Dating by the Book

by Mary Ann Marlowe

  So maybe it was time to explore other options. Maybe it was time to get out and get more experience.

  Isn’t that what Silver Fox had advised? Romance, sex, and heartache?

  I knew where I could go for one of those. Dylan was a phone call away, and he gave me those tingles that Silver Fox encouraged me to stoke. If Dylan really was considering staying, maybe I’d consider him, but I wasn’t in the market for casual sex. I’d been there, done him, and knew how that chapter ended. I still wanted the romance. I still feared the heartache.

  “Maddie?”

  I came out of dreamland and looked at Charlie. Really looked. If ever there was a brand-new chapter, it was staring me in the face.

  Charlie was attractive in his nineteenth-century archaeological dig way. He was easy and comfortable. He didn’t make my stomach flip, but flipping stomachs were overrated. I could get nauseated on a roller coaster if that’s all I was after.

  More importantly, Charlie and I had no history, no memories of heartbreak and loss. He could be a fresh new start. Why not?

  “Hey, Charlie. I’m planning on taking a walk along the creek after work. You want to join me?”

  We’d never spent any time together outside of the bookstore, but my proposition didn’t seem to faze him. “Sounds great. To that one bridge, maybe?”

  That one bridge. I laughed. Obviously, he hadn’t grown up around here. “You mean the bridge.”

  There was only one bridge, and I had more memories associated with that structure than most people probably had with the totality of their own towns unless they also lived where they grew up. Bringing Peter home had forced me to picture Orion from the point of view of an outsider, and from that perspective, the streets looked smaller, the stream less magical, and that one bridge was just a bridge. Newcomers like Charlie and Peter would never see the tanned legs of two fourteen year olds swinging over the side or hear the voices of a trio of kids splashing in the water as they explored the edges of summer.

  Those were ghosts only a few of us had the power to discern.

  “Meet you here when you close up?”

  Maybe a single butterfly flew loose at the thought of a date with Charlie.

  I left him to finish preparing for his class or whatever he did and tended to other customers, glancing over at him from time to time, trying to imagine what life might be like if I gave Charlie a chance to win my heart.

  A professor of literature. I already knew we could carry on lengthy conversations about books, though those did end up turning into lectures or debates. Still, we’d never run out of topics. I could work up the courage to tell him about my writing and then I’d have an instant first reader. Layla could retire.

  It could work if I could get past my fear of his red pen.

  So confident was I in my new life choices, I sat down and wrote a response to Silver Fox that had been percolating in the back of my mind since I’d read his email. If only my own book would come out as easily as my invectives to someone I didn’t even know.

  Silver Fox,

  You want to mentor me? Please, allow me to soak in your expertise on romance. Clearly, if you’re using the word unfortunately to talk about your own experience with love, you are perfectly situated to teach the rest of us mere mortals how to successfully relate to others. Do you honestly believe love is limited to the magic of a first kiss? Or a stomach flip? Are we back in junior high school where love has no more depth than a passing crush?

  Look, maybe you honestly didn’t appreciate the romance in my novel, but has it occurred to you that the failing might be your own? I’d never go so far as to advise you to get out and live life to the fullest, but maybe, if instead of thinking about girls, you actually talked to one, you might discover that we want more than to swoon over a brush of some dude’s hand. And when I write romance, yes, I want there to be chemistry and tension, but also respect and real palpable love. The kind that can survive obstacles, separation, or cultural differences that render them ostensibly incompatible. That is romantic.

  I’ll write for the readers who want to see real, substantial relationships.

  Claire

  P.S. And yes, it’s a pen name. That’s not a crime where I come from.

  Pleased with myself, I hummed “Here Comes the Sun” as I worked.

  * * *

  When the store emptied, Charlie paced the sidewalk as I locked up. He’d traded khakis for navy shorts and his white oxford for a short-sleeved Hawaiian shirt. He’d transformed into a whole different person.

  Maybe Charlie would help me flip to a new chapter. Or start a whole new book.

  We headed up Main Street, then down past the gazebo to the path that ran along the stream without speaking, companionably silent.

  As we strolled by the gurgling water, I broke the ice. “Can I ask you something?”

  Charlie’s eyebrow shot up. “I suppose.”

  “Why did you choose to live in Orion?”

  He rubbed his chin, a little playful smile crossing his lips. “You know you don’t choose Orion. Orion chooses you.”

  I chortled. Our town did have an almost ridiculous sense of self. “I’ve heard that beyond the borders of Orion there is nothing. Just an endless expanse of mist.”

  “And anyone who dares to cross it only ends up once again in Orion.”

  God, that was only too true. “Yeah.”

  What if the world did end at the borders of town? After all, Peter had walked out never to return, and nobody other than my mom remembered him. To everyone here, he was just gone. He’d been a transplanted organ that never quite took, and the town itself had rejected him.

  Or really, Orion was an isolated constellation rapidly moving away from all other celestial bodies. In some respects, Peter didn’t leave Orion. Orion left him, taking me with it.

  Charlie kicked a rock, and it sank into the water without a splash. “Can I ask you why you came back? Rumor has it you once set foot out there. In the lands beyond.”

  I didn’t need to explain it to him. There was something special about the town, like we were suspended in time and space, a part of the larger world, but untouched. That would sound quaint and backward to anyone who hadn’t experienced it. I’d tried to explain it to my city friends, but Peter was the only one who came for a visit. I thought he’d understood, but either he’d deceived me or I’d been deluded.

  “I had to return to take my vengeance on the townspeople who cheated me out of my inheritance.” Two could play at his game.

  He smiled. “You ever consider writing? You know your tropes.”

  Rather than answer him, I dodged. “Hasn’t everyone considered writing? What about you? Any aspirations?”

  “What reader doesn’t think they could write a novel? But it’s intimidating to teach the classics and then face a blank page. It leaves you asking what right you have to add one more book to the cluttered shelves.”

  That sentiment hit home, and it relieved me to hear it spoken aloud. “So you haven’t yet?”

  He tilted his head side to side, noncommittal.

  I decided not to press. “Are you teaching a class on the classics right now?”

  “No. Right now, I’m teaching mythology.”

  “Oh, I love mythology.”

  “Me, too.” His face lit up.

  “Are you doing Greek or Roman?”

  “It’s a summer class, so we’re staying on the surface, covering a selection of myths from different cultures: Greeks, Romans, Mayans, Native Americans, even urban legend.”

  “That sounds very cool. I’d love to take your class.”

  At the bridge, I rested my elbows against the railing and stared at the quick-flowing water a few feet below, blocking out the overpowering memories woven into that particular spot like black magic.

  Just on the other side of the creek, a driveway led to the raspberry cottage I loved, and I craned my neck to catch a glimpse. I walked down the lane to get a better view.

  Charlie trot
ted along behind. “What are you looking for?”

  “Nothing.” A ladder leaned against the rain gutters, a sign that someone was maintaining the place. “It’s just a house I like.”

  I’d had my sights on that little cottage ever since the For Sale sign had appeared at the end of the drive. Nestled between paper birch trees, the raspberry shake siding popped like the cherry on top of a vanilla milkshake. The front door arched, putting me in mind of hobbit holes and secret gardens.

  I’d loved that house my entire life. It felt somehow kin to my bookstore. It was old in the best ways, filled with character and charm. When it came on the market, I started to believe all my dreams could come true. Peter said the owners wanted too much, that it would require thousands of dollars in electrical repairs alone. Ironically, Peter would have had the money to make those changes. He’d wanted something modern, up-to-date, and move-in ready. We’d go to see a Tudor set on a hill with a manicured lawn, and my mind would try to tell my heart to love it. But I couldn’t let go of the idea of my perfect house. Without Peter, I had neither the Tudor nor the cottage. I had the old apartment above the pharmacy. Not that I wanted him for his money.

  The For Sale sign still stood there, like a promise. The Palmers had long ago moved to the new active retirement community but hadn’t been able to find a buyer for the home they’d shared. Whenever Layla, Max, and I used to ride our bikes over the bridge on a hot summer day to get lost in the trails through the woods, we’d ride up the drive and ring the doorbell. Mrs. Palmer would always invite us in to give us lemonade and cookies. We’d sit at her kitchen table, ruining our dinner, not worried we might be imposing, as if the cottage were an extension of our real homes. Our youth gave us an all access passkey to behind-the-scenes Orion.

  “One day,” I confessed to Charlie. “I’m going to buy that house.”

  The sky had grown darker, and the wind picked up. I looked up, and a raindrop hit my cheek. I laughed. “Of course, it’s going to rain when our only option is to walk a half mile back to town.” But the cool mist felt amazing on my sweaty skin.

  We started walking back. As soon as we got to the gazebo, the sky opened up, and we raced the rest of the way to the door leading to my apartment.

  Charlie leaned against the doorframe, wet locks clumping on his forehead, damp shirt clinging to his skin. “Guess I won’t need a shower.”

  Hanging with Charlie had fed my need for companionship without making me hunger for physical contact. That was a definite relief from Dylan. I hoped we could do this again. “See you tomorrow?”

  With a quick wave farewell, he jogged away, and I stood in the misty rain, dreaming about hazy English moors, foggy London streets, and dark and stormy nights.

  Chapter 9

  Chairs squeaked as people settled in for the book club Friday night. Dylan sat directly across from me and winked. I was relieved he’d come out. He looked better rested than the last few times I’d seen him, and I hoped that meant he was figuring things out.

  Max carried over a plate of gingerbread cookies and handed it to Dylan, who made a production of choosing one, although they appeared to be uniform and identical. Without asking permission, Max had dropped in about thirty minutes early with a tray of uncooked dough and insisted I let him use my ovens to serve out hot-from-the-oven cookies. I wanted to say no, but Charlie was already hanging around and started making whimpering sounds when I hesitated. What was I to do? Disappoint my best customer?

  And damn if the smell of gingerbread cookies hadn’t filled the entire store as they baked, making the most absorbed patrons in the café stop and look around for the source. Someone eventually asked, “What smells so good?”

  Score another point for Max. At this rate, he was going to move in completely, with or without my full approval. Like he always did. Like he knew best.

  He now sat, looking smug and pleased with his second coup in as many weeks, Jane Eyre open, facedown, on his knee, showing signs of the inevitable broken spine.

  Long ago, when Max branched out from my library discards and asked Mrs. Moore for recommendations, she’d assign him massive epic fantasies, and I’d always grab the book from him immediately so I could break in the spine properly. Otherwise, he’d crack it along a single fault, and in time, his book would snap in two. He’d never lost that terrible habit, and I could identify a book Max had borrowed off my shelves just by looking at the spines.

  The rain fell gently outside, and that may have contributed to the absence of Letitia. We may have permanently lost Letitia to nonfictional romance. Shawna sat between Midge and Charlie.

  I cleared my throat and began. “Jane Eyre is chock-full of love triangles. I was wondering if we could talk about the love interests the characters encounter, and why they ultimately make the decisions they do. Do you feel they make the right choices?”

  No surprise, Charlie started us off. “Interesting question. We have the obvious love triangle with Jane, Rochester, and St. John Rivers, but Rochester also feigns interest in Blanche to make Jane jealous, and lest we forget, he’s married to Bertha. Meanwhile, St. John suppresses his love for Rosamond in order to pursue the more practical Jane.”

  Dylan leaned forward and surprised me by jumping right in. “Obviously Rochester represents passion while St. John Rivers represents a calculated partnership. Is there any question that Jane made the right choice?”

  Charlie sighed, like he was tutoring a truculent student. “You give the author too little credit. I personally felt Jane faced a real dilemma. A relationship with St. John was reasonable, and given her situation, it was better than anything she could have once hoped for. Rochester, for all his passion, could have just as easily been a losing bet. Why throw away a known entity for a mere possibility? If this were real life, what would you advise a friend in a similar situation?”

  He made a fair point, but I countered. “This isn’t real life, Charlie.”

  Shawna interjected. “Has it occurred to anyone Jane could’ve rejected them both?”

  Dylan cackled. “As if.”

  Shawna sat up taller. “I’m Team Helen Burns all the way.”

  Charlie shrugged. “Sure, why not?”

  As moderator, I felt the need to force him to elaborate. “Why not what?”

  Charlie threw up his hands like it was perfectly reasonable to ask why Jane didn’t just subvert the patriarchy in nineteenth-century England. “If we’re talking about how she might act if this were real life and not a romantic novel, wouldn’t it have made the most sense for her to simply return to teaching? Or enter into a stable partnership with St. John? Why throw her lot in with the horror show of Rochester?”

  Shawna nodded. “Yes, and why not fall in love with Helen Burns?”

  “Um, well, she’s dead,” said Dylan helpfully.

  “Wow.” I had no idea the discussion would take that turn. “This is great. I’m just going to register my vote for Team Rochester, but you guys keep hashing it out.”

  “Why?” Charlie’s eyes gleamed. He enjoyed debating these questions whether or not he fully believed what he was saying. He was a die-hard devil’s advocate.

  “Because he’s the romantic hero, Charlie.” Airtight logic.

  “That’s not a reason. Rochester is abusive. Jane’s relationship with him could be called codependent. This isn’t a healthy romance. If this guy existed in real life, you’d tell your friend to run far away.”

  “But he’s not real. And on the page, he’s the hero who’s right for Jane. Not to mention, he gets a redemptive character arc as well, so when Jane makes that leap of faith, she finds him a changed man.”

  Charlie closed his eyes and shook his head, then pierced me with a devastating look. “Do you see all relationships through the filter of author intent?”

  “Fictional relationships? Yes.” How else was I supposed to read them?

  “I sometimes worry books like this ruin us for realistic relationships.”

  Now I was fully engaged
. “Why? Because the romance hero doesn’t exist in reality?”

  Charlie unloaded his cannons. “Maybe because romance doesn’t exist in reality.”

  “Oh, Charlie.” Everyone was simply staring at us, and I felt like a cad for ending the exchange on such a personal note. I made an effort to turn it into a discussion point. “What do you all think? Does romance exist? Do romance heroes walk among us?”

  That was a question I’d love to have an answer to, but to nobody’s surprise, the opinions varied greatly.

  Charlie said, “Not likely.”

  Shawna said, “Depends on your definition, I suppose. Heroes might exist, but you’re better off taking your destiny in your own hands. Don’t wait for one to show up.”

  “Heroes are real, but rare.” Dylan grinned as if to say he’d made the cut.

  Max spoke up for the first time since we started. “Heroes exist.” He didn’t make eye contact with anyone. “At least I hope so,” he said more quietly.

  “What about you, Maddie?” Shawna asked.

  “I hope so, too, but I have my doubts.”

  I’d always believed in romance, but I wasn’t sure I’d ever truly experienced it. Love, yes. Sex, definitely. But had I ever encountered a true romantic hero except in my imagination?

  If one existed, what made me think I’d be his love interest anyway? Peter hadn’t even wanted me enough to fight for me.

  Could one of the men gathered in my bookstore be a hero in disguise?

  Charlie was kind, smart, funny, and cute in a professorial way. We fell into an easy rhythm, a banter that bordered on flirtatious, but not once had he asked me on a proper date or dared to encroach on my physical space. I couldn’t get a read on whether his cynicism about romance extended to me. Could he be a reluctant suitor?

  He glanced over and tilted his head. Embarrassed, I shot my eyes away and landed on Max.

  Max. Smart, adventurous, and hella persistent, he’d make a great boyfriend for some girl someday.

  Since I saw him more like my adopted brother than a serious romantic contender, I didn’t make a habit of appraising his appearance. He had a boy-next-door cuteness, but of course, he’d literally been my boy next door. He had perfectly proportioned facial features, a nice nose sprinkled with freckles, and soft full lips hiding straight white teeth, thanks to two years of braces. His long eyelashes framed green eyes as familiar to me as my own. When he shaved, he had smooth skin, prone to red splotches whenever he’d get embarrassed. When he neglected the razor, he could honestly give Dylan a run for his money, but then again, I had a scruff fetish.