Such a Good Wife

by Seraphina Nova Glass

  3

  I ARRIVE AT THE café inside the bookstore, feeling completely out of my depth. It’s my first writers’ meeting, and there are seven of us, plus the group leader, Jonathan—a scruffy-haired man in his fifties who looks like someone who would go by Jonathan rather than simply John, or maybe Johnny, the sexy, bad-boy version of the name. I guess I think of it that way because I had a high school crush named Johnny who rode a motorcycle. I guess I’m thinking of high school because that’s exactly where I feel like I am. Over the last few days, I’ve sat out on the patio after the house was dark and tried writing. I ended up with a few pages of scribbles, what can only be described as adolescent “poetry” inside my spiral notebook, which I now clutch to my chest as I walk to the writers’ table. I know I won’t share it with anyone, but I’m still embarrassed when I sit down.

  Everyone else has laptops or tablets, and one guy is handing out bound copies of something that looks gigantic—a whole novel it appears. They’re all very serious. A couple of them introduce themselves. Vanessa, a young hipster-looking woman with dirty fingernails, asks me what genre I am. Before I have to decide on how to answer her, another man introduces himself as CJ and welcomes me, announcing to the group that “we have new blood.” Apparently they have all been in groups together before and I’m the only newbie. CJ is a tubby guy with a checkered, short-sleeved shirt buttoned up too high. Chest hair and neck fat protrude above his tight collar line. He shoves an open hand at me, and I shake it; he introduces me as if he’s the one who brought me into the group.

  I thought it would be more like a classroom setting in school, but it’s just a few of us at a café table. Coffee beans grinding and milk steamers hissing interrupt Jonathan’s opening statements; he’s easily annoyed. He rolls his eyes a lot at the patrons who talk too loudly, and he makes a lot of literary references I don’t get. Some I do. When he refers to his own new short story he hands out as “Kerouac-ian,” I glance around to see if anyone else found his remark to be a bit self-congratulatory, but no one seems to notice, so I just nod, taking a copy: “The Toughest Journey” by Jonathan Wilderman. I skim the first page. “What is Art?” it begins. Jesus. I have a feeling the toughest journey is going to be sitting through a reading of this existential mind-number.

  I was hoping for some, I don’t know, relatable, gritty fiction, maybe a little sex or murder. I do not care “how we measure life” or “why we exist” right now. People take down careful notes as he reads his story out loud. I try really hard to think of something to say about it. The less friendly members of the group, Mia and Steve, speak first. Mia says it could use more conflict. Jonathan argues that it was intentional to leave the conflict to the mind of the reader. Steve seems to have developed a more subtle way to critique Jonathan, saying something about how naming his character Jean-Paul Sartre is being a little heavy-handed. I don’t really listen. I’ve zoned out a bit because I notice that, across the store on the other side of the café, people are gathering. There are refreshments out and folding chairs set up. I squint to see what sort of event it is.

  When they finish discussing the next couple of stories and get to me, I say I’m still working on mine. I expect them to coax me into reading, and my confidence is actually up a little after hearing Jonathan’s story, but they tell me it’s not required to share if I don’t want. They’re very gracious, and I’m grateful for it.

  People begin to filter in and sit in the chairs across the bookstore. A few people are standing in the back. A man walks out to the small music stand and sets an open book on it, greeting everyone using the fuzzy mic. Jonathan slams his pages into an old-timey leather briefcase.

  “That’s it, I guess.” He shakes his head.

  “We haven’t heard Steve’s work yet,” CJ says.

  Steve says he’s happy to go next week, and I look to Vanessa, wondering about the sudden mood change in the group.

  “That’s Luke Ellison doing a reading over there. Jonathan hates him,” she whispers loudly.

  “Thank you, Vanessa, for sharing that with our new recruit. For the record, I do not hate Mr. Ellison...”

  “Sorry,” she starts to say, but he just speaks over her, louder.

  “EVEN THOUGH he stole my book idea and made it his own. I am adjourning because it will soon be too loud to focus on our own very important work over the sound of Luke Ellison making money off of stolen intellectual property. Thank you and good night.” Jonathan closes his briefcase and walks pointedly toward the front door in large, awkward steps.

  “Wow,” I say, as everyone gathers their things. Vanessa just shakes her head no, and makes a little gesture indicating drinking, like Jonathan’s accusations are because he’s drunk or not right in the head. I smirk, understanding what she’s saying.

  “He’s jealous of anyone published. Luke’s not a bad egg. He writes steamy romance stuff which, shocker, has a bigger market than philosophical stories with no conflict.”

  “Did Jonathan write romance? I can’t see that?”

  “God no, I think Luke’s character had the same name as one of his or something ridiculous. Don’t name one of your characters Bob. Jonathan will sue you.” She laughs and pulls her purse over her shoulder. “Anyhoo. See ya next week.”

  “Yeah, great,” I say. When everyone in the group is gone, I pick up a plastic cup of wine at the folding table next to the small audience gathered in front of the romance writer, Luke Ellison. A real published writer, I think. Someone whom our writing group leader is jealous of. It’s exciting. It seems impossible and out of reach to ever imagine myself reading from a whole book I’ve written. He’s in the middle of an excerpt when I pick up a copy of his book from a stack next to the wine cups and settle in to listen.

  “He parted her lips with his tongue, and slipped his hands down her trembling thighs, tearing at her clothes, pushing her to the bed.” My eyes are bulging out of my head and I’m sure my mouth is hanging open. What is he reading? I feel a strong instinct to cover the ears of nearby children. I look around in horror to make sure no kids heard that, since we’re only a few feet from the children’s reading area. Then I notice an “18 and Older/Adult Content” sign with a little velvet rope sectioning off the area. Okay. I relax a moment and close my mouth. God, this guy gets a velvet rope. Fancy. I flip his filthy book over and look at the book jacket. Who is this guy?

  I read that this is his third novel. His last book, Dark Pleasures, was a New York Times bestseller. My, my. He’s originally from the Boston area, but has lived in Louisiana for a few years to be near family. His photo, next to his bio, looks like a wedding photo he cut someone out of. Not his own wedding, he’s not in a tux, but definitely not a professional photo. Maybe it’s the only one he could find with him in a suit so he photoshopped it. Not a bad picture, all in all. I’m probably the only one who would notice something like that anyway. I wonder why in the world he’s reading at this Podunk place if he’s so successful.

  I feel the red blotches forming on my chest as he continues detailing the cunnilingus Dahlia and Xavier are engaging in. I keep my focus down on the book and sip my wine so no one sees how flushed I am. After he finishes reading he opens the floor for some questions. The front row of middle-aged women fall all over themselves trying to ask him smart questions about his “process” and “where he gets his ideas from.” He offers generic, tasteful answers; not what they were looking for, I think. They want something sordid, revealing, but he offers only just enough to satisfy them.

  After the question period finishes up, he’s signing copies at the refreshment table. I want to go and get a signature. Even though it’s not the sort of stuff I read, I’ve never met a bestselling author before. I don’t want to put myself in the same company with these ridiculous women mauling him, so I move over to the café counter and buy a real glass of wine while I start to read the first chapter of Summer Heat by Luke Ellison.

  Before
I can get to the end of chapter one and learn why Xavier showed up to Dahlia’s house, shirtless, to fix the broken air conditioner, I’m startled by the sharp squeak of the stool next to me moving. When I instinctively jerk my head up with a start, I see Luke sitting down and ordering a glass of wine himself. He is sitting right next to me.

  I close his book, and look the other direction. I didn’t pay for it. Oh my God, I just wandered off with it, and now they’ve closed the display table. I probably look like I stole this friggin’ book. He looks down and notices it.

  “Oh, you’re reading it?”

  “No, I’m not,” I blurt, and push it away. Oh my God, I’m a total moron.

  “I saw you in the back, but I didn’t see you at the signing after, so I didn’t imagine you would be reading it—my book—is all I meant.”

  “I’ll pay for it! I mean, I planned to pay for it. Of course. I know it looks like I’m some person who steals books, but that’s—I mean it’s not a library, right? I know that. I was waiting for the—you know—the mob to thin out. I’m sorry.”

  I cannot shut up. But he doesn’t react to my deranged monologue, he just smiles and holds his hand out for me to...give him the book? I guess?

  “Please. I’d love for you to have it,” he says, signing the inside cover. “On me.”

  “Oh, no...I...”

  “I insist.” He hands it back and I take it, looking down at his signature.

  “Well...thank you,” I stutter, and he holds his wine up for a toast.

  “My pleasure. You’re in the writing group?” He nods his head toward the table the group had met at earlier.

  “Oh. Me? No. Well, yes, technically.” Why am I talking like this? I can’t form a sentence. “Just started it, so...we’ll see.”

  “You’re a writer, then.”

  “God, I wouldn’t go that far. I’m just...an imposter, I think.”

  “Well, I think I’m pretty good at reading people and I have a sneaking suspicion you’re underestimating yourself.”

  “Ooooh,” I say in a weird singsong way, “I don’t know.”

  “Look, take my card if you ever wanna send me any of your stuff. I’ll read it, maybe pass it on.”

  I think my mouth is hanging open again. Pass it on? Like to an agent or something? What the hell?

  “Why?” I ask, with genuine confusion. “You don’t even know me.”

  “I know Jonathan and he’s kind of an asshat,” he says, and I pull my glass away from my lips so wine doesn’t come out my nose as I laugh at this. “Just in case you’re looking for additional feedback. Besides, well, Jonathan. No pressure.”

  I take his card and slip it into my purse.

  “Okay,” I say, feeling suddenly shy and ridiculous. I have half a glass of wine left, it would be strange to leave, even though I’m incapable of masking my chest, which is sporting red, embarrassed blotches again. I probably look like a leper. Also, I find that I don’t want to leave. He’s probably the most fascinating person I’ll ever have the opportunity to meet, so I use the back of his book to make conversation and pull the focus far away from my own “writing.”

  “It says here you’re from Boston. Pretty big switch—big city to this. How do you like our little town?”

  “Well, yes. I love it. It’s quaint. I like how quiet it is. I actually spend most of my time at my place in New Orleans, but holidays and summer here.”

  “Really, why’s that?” I ask, then stop and laugh. “That’s absolutely none of my business.”

  “No, doesn’t bother me. My brother met a Louisiana girl on a business trip and they settled here near her family. So, naturally my parents moved here to be near the grandkids when they retired.”

  “You were all alone in Boston?” I ask. Did that sound like I was asking about his relationship status? Oh, that was like bad exposition. What am I doing?

  “Yep. So the deal was I’d move down, but I need the city, so New Orleans is close enough for visits, and I rent a summer home here to get away and write from July to September, so it works.”

  “I don’t blame you for not being able to live here full-time.” I think I make a disgusted sound, though I don’t mean it to come off the way it does.

  “Not a fan?” he asks.

  “Oh. No. Yeah. No, I just, it’s fine. It’s no Boston or New Orleans. I’ve never been to Boston actually, but I just mean, when you’ve lived in exciting places, it would be tough to have a karaoke bar with a mechanical bull as the most interesting form of ‘culture’ within a sixty-mile radius.” I laugh, but it’s sort of sad sounding. I don’t know what else to say so I focus my attention on the barista girl, and pull out my card to pay. He places his hand over mine.

  “I’ll get this,” he says.

  “Oh my gosh. No way, you gave me a book, I should be getting yours.” But he’s already handed the girl cash.

  “It’s not every day I get a chance to have a nice chat with an attractive and very funny writer.”

  He thinks I’m funny? I’m a Neanderthal. I can’t even string a sentence together.

  “Thank you. You didn’t have to...” I start to say. He stops me.

  “I’m here the next couple Thursdays, giving readings. Maybe I’ll run into you again.”

  “Oh, for the summer romance series thing. You’re the big surprise author. I see.”

  “Surprise!” he jokes, making jazz hands, and I laugh. “Your name? Sorry, I didn’t ask your name.”

  “Mel. Melanie.” I hold my hand out to shake, or rather, sort of charge at him with it. I’m sure it’s more awkward than charming.

  “Beautiful name. Nice to meet you, Mel.”

  I blush and stand to leave just as a leftover fan taps him on the shoulder.

  I walk out, or maybe I float out, through the rows of stacked books and past the rows of elderberry bushes in front of the building to my car.

  I hear a voice behind me and turn. Luke stands there in the glow of a streetlamp, and he’s holding my credit card.

  “You left this,” he says, smiling. I never picked it back up off the counter I guess.

  “Oh gosh. Thank you.”

  “My pleasure, Ms. Hale.” I look down at my card, my full name in raised letters across it. I smile back at him. He reaches his hand toward my face, gently, and I have no idea why, but instead of backing away, I close my eyes. Then, he plucks my dangly earring from where it must have fallen out of my ear and is twisted in my hair. When I realize that all he is doing is saving my earring, I feel a flush of embarrassment for thinking he was going to do something else. Kiss me? That would be absurd. But then he lingers a few moments and looks me in the eye. I think he might kiss me then, so I pull away, abruptly.

  “Thank you. Thanks. I...appreciate it.” I get into my car and he waves as I drive away.

  I look at my shaky hands on the steering wheel and notice I don’t have my wedding ring on. That whole time, he never saw a ring. Not that Luke Ellison was flirting with me. I am 100 percent positive that the stress has made me delusional, and he was just being friendly the way he would with anyone he found sitting, reading his book. He wasn’t making a pass. No.

  I look at my naked ring finger. I didn’t leave it off intentionally. I was making turkey meatballs with Ben, and I was wrist-deep in raw meat. Last time we made them, bits got stuck in the grooves of my ring, and it took me half a day to figure out why a tinny, bloody smell was following me around. It’s sitting in the windowsill above the sink right now. But it doesn’t matter. He wasn’t coming on to me. I didn’t do anything wrong. Except that I was going to let him.

  I drive home thinking of Luke Ellison with his typewriter (I don’t know why he would use a typewriter, of course that’s stupid, but I still imagine him with it), and a cigar hanging from his lips. He sits in a rented room above a bar in the French Quarter and writes to
the sound of jazz music and bits of chatter from the crowded streets beneath him. What that life must be like.

  Before I go inside, I hide his book in my purse. I stuff it down deep and pile a couple things on top of it—my wallet and sunglasses. Collin would never know any author I’m reading from another. He wouldn’t care. But I still do it. I hide it as I walk into the house. I’m not really certain why.

  4

  I FEEL LIKE THEY’RE looking at me, like they know something. I find a place away from where most of the moms sit and I spread a blanket out on the matted grass behind right field, laying out snacks. Ben forgot his cleats. He gives me a wave from the dugout to tell me he’s borrowing a pair. He points to his feet, smiling. He loves baseball practice. Maybe only because he gets to use allowance money to stop at Dairy Queen on the way home for a frosted fudge Blizzard. Whatever the reason, I’m grateful he’s found an activity I don’t have to drag him to, howling. All the other kids are special needs too, so there are a lot of social rules put in place by the coaches that are much better for Ben than the free-for-all that basketball was.

  I see Marcy Tritto and Carrie Rivard sitting in camping chairs on the other side of the dugout. Marcy waves. Her son, Trevor, has Down’s and always tries to hug Ben, which doesn’t go over well. Carrie fans herself with a coloring book and tries to look interested in the kids as they find their spots on the field. She gives a little clap and thumbs-up to her kid. I can never remember his name, but he bites.

  I feel a prickle of heat climb my spine. Of course they don’t know anything. It’s strange how intensely it feels as though they are looking at me differently. I’m the one who set my chair away from them, but they didn’t wave me over either. I’m being ridiculous. Everything is okay. When did I turn into such a prude, nothing happened. But what if someone I know had driven past in that moment—when my lips were inches from Luke Ellison’s?