The First Love

by Erinne Bates

  “Redefined intimate and up-close,” Scott said again, setting his reading glasses down.

  I laced my fingers through Fenne’s, squeezing them. She looked at me with wet eyes as the table clapped or tapped their water glasses with their spoons.

  “I think it’s an understatement,” he continued as the table laughed. “The number of new members we received from this very exhibit was twice the amount we obtained from the past four—”

  The cheers and whistles that erupted drowned out the rest of Scott’s words, but he silenced us quickly.

  “Please- I’ve got one more thing to say, and then I want to order this dessert I’ve been waiting for all night, so… if you could just hold the rest of the applauses until I am done,” he joked. He picked up an envelope that was sealed but thick with contents.

  “I wish I could have done this this morning, but there were signatures I needed and I had one of those meetings where the speaker was long-winded—you couldn’t possibly know what that’s like – but at last all of my T’s have been crossed, and um… well… “ his eyes turned directly to Fenne, “You have shown our museum the difference between giving our community something to look at and telling them why they would want to look at it. Johannes Vermeer was my obsession during my graduate studies. I’ve not been more moved than I was when I heard you speak of him,” he cleared his throat then, as we all witnessed a flash of emotion come over him.

  “So, without any more delay, the Bay Area Museum, along with our very mayor, would like to invite you to be a part of our family…if you’d like to join us, that is.”

  Fenne stood as Scott held the envelope up. She approached his side of the table and took it from him, shaking his hand at first, then kissing his cheeks three times in Dutch custom, and then finally hugging him.

  “There’s just one thing that might be a little unusual for a job offer as we are attempting,” Scott continued, “The departments have literally been fighting over you, so we decided we would allow you to choose which department you would like to be in. In that envelope are contract offers from each of the departments. I hope one of them interests you enough to stay with us and become part of our team.”

  Fenne looked around the table. I was in love with her in that moment. I could see the little girl who dreamed of being part of this. The little girl who wasn’t understood very well by others and probably teased horribly, who grew up to be handed a crown. She was beaming. Edward ran up to her and hugged her.

  “Say something,” he said to her, then looked toward us to encourage her.

  “I accept,” she said, holding the envelope to her chest, as we clapped. “This is the greatest honor, and my dream since childhood….thank you all for supporting me and our team. It took every one of us at this table to make it the success it was. I felt at home the moment I arrived here, and I hoped – I really truly hoped – something like this could happen for me. Thank you.”

  The entire table stood to clap as Fenne returned to her seat next to me, where she embraced me immediately.

  “Great! Done! Dessert!” Scott proclaimed as the dessert cart was wheeled over.

  Chapter 37

  American Happy Ending

  As Fenne packed to return home, I showered, then sat in my towel on the edge of the bed, mentally rearranging my closet and redecorating the room to allow for the arrival of her clothes and possibly a new dresser. I thought of replacing my old one with one large enough to share both of our things. I hated the idea of having a hers & hers type arrangement. I wanted all of our things to be shuffled together, intertwined as we were.

  “So, what about the other girl who came with you…Claudia? Did she also get an offer to stay with the museum?” I asked.

  “She did, but she turned it down. She’s married, and she found out she is pregnant while she was here.”

  “Wow, that is a pretty big surprise.”

  “Yes.” Fenne turned to me, “Do you want babies one day?”

  I wrinkled my nose slightly and shook my head.

  “I don’t,” she said, closing the top of her suitcase and fastening it. “But I think it would be nice to be involved with the children who live in the foster homes.”

  I stared at her while my heart expanded as she set her luggage off to the side and returned to where I was sitting. She laid me back on the bed and climbed over me.

  “Is that something you would agree with?” she asked me, her face hovering over mine. I nodded.

  “You continue to amaze me,” I said. “How did I get so lucky to have met you?”

  “Don’t say that,” Fenne replied, her lips grazing mine, “I am the one who is wrapped around your finger – my god, please don’t let me wake from this.” She opened my towel with a slow unveiling gesture and slid her hand under me, placing her palm on my back as her mouth moved towards my neck. I didn’t even need to unfasten her denim jeans to push them over her slender hips and down her legs where she could wiggle the rest of the way out of them.

  She cupped my breast as my legs opened to her. By the time the daylight gave way to the darkness, Fenne and I had remained coiled together on our bed. Between our passion, sweat, orgasms, naps, and even tears, we spent our temporary last day together away from all other distractions. Everything about us became one in an unspoken ceremony that bound us together.

  “Come home to me as soon as you can,” I said as I walked her as far as I could in the airport.

  “I will,” she replied, taking my hand as she faced me before crossing over to the area restricted to those holding flight tickets. Edward and Claudia, who I had also driven to the airport, walked ahead. “Do you remember when you let me read the beginning of your spy book and I hated it because it frustrated me so much?”

  “Of course,” I said, remembering her acting like she hated it, yet she couldn’t put it down.

  “It was then that I knew you were the one for me.”

  “How is that?”

  “I can’t relate to fictional situations that other people enjoy,” she chuckled, “I guess you know this already. But your story made me want to feel what your Alice felt for Patricia, and even when she pretended she was Alistair, my heart ached in all the ways you described for her. I thought American’s always had to have this happy ending. Why did you write of heartbreak when you could have written of something perfect?”

  I touched her hair, musing that this was her biggest concern at this very moment.

  “The best thing about reading fiction is the opportunity to be surprised. To not know for sure what will happen next,” I said, wrapping my arms around her and nearing my lips to hers.

  “I don’t know if I like surprises,” she replied quietly bearing a small part of her vulnerability.

  “It’s a safe place to experience many things we are afraid of in the real world,” I said as quietly, as I looked into her eyes. They were intensely looking into mine. I waited for her to tell me what they were trying to say.

  “You are my safe place,” she whispered, as her mouth moved even closer to mine.

  “Do you think I don’t already know?” I said smiling, using the very words she handed me many times when I confessed my own insecurities. Fenne’s mouth covered mine as she pulled me against her. I didn’t care that we were standing in the middle of people trying to get to their planes. That some people scoffed at us as they passed. I was in love with Fenne Kestel. And she was in love with me.

  Chapter 38

  The Beginning

  On the week following Fenne’s departure, I received a phone call at work from an author who told me she had been referred to me by Sandy Waldorf, our city’s mayor. She needed no special introduction, for I already knew her name well, as the famous creator of many popular, well-read mystery books that had all been made into movies over the last two decades. She was a literary idol to me. A master of shocking endings. I quickly googled her name as we spoke to see her most recent book. It had made the best sellers list four years ago and was also mad
e into a movie a year later. Nothing had been published since.

  Other articles told of the author managing health issues, attending A-list parties, and marrying a much younger man- her fifth husband. She was seventy-two.

  My hand trembled as I held the phone to my ear, listening to the Kentucky curing of her aged voice.

  “You may not be aware but I have been without an agent for the past three years,” she told me. “There comes a time when a writer stops writing for themselves, it’s called becoming famous. I don’t regret fame one bit, but I regret losing my ability to tell a story the way I want to tell it.”

  “I’ve not been lucky enough to reach that stage in my writing career,” I replied cautiously. I wasn’t sure yet if our conversation would lead down a path of me asking her to give me a shot, or her telling me she would give me a shot. Or if there’d even be a shot…at anything.

  “Never give up dear,” she said, “I never did and I never will.”

  Wondering which part she had never given up on, I decided to show a little initiative.

  “Would you be interested in meeting for a cocktail this evening, or lunch tomorrow?” I asked, squeezing my eyes shut and holding my breath. As soon as the words were out, I felt as though they were too soon.

  “That’s what I like, getting to the point. I don’t enjoy spending too much time with niceties,” she replied. “Do you drink martinis?”

  “Only dirty ones,” I replied, my eyes now wide open. Claude Fritz passed my desk, and seeing my expression stopped curiously.

  “Fine, dear. Alexanders at four-thirty. I know it’s early, but I like to be home before dark. Please be discreet, I don’t want word out that I am meeting with agents.”

  With that, she hung up. I turned to Claude and nearly leapt over my desk to hug him.

  “What is it? What happened? Did you just win the lottery?” he asked, jumping up and down with me.

  “Possibly! Please tell me you know who Shirley Gretchen James is…”

  Claude’s hands covered his mouth as he nodded, “Nobody Cares, The Date to Die For, The Girl with Two Legs, Sugar Doesn’t Lie…” he said, rattling off her most recent titles.

  “This doesn’t leave this room,” I said, swearing him to secrecy. “We’re meeting in a few hours.”

  “Oh. My. God. Oh-my-god! My dear, if you sign her – if you pull this off— you are going to have your own office. What are your plans?

  “What plans? I don’t even know if I remembered to put on clean underwear at this point. She called me!”

  Claude stopped moving. “She called you?” When I nodded he said, “Well…just be yourself, then.”

  “Wait, that’s all the advice you have?” I asked, grabbing his arm as he attempted to walk away. “What about a plan?”

  “Listen, when an author seeks you out, you have to assume they already did their homework. The best thing to do is to be natural. Be you. She already checked you out on paper. Or somebody did for her. All you got to do is connect.”

  “So, what are you saying? Be the bat or be the ball?” Claude’s eyes crinkled.

  “I don’t know what that means,” he said. “Just be yourself. You got this. If it gets rough, just excuse yourself to the restroom and call me.”

  I sat back at my desk and stared at my computer screen. Why on earth had Shirley Gretchen James singled me out? Why would the mayor think of referring me to someone as accomplished as this woman? Not that this wasn’t a dream come true for me. I had read so many of her books in college, and they were always my favorite for traveling. I wondered if I should reach out to the mayor. I decided to wait until after my meeting with Mrs. James. Then I would know how to thank her for at least the introduction if nothing else.

  When I was finally seated with Mrs. James at Alexanders, and our martinis had been delivered, she got right to the point.

  “I’m seventy,” she lied – I mean—began, “and all I’ve ever written about is murder and mystery.”

  “Which I’ve adored,” I injected.

  “Oh, that’s kind,” she said as though she’d heard it so many times it stopped having meaning. She drank half of her martini, then motioned to the waiter for another. “I read your war book about Alice and Alistair.”

  My heart pounded hard in my chest. She had read my book? Suddenly I was the one finishing my martini and motioning for another.

  “It’s been a while since I was inspired by such a heroine,” she continued. “There was room for her development. Much room for strengthening her. And her supporting characters were likable but thin…but that will come as you continue to write. I want you to know that.”

  I felt empowered by her critique of my book. Even if she had hated it, I would have been honored to hear her conception of it.

  “Thank you for sharing your thoughts, I—”

  “Well I tell you this because I’m sure you are wondering why the hell I called you in the first place,” she interrupted. “I’ll get to the point, Calli. Is it okay to call you that?”

  “Of course.”

  “Is it short for something? It’s unusual.”

  “Callista. My grandmother was named that, but I’m just Calli—"

  “Great, call me Shirley. Never Shirl, though. Even if I sign my name Shirl, don’t call me that, I hate it. Only my husband calls me that.”

  “Understood,” I said, trying to keep pace with her forward driving energy. She was a spunky southern woman with a northerner’s attitude, and I had no doubt I was receiving the best field education there was.

  “This other book you wrote, the broken heart that heals story. It was also good. I take it you might be a lesbian since your first two books out are about women who like other women.”

  Before I could respond, acknowledge, or even confirm her suspicions, she continued on. “I tried that a few times many decades ago, but I’m not really into the emotional thing women want. More power to ya. I like a beefy hairy man who doesn’t talk too much and doesn’t cry, that’s what I like.” I laughed when she said this, thinking she might enjoy Fenne’s often silent, lack-of-emotion side. I imagined us all eventually sitting here to have drinks together one day.

  Suddenly Shirley produced a large stuffed manilla envelope and placed it between us.

  “This is my next book,” she said, her hand resting on top of the envelope. “It’s not a mystery and there is no shocking ending. I’ve written it under another name, and I’ve worked very hard not to reveal myself by my signature style of writing. I want to test this genre out and if it does well, then I’ll have more with my own name.”

  “Which genre are you looking at?” I asked.

  “Is there one called bad-ass women?” she said, releasing her hand from the envelope after pushing it forward.

  “Something like that,” I chuckled, “But why me?”

  “That was a difficult question to ask, wasn’t it?” Shirley replied, tilting her head slightly to one side. “I know because it used to be a tough question for me to ask when opportunities suddenly presented themselves to me.”

  “I’ll admit your straightforwardness made it easier to ask,” I said.

  “That’s good. I like to be straightforward. I don’t have a lot of time left for dancing around things, nor do I enjoy it. I’ll appreciate the same from you. I have thick skin, so I don’t want you to worry about my fragile ego or that sort of thing. I wanted to meet with you because Sandy Waldorf is a good friend of mine and several months ago she told me about a local author who had switched over to the publishing side of things. It wasn’t a random conversation, I had phoned her and asked her who the local authors were and who were they publishing with. I wanted to work with someone who knew the business well enough to be useful, but wasn’t too good to be of use if you know what I mean.”

  I wasn’t sure if I had been complimented or backhanded, but I nodded either way.

  “I read two of your books, I believe you wrote three total, and I feel like you have the same visio
n that I do when it comes to storytelling and interests.”

  “That’s possibly because of the number of books of yours that I read,” I interjected.

  “Possibly. Interesting point,” she replied, gulping the last bit of vodka down from her second martini. I wondered if I should call her a cab. “When you’ve read all that you cared to, please let me know if you’d be interested in representing me,” she said, standing up and extending her hand to me. I stood and shook hers firmly.

  “I’m honored, I can’t tell you how much so,” I said.

  “Tell me when we make the money then,” she said and left me standing at the table with her manuscript. The waiter came by and presented me with our bill. I paid him but asked him if I could keep the actual bill. When her story sold, I would ask her to sign it and put it in a journal I had begun keeping of my first encounters with my clients. I thought that when I retired, I would have them published in a personal memoir.

  As I settled into bed that evening, I called Fenne, who had been sleeping since it was six hours later for her.

  “Finally,” she mumbled into the phone, “I missed you.”

  “I was kind of excited at the idea that you would be the big breadwinner of the house, but I might be hot on your tails,” I told her after explaining my day.

  “Does this mean I am going to have to read her books?” Fenne asked.

  “You’ll have to buy one at least,” I teased.

  “I love you. I am so proud of you,” she said, her voice starting to trail as she fought her sleepiness.

  “I love you too. Come home soon,” I said.

  My relationship with Fenne is the strongest part of my life. My mother once told me, ‘Don’t settle for someone who completes you. Make your own-self complete, then if you still want a relationship, find someone who enhances your life.’ When I was younger, sitting in my tree and writing about fairytale love, I didn’t understand what she meant. It took a lot of meaningful lessons to understand there was even a difference.

  I sold Mrs. James’s story to a large publishing house. As she requested, I kept her identity secret and it sold very well for a first novel. I had told the publisher they'd be a laughing stock if they missed the opportunity. As Claude predicted, I got my own office once Mrs. James’s identity was revealed, but that didn’t come until her third novel, which published under her real name.