Adam’s new music. And that’s coming from his fans.”

  I loved that she took criticism of that band personally. “I’m just irritated.”

  “Remember. You signed up for this. You can’t now complain that your diamond shoes are too tight.” She handed me back my phone.

  “Come to book club tonight?” I’d been asking her for ages, but Max had gotten all the Beckett bookworm genes.

  She wrinkled her nose. “Nah. I only came over to get you to make me a latte. I just got up.”

  I didn’t chastise her for sleeping all day. The girl was a recluse and a night owl who only occasionally risked full sunlight. I fixed her a to-go cup and slipped her one of the leftover apple crumb muffins.

  Once Layla had left, darker thoughts rolled in like an army of orcs. Business was slower than I would have liked, but a few patrons came in, ordered coffee, and sat at tables talking or reading their devices, without buying books. The mail arrived, bringing an energy bill that had me wanting to crawl up to every customer on hands and knees and implore them to purchase the Game of Thrones box set.

  And winter was coming. Eventually.

  As the day went on, I returned to the review like a moth bashing against a fluorescent light. I’d let an anonymous reviewer get under my skin, and the words wooden rapport ping-ponged around my brain, but the jab that truly rattled me was: It makes me suspect the author has had no romantic experience.

  Ha. You know nothing, Silver Fox.

  Granted, my last great romantic experience had ended in crushing humiliation. But, my main characters, Rane and Lira, had a better love story than I’d ever personally known. As my own relationship collapsed, they’d become surrogates I poured all my frustration into.

  I’d felt their attraction. Had I failed to convey it on the page?

  I began to panic over the impending book club. How could I carry on a literary discussion of a classic while half my brain obsessed over my own literary incompetence?

  By the time the sunlight grew burnt orange and faded, I was deep in a pity party. I slipped outside to drag my sales table back in and caught sight of the chalkboard sign that now read:

  I LIKE BIG BOOKS AND I CANNOT LIE.

  I chortled, wondering if it had been like that all day. At least I knew I could blame that bit of vandalism on Max.

  * * *

  The bell tinkled as Charlie burst through the front door like a battering ram. He rubbed his shoulder. “You should really fix that.”

  He laughed to diffuse the criticism, and I tried to shake off my despair. It was time to put on a good pretense for the biweekly Friday night book club.

  With a fake but hospitable smile, I crossed the floor. “Ready to plunge into Pride and Prejudice?”

  I was so pleased when Charlie started coming to the book club since the only other man who ever showed up was Max. But while Max used the gathering as a chance to advertise his wares, Charlie legitimately loved to argue about books. Plus he gave me an excuse to take a prolonged detour into the classics.

  We moved closer to the circle of chairs where the rest of the group would soon gather.

  Charlie took a seat, pushing his glasses into place. “I’m looking forward to comparing it to modern romance.”

  If Jane Austen were alive, would she care to hear Charlie’s opinion? Would it hurt her fragile ego if he said her book was filled with too much exposition? Did real authors eventually develop a thick skin for criticism? Or did they just get better at shoehorning in the romance?

  Charlie set the book on his lap and tapped his index finger on the binding. We weren’t usually the only two at the book club, and I dreaded facing a one-on-one conversation with a legit English professor when I’d lost all confidence. I was a total fraud leading a discussion group on literature when I couldn’t even get four stars from a third-rate blog.

  I’d been tempted from time to time to confide in Charlie about my novel in the perhaps naïve belief that my skin was thick enough to withstand his literary criticism—or perhaps arrogantly confident there would be none. Now I imagined him taking a red pen to whole passages, saying, “This romance doesn’t ring true. Delete. Delete. Delete.”

  I doubted I’d ever want to share this secret with him or anyone else. I couldn’t even handle judgment from a total stranger.

  At least I could take comfort in the fact that I was forging my own destiny, running a bookstore on my own. I didn’t need some blogger to validate me or anyone else to help me succeed in my business. I would prove to all the doubters that my potential was limitless.

  I was no damsel in distress in need of a hero to rescue me.

  These were the words I told myself so I could fake it until I made it. Deep down, my faith balanced on the edge of a knife.

  Thankfully, the bell jingled wildly again as Shawna Brooks, proprietor of a high-end boutique two doors down, thrust the door open, followed close behind by recently widowed Midge Long.

  I counted heads. “Where’s Letitia?” Our town karate-slash-dance instructor was usually punctual.

  When the door opened again, I was disappointed it was just Max, come to use my book club for his own professional advancement. If I was being honest, I’d formed the club to breathe life into my own struggling business.

  I started to raise my voice to start the group, but Max approached the mingling mass, offering a plate of his mini cupcakes.

  Midge followed my gaze and cried out, “Oh, Max. Look at those beautiful works of art. Are those for us?”

  Whatever order I might have imposed was lost in the excitement of a dozen extra-small cupcakes. I should have opened a daycare.

  “Remember,” said Max, “next week, we’ll have strawberry shortcakes, so make sure to beg Maddie to order enough for everyone.”

  I knew what he was up to. He was planting the idea in their brains that my bookstore was a conduit straight into Max’s kitchen.

  He cut his eyes over with a mischievous grin, like he could just pretend we’d forged a joint LLC and he was simply building brand loyalty. I couldn’t begrudge him hustling to drum up business, when the truth was, by coaxing customers to come in, he was helping me, too. But it was just another gambit to gain access to my store and benefit his own growing business.

  I shook my head and walked toward the chairs.

  Channeling the pride of Elizabeth Bennet and the self-determination of Jo March, I clapped my hands. “Can we go ahead and get started? We can mingle after the book club.”

  Our motley group convened in the circle of assorted chairs. While everyone scooted around, I took a seat between Midge and Shawna and began.

  “You’ve all read Pride and Prejudice I hope.” Nearly every head nodded.
Midge grimaced, but I didn’t call her out. I knew she mainly came for the company. There was a good chance she’d at least seen one of the movies. I continued. “I want to start by talking about the title if that’s okay. What do pride and prejudice mean to you in this novel?”

  Charlie, ever the professor, raised his hand and dove into a lengthy theory about individual desire versus societal pressure. Charlie relished the role of literary expert, so I let him ramble on for a few minutes. I was about to wrest the conversation back when Shawna interrupted. “Let’s get to the good stuff. How hot is the chemistry between Lizzie and Darcy?”

  She could have plunged a dagger in my heart, reminding me that Silver Fox had written: “I’ve felt more chemistry between my kitchen appliances.”

  That nasty review got nastier in my imagination. It was like poking my tongue at a painful cold sore, and I was unable to stop myself from the torture.

  I pulled my long braid forward and twirled it around my finger, anxious. Had I been as delusional as Professor Lockhart? Was I a hack?

  There was a pretty even split between those of us who believed the longing and desire in Austen’s romantic tension and those who found the romance two-dimensional and unconvincing. The fact that even Jane Austen could be torn apart by a difference in opinion improved my mood slightly. Maybe I’d get a better review by someone less obviously heartless.

  Max got in the last word on the topic. “If she hadn’t been so proud, he might have been able to help her out a lot sooner.”

  I suspected he’d only stayed to use the discussion to tell me how to live my life. He hadn’t even answered the question.

  Rather than humor him, I decided to move on. Right as I landed on the perfect topic, the door swung open, and all heads jerked toward the sound, eyes lit up, and Shawna actually stood. I turned around to see what all the fuss was about. Dylan Black, known to his childhood friends as Dylan Ramirez, stood in my bookstore looking directly at me with his piercing blue-gray eyes.