by Janette Rallison, Heather B. Moore, Luisa Perkins, Sarah M. Eden, Annette Lyon, Lisa Mangum
The stack of paper I held in my hands was proof of the journey I’d taken through its pages, the dawning realization that the story Whittaker had written was elegant and timeless and perfect. Reading his book had been like falling in love— instantaneous and complete.
And now thousands had fallen in love with the characters and story too. Countless top-ten lists. Enough starred reviews to light up the night sky. Praise from readers all over the world. Nearly six months at #1 on the Times list.
I held the pages to my nose and inhaled deeply. This… this was what I loved best about my job.
I set the manuscript on the edge of my desk in a place of honor and then opened a blank document marked with the company logo and letterhead at the top.
Baker Publishing House formally requests the pleasure of your company at a reception honoring the enduring love of Violet Stevenson and Chester Hammond…
It was nearly midnight by the time I finished. I’d gone through a dozen drafts before settling on the exact wording I wanted.
Leaning back in my chair, I stretched my arms above my head and rolled my shoulders. My eyes burned from staring at the computer screen for too long. Hunger rumbled through my stomach.
I printed off the final draft and closed my eyes while the soft hum of the printer filled the room. Did it get any better than this?
Sighing with satisfaction, I checked my inbox one last time— a handful of emails from Monica, but nothing about Unmarked. I scanned the other subject lines, grateful that nothing jumped out as urgent. Then I noticed an email from my mother.
I clicked on the note and read the short message.
Why aren’t you answering your phone? Call me. We should do lunch tomorrow. It’s been forever since I’ve seen you.
“I saw you last Sunday, Mom,” I sighed. Glancing at my phone, I saw a hard red line slashed through the battery icon. Thank goodness for small miracles, I thought, then immediately shook my head. It wasn’t fair of me to avoid my mom just because she was getting remarried.
But the small, lonely part of me thought it also wasn’t fair that she was on her second marriage before I’d even found my first.
I’d been overlooked before. When a girl is average height, average weight, average everything, that tended to happen. Growing up, it didn’t bother me— in books, no one cared how I looked— and even after my height inched higher than average, and my weight hovered just below, I still thought of myself as average. Was it too much to ask that just once, I would be first in someone’s life? I wanted to be the undiscovered diamond.
Always the bridesmaid, never the bride.
There was a time when I thought Devon and I might—
No. I pushed the thought straight out of my mind. Not Devon.
The satisfaction I’d felt from a good day’s work faded, and I frowned. I replied to Mom’s email.
Lunch would be nice. Tomorrow, 12:30 at Josi’s Diner?
I shut down my computer and turned off the monitor. Gathering my purse, my phone, and the printout of the wedding invitation, I headed out of the office.
When I hit the sidewalk, the ever-present energy and heat of the city met me, and I relaxed, letting the buzz surround me. As much as I loved my office, I loved the raw, wild life of the city more. I loved sliding into the flow of people streaming up and down the sidewalks, weaving through the obstacle course of endless construction, avoiding plumes of steam from street vents, and feeling the rumble of the subway underfoot. I loved darting across streets, dodging cabs that might slow down— or might not. I loved how safe I felt in the shadows of the tall buildings towering over me.
I’d never lived anywhere else— and I never would.
I turned the corner, aiming for the 24-hour Kinko’s where Baker Publishing House had a standing account. I’d need a fast turnaround for the invitations if I was going to meet Monica’s deadline and pull off this party without a hitch.
Yes, I could have emailed the file to the store and picked them up in the morning, but this was for Violet. If I was to be her maid of honor, I wanted to do it right. I felt like I owed it to her to deliver them by hand.
Reaching the store, I pulled on the handle and heard the distinctive clank of a locked deadbolt hitting a metal frame. It was only then that I noticed the dark windows, the closed curtains, and the large sign: Closed for Remodel. Will Reopen Soon.
Soon? What? No, I needed it to be open now. I didn’t dare drop the ball on this reception. If I did, the part of me that felt insecure at work might never go away. I heard Devon’s voice in my head again: You— do what you’re told.
That wasn’t true— I knew it wasn’t— but tonight, after a long day at work and a missed lunch and dinner, it felt the tiniest bit true.
Trust yourself, sweet pea. Grandpa’s gruff whisper filled my memory. It had been more than a year since he’d passed, but I still missed him. You can always find a way to add an “and” to your day.
I shifted my purse on my shoulder. I didn’t need this Kinko’s to get the job done. This was Manhattan, for crying out loud. There were probably a hundred Kinko’s within walking distance. I could figure this out. All I had to do was add an “and” to my problem to see where the solution would take me.
The store is closed, but I need invitations printed right away… and…
I looked up and down the street at the storefronts closest to me. A grocery stand. A mom-and-pop Mexican restaurant. Two single, unmarked doorways— one black, one blue. A travel agency. A Starbucks.
Hesitating on the familiar coffee-shop logo, I slid my gaze back a few stops. The black door clearly guarded the entrance to an apartment complex building above me, but the blue door next to it was wedged into a space so narrow that it was practically an alleyway.
…and what have we here?
Even after midnight, people were scattered along the sidewalk, and a few couples were finishing drinks and cigarettes at café tables in front of the Mexican restaurant.
Approaching the blue door, I saw a sign in the window, a small square of creamy cardstock with bold, black lettering.
THIS IS A PRINTING OFFICE
Crossroads of civilization
Refuge of all the arts against the ravages of time
Armory of fearless truth against whispering rumor
Incessant trumpet of trade
From this place words may fly abroad
Not to perish on waves of sound
Not to vary with the Writer’s hand
But fixed in time
Having been verified by proof
Friend, you stand on sacred ground
This is a printing office
—Beatrice L. Warde
My breath caught, my senses tingling. Could it be? How did I not know about this place?
A voice in the back of my head, which sounded like Devon, said, Because you never stray from your path. If you’re sent to Kinko’s, you go to Kinko’s.
I stepped back and scanned the blue doorway, looking for a business sign, or even— hope against hope— an open sign.
I couldn’t see a shop name anywhere on the door, but at eye level was a wooden ampersand symbol.
Were there supposed to be names on either side of the symbol? Perhaps they’d fallen off. No matter. Below the symbol, but above the printing office sign, was a clock face with two black eyes and a smiling mouth from which the words “Yes, we’re open!” floated in a bubble.
That was all I needed.
Oh, Grandpa. I smiled at the unexpected synchronicity. Thank you.
The building was barely larger than my apartment. The room was nearly square, with a dark brown countertop across the front that had a hinged wing on the left-hand side. I counted four bookcases stuffed to the edges with paperback novels. Two vinyl chairs flanked the door.
Hanging on the back wall were framed fragments of paper of various sizes, covered with words in all kinds of fonts, styles, and colors, like a menu board at a restaurant, but here, you ordered words.
/> The shop felt crowded, but cozy. Worn along the edges, but comfortable and well-cared for. The temperature was a sweltering ten degrees hotter inside than on the street, but I didn’t mind. Whoever had hung that sign in the window and owned this place was someone I wanted to meet.
“Hello?” I called to the empty room. “Are you open?”
A strange, creaking wheeze emanated from somewhere in the back of the shop. I heard a thunk and a bang. A crack in the back of the wall appeared, revealing a previously hidden door.
“Hello?” I asked again as the door swung open and a man emerged from the back room.
He carried a tray of small metal cubes, which he almost dropped when he saw me. “Whoa, what are you doing here?”
His voice was dark and deep— smoky, like his eyes. Black hair brushed back from his forehead hung nearly to his shoulders, and his five o’clock shadow was closer to seven o’clock this late at night. He filled the small space as if he belonged there.
He set the tray on the counter and dusted off his hands. “We’re closed.”
“I’m sorry,” I stammered, pleasantly distracted by the sight of his muscled arms and chest, covered only by a T-shirt and a brown leather apron. “The sign said you were open?”
He glanced past me to the door, then briefly closed his eyes with a sigh. “Seriously, Pops? Again?” he muttered. He jerked his chin toward the door. “Would you mind?” he asked me. Then he turned his attention to sorting through the chunks of metal on his tray.
I knew a dismissal when I heard one. I looked from him to the door, considering my options. Leaving wasn’t one of them. Not now. “Listen, I’m sorry for coming in so late, but I really need your help. I have this invitation and—”
He held up one hand without looking at me, pointing at the door.
“You don’t understand. I’m not leaving,” I said, clutching my purse and my invitation like a sword and a shield.
He paused in his sorting and frowned at me. “Why would you leave?”
I hesitated, confused. “Because you’re closed?”
His frown turned into a half-smile. “Yeah, but we were open when you came in. That makes you my last customer of the night.” He glanced at the chunky silver watch on his tanned wrist, and his half-smile turned into a full grin. “Or my first customer of the day. Either way, could you flip the sign for me? Pops always forgets on his way out. I’d hate to have anyone else wander in; shop’s a little small for a crowd.” The grin reached his eyes, lighting them up.
Relieved, I reached back and flipped the sign to Closed. “Only in New York,” I murmured. Yet another reason why I loved this city: You could run into an eccentrically helpful person at midnight, and it was not a big deal.
When I turned around, the shopkeeper had his hand extended for me to shake.
“Name’s Jesse.”
“Lucy.” I shook his hand, feeling the smooth callouses on his fingers and the heel of his palm. These were the marks of a man who didn’t mind hard work. So different from Devon’s hands.
“Nice to meet you, Lucy,” he said with a warm smile. “How may I help you today?”
Someone had raised this boy with manners, I thought with appreciation. “I need some wedding invitations, and—”
“Ah!” Jesse interrupted, clapping his hands together once. “My specialty.”
So much for his impeccable manners.
“First, tell me about the bride,” he continued, brisk and efficient. “What’s she like?”
“They’re not for me,” I clarified quickly. I didn’t want Jesse getting the wrong idea. And what idea is that? I asked myself. That you’re available? Was I available? Did I want to be?
“Even better.” He grinned, but not in a creepy, I’m-going-to-follow-you-home sort of way. More like as if I’d said my favorite ice cream flavor was butter pecan, and— happy surprise— it was his favorite too.
“You’re the maid of honor?” he asked.
“Something like that.” I held out my draft of the invitation. “If you could just print this—”
Jesse took the paper and set it aside without looking at it. “We’ll get to the words in a minute. Tell me about the bride and groom. How did they meet? How did you meet them?”
“Why does it matter?” I asked.
Jesse straightened to his full height. He was tall. Taller than I was; probably even taller than Devon. “Because love is an art. And invitations extended to celebrate that love should be a work of art as well. And to understand art, you must first understand the artist. If I know about the bride and groom, I’ll know the perfect font for their invitations.”
I blinked. Jesse looked like an athlete with his broad shoulders and powerful frame. Could there be the heart of a poet beneath all that muscle?
He might have blushed under my gaze; between his stubble and the shadows, it was hard to tell. “Sorry. Sometimes I get carried away.” He offered up an explanation with a half-shrug. “Words are my business.”
“Mine, too,” I said.
Serious intrigue filled his expression. He pushed aside the tray, the metal bits shaking and rattling, and leaned closer to me. “Writer?” he guessed.
I shook my head. “Publisher.” It was almost the truth. For a couple more weeks, at least. Then I’d go back to being Monica’s intern-turned-assistant.
Jesse whistled low. “A kindred spirit. Which house?”
“Baker. We’re just down the road from you.” I waved in the general direction of my office. “But I haven’t seen your shop before.”
Jesse shrugged and looked around the space. “We moved in a couple of weeks ago. Still shaking the dust off our boots. How many titles do you publish?”
“Thirteen a year.”
His laugh filled the room. “Baker’s dozen. I like it.”
“We’re a small house, but we pride ourselves on being exclusive. Only the best of the best make it at Baker’s.”
His eyes met mine, held them steady. “I can see that.”
Now it was my turn to blush. And the heat I felt moving up my neck wasn’t all from the summer temperature. How long had it been since Devon had looked at me with such genuine interest?
I cleared my throat. “About the invitations… It’s to celebrate one of our books. Maybe you’ve heard of it— Unmarked?” I felt like a proud parent. Everyone had heard of my book.
Recognition arrived right on cue. “That’s yours?” Jesse asked, whistling below his breath. “Congratulations.”
“Thanks. Did you like it?”
“Haven’t read it yet,” he confessed, scratching his cheek. He nodded to the nearest bookcase. “Still working through my current list.”
Scanning the spine-out titles, I saw everything from pulpy mystery novels to autobiographies to graphic novels to YA novels to cookbooks. History. Religion. Science. Classic novels for both children and adults. A well-worn and dog-eared edition of my favorite book, A Wrinkle in Time, rested in easy reach.
Jealousy and admiration vied for my attention.
A hot guy who read— no, devoured— books like I did? Devon and I never talked about books. He said he didn’t like to bring work home with him, but I wondered if there was another reason.
I touched one corner of the paper, which was still face down on the counter, and pushed it toward Jesse. “Well, see, the bride’s name is Violet. And when she met Chester, it was love at first sight.”
Jesse stopped the paper with a single touch. His fingers were long, delicate but strong— the hands of a practicing pianist, a working artist. He hadn’t stopped looking at me; I found I didn’t mind in the least. There was something in his eyes, though, an emotion or expression I couldn’t quite identify.
“Cool,” he said reverently. “Tell me the rest of the story.”
“So the book ends with Violet as an old woman standing over Chester’s grave, surrounded by their children and grandchildren, and all their friends— everyone who ever loved them, which was practically everyone
, and she says—”
“No, don’t tell me.” Jesse held up a hand. “I don’t want to know.”
I blinked, sitting up straighter on the vinyl chair I’d pulled closer to the counter. “But it’s the best bit of the whole book.”
“It’s also the last bit of the whole book. I want to be surprised when I read it.”
“But I’ve told you everything else. There are no surprises left.”
“Except the ending. Endings should always be a surprise. That’s part of what makes the journey so much fun.”
I grinned and raised my nearly empty water bottle in a toast. “As you wish.” I drank the last swallow. “Can I get another one?”
“At this hour? Will you be safe to drive home?” Jesse teased.
“Ha-ha,” I said. “For your information, officer, I don’t drive, so that’s not a problem. And it’s just water. I can stop anytime I want.”
Jesse laughed, a rumble like distant summer thunder. I liked the sound of it, and the way it rolled through me.
“What time is it, anyway?” I asked, standing up and stretching. I’d settled into the chair around chapter four, kicked off my heels at chapter six, and polished off a sleeve of Ritz crackers that Jesse had found in the back by chapter eleven. It was a good thing Unmarked only had a dozen chapters.
Jesse checked his watch. “Five minutes to three.”
“Seriously?” I reached across the counter and grabbed his wrist. “How is that possible?”
“Well, you see, whenever the little hand moves past twelve, the big hand—”
I smacked his forearm, which only made him laugh harder.
“It’s fine. I’m almost done, anyway.” He stepped aside to reveal what he’d been working on for the past couple of hours as I talked.
A beautiful wooden tray rested in front of him on the counter, the edges worn smooth from constant handling and care. Narrow rows were marked out from top to bottom, some thin, some thick, and resting on each row were individual blocks of metal, each one engraved with a letter, a number, or a symbol.
The words were exactly what I had written out for the invitation, but in reverse.