Seven Books for Seven Lovers

by Molly Harper, Stephanie Haefner, Liora Blake, Gabra Zackman, Andrea Laurence, Colette Auclair

  “Yep.” I make a mental note to bring my cell down to the stockroom. Personal calls during work hours are forbidden, along with leaning one’s elbows on the counter, neglecting to greet a customer the nanosecond he or she enters the store, and any manner of dilly-dallying.

  But if ever there were a time for rule-breaking, it’s today. I’ve got to take care of some covert Craigslist correspondence. As I leave the store with the book cart in tow, the United guy shouts, “Sign up for a United card and get twenty thousand free miles and a bonus gift!” He and I trade mournful looks, and I realize I had the airport inscription all wrong.

  It should read: “Abandon hope, all ye who enter here.”

  When I get home the following night, the house smells like casserole. I find Lin in the kitchen, pulling off a pair of quilted oven mitts.

  “How was your day?” He kisses me once on each cheek. “Stovetop chicken casserole for dinner. You know, I’m more grateful every day Steve’s a chef. I play my cards right, and we’ll all be relaxing over foie gras in the near future.”

  “Foy who?” I kick off my shoes and toss my Book Nook badge on top of them. “In the meantime, I’ll take your stovetop any day.”

  We sit side by side on the kitchen bar stools, diving in. When I’ve swallowed enough mouthfuls to quiet the Jabba the Hutt noises coming from my stomach, I wipe my mouth and give Lin a cautious glance. “You, eh, remember what you said about me selling my body?”

  He sets down his fork. “Don’t tell me. You and Sal started an underground exotic dancing club called the Captain’s Choice.”

  I open my mouth in protest. “Lin—”

  “There’ll be a secret entrance behind the romance section. Prospective customers need only walk in and utter the secret password: ‘Frequent flyer.’ You know, I think I may want in. The world of graphic design is not all it’s cracked up to be. I’m more than halfway to carpal tunnel and less than halfway to artistic director.”

  Having given up on getting a word in edgewise, I continue shoveling the steaming casserole into my mouth as Lin prattles on about all the roles he’s qualified to take on in Sal’s and my clandestine dance club operation. When it’s clear he’s winding down, I swallow. “You’ve got me. Busted.”

  “Wait, so what were you going to tell me?” Lin takes my plate, sets it on top of his, and carries it over to the sink.

  “I do have a plan.” I lean back, resting my elbows on the counter. “I’m going to rent myself out. As a bridesmaid.”

  He turns back from the sink, blinking at me. “Say what?”

  “The inspiration came to me the other night when I was going through my stuff. I was looking at a picture from my cousin Lana’s wedding, and I remembered that I was the only one who could bustle her cracked-out Cinderella dress. And I was the only one who could talk Lana into a state of serenity when she got cramps right before the ceremony.”

  “That’s way too much information, but I’ll forgive you.”

  “What do you think?”

  “Honey, I admire your ingenuity, I do. But . . .” He wipes his hands on a kitchen towel and comes over to stand on the other side of the counter, hands on his hips. “You’re too much of a star to be on the sidelines. And you already have a job where you’re treated like less than a person.”

  “Thanks for reminding me.”

  “If you take a second job, it shouldn’t be something else with an eau de subservience.”

  I frown. “You’re pissing on the happy mental montage I had going.”

  “Yeah?”

  “The sky was raining flower petals, and I was frolicking with a series of brides at the park as a hipster photographer snapped pictures and said things like ‘Be the sunshine!’ ”

  “I’ll grant you this—anyone would be lucky to have you gracing their wedding pics. You’re a total secret undercover babe.”

  I mock-bat my eyelashes at him, bristling with pleasure at his compliment.

  “Can I see what that looks like, by the way?” he says. “Your ‘Be the sunshine’ face?”

  I conjure the look: a coy smile, eyebrows raised, arms akimbo, head cocked to a 45-degree angle.

  He pats my shoulder. “Very sweet, but speaking of pissing—your montage is missing a bathroom scene where you’re hiking yards of chiffon up over the bridal hiney. Anyway, what kind of person hires a bridesmaid?”

  I un-akimbo my arms and cross them over my chest. “I met her earlier tonight. She seems legit.”

  “You did what now?”

  “I met my first client after work.” I wipe my mouth with a napkin and pretend to be nonchalant. “She’s lovely.”

  “And where did you unearth this person?”

  I hesitate. “It may or may not have been Craigslist.”

  He aims a pointer finger at me. “We’ll skip the part where I reprimand you for risking your life. Let me say this: That’s how people get their kidneys stolen. One minute it’s all, ‘Oh, I’ll just pop by and see this nice lady who needs a bridesmaid.’ The next, you’re prostrate on a bloodstained metal table, being poked at by rusty cutting tools.”

  I roll my eyes. “Don’t be dramatic. Her name’s Susan Bell, and she’s very nice. She’s a cellist in the Baltimore Symphony, actually. Her cousin, who was supposed to be a bridesmaid, got in a car accident last week and has a couple broken ribs. Her best female friend is already in the wedding, and her other friends are all men who play large brass instruments. On top of that, she found out her little brother’s going through a painful breakup and she wants to match him up with a single bridesmaid.” I shrug. “So your master plan of me pimping myself out is pretty much coming to pass.”

  My heart had been pounding when I knocked on the door of her second-floor apartment in Alexandria earlier in the evening. But as soon as she answered, my internal anxiety symphony went from forte to pianissimo. She was wearing a white T-shirt that read “Cello Geek” across the front and a silver necklace with a treble clef charm resting against her collarbone. She brushed strands of unruly dark hair from her eyes and extended her hand for a firm shake. With a cup of hot tea, she dispelled my Single White Female fears. When I asked what inspired her to look on Craigslist for a filler bridesmaid, she shrugged. “People find everything on there these days. I had good luck with used cars and carpool buddies, so this was the next step.”

  I managed to pick her reply out of forty-seven responses. I was shocked I even got that many, as horrible as the late-night posting had been. “Had a recent breakup with your best gal pal? Need a stand-in on the bride side? You’re a call away from professional bridesmaid representation.” I even fabricated some quotes: “Best bridesmaid ever!” “Bustles like nobody’s business!”

  Of course, I received some disturbing responses, including an especially alarming message from a Grover Cleveland impersonator who claimed he needed not a bridesmaid but a wife so he could move to the United States and fulfill his dream of doing professional impersonations on the Capitol steps.

  Susan’s response had been sincere and to the point. The subject line was “mildly OCD bride needs balanced photos—halp!” Crowned with a sheepish emoticon. How could I not reply? We had a brief exchange, and she requested a photo. For a split second, I worried “Susan” was the Grover impersonator using a new alias, but I scrolled through iPhoto until I found a full-body shot of myself all bridesmaided up in a forest-green dress. My right foot is angled in front of my left, and my head cocks slightly down to avoid gratuitous neckage and underplay my above-average height. To complement the dress, Lana’s stylist did some makeup witchery to make my eyes look more green than brown, and she tamed my auburn hair—which suffers from a perpetual curly/straight identity crisis—into loose waves, adding a dainty braid along one side. I attached the photo, hit “send,” and held my breath until Susan replied, “Lovely! Can we meet tomorrow?”

  Lin looks less than impressed; his cocked eyebrow indicates disapproval. However, a smirk of amusement is playing at one corner of
his mouth. “Why would you ask a stranger to be in your wedding?”

  “Susan’s a photographer on the side. She said her eyes would always be drawn to the empty part of the photo, like tonguing the spot where you’ve lost a tooth. She’d rather it be filled with a smile than empty space. So maybe she’s a tad OCD. What bride isn’t?”

  Lin twists his lips to the side. I can see the designer in him contemplating the balanced-photo concept, perhaps conceding. “What if the brother she’s pairing you with is a total creeper? Does he have a Facebook profile, the better to stalk him with?”

  I shrug. “I didn’t have a chance to look yet. His name’s Charlie—Charlie Bell. Has a ring to it, don’t you think?”

  Lin glares at me. “Get thee to a punnery.”

  “So Charlie Bell escorts me down the aisle, we dance once or twice. How bad could it be?”

  “Fair enough. But for Thor’s sake, you’re a warm autumn. Just say no if she tries to make you wear red—you’ll look like you’re on fire—though soft reds or a burnt sienna might do. And give me names and addresses. Put everything in the notebook.”

  He gestures to the spiral-bound notebook on our kitchen counter. With my airport hours, I can go for a day or two at a time without seeing Lin. Even though we text like crazy, we often write each other notes about our whereabouts, accompanied by intricate—read: amazing, if they’re from Lin, and enthusiastic, if they’re from me—cartoons. My latest installment included me cowering under a tower of books stacked on my shoulders, with Sal standing on top and laughing maniacally. I gave him a spandex outfit bearing the letters BNEO (for Book Nook Evil Overlord) and a cape flapping in the wind.

  “I promise to keep you posted,” I say to Lin as I scribble down the information Susan gave me.

  “This still kind of gives me the heebie-jeebies. You want me to come with you? Or maybe you should bring Brick?”

  Brick, also known as The Brick, is a mutual college friend who does part-time security for the Smithsonian. His real name is Ernest Finnegan, but Brick is much more apt.

  I sigh. “Brick’s working tomorrow night. Some private party at the Portrait Gallery.”

  Lin gasps. “We should crash it!”

  “I have a gig, too, remember? And I don’t need Brick. I’m an airport employee. I’m trained to recognize suspicious behavior.”

  He gives me a pointed look. “Watch your back. And your kidneys.”

  Three

  Pretending you’re someone else takes full-scale concentration.

  As I sit in my car outside the Elephant and Castle, preparing to go into Susan’s rehearsal dinner, I’m thinking I was too hard on the Grover Cleveland impersonator. He’d included some choice factoids in his e-mail: Apparently, Grover Cleveland was an unshakable man, acting on his own conscience despite party pressure. If only I could siphon his confidence and Grover Cleveland the shit out of this gig.

  The rehearsal was one thing—I just had to follow instructions. Walk, stand, walk some more. This was followed by a second walk-through: lather, rinse, repeat. The most awkward part was that my equivalent on the groom’s side hadn’t arrived yet; I had to walk down the aisle with my elbow cocked, pretending to hold the arm of someone I hoped would be a dashing and gallant gentleman. Or at least smell decent.

  But sitting down to dinner with a cavalcade of strangers? Quite another thing altogether.

  A voice comes from the dashboard: “You have reached your destination.”

  “Yeah, all right, cool your boots, Nigel,” I reply with my own attempt at a British accent.

  I borrowed Lin’s GPS for the journey into D.C. Lin loves men with accents. But I can hear the judgment implicit in Nigel’s voice: You’re not getting paid to sit in your car.

  Since Friday rush hour was over, I actually enjoyed the drive; the setting sun turned the Washington Monument amber as I drove into the city on I-66. A patchwork of pink and blue clouds formed a mini–impressionist painting in my rearview mirror.

  I even managed to parallel-park my Corolla, also affectionately known as Beowulf: The Road Warrior. Beowulf, or Wulfie for short, has been making a funny noise the past few weeks—a sort of whinny that turns into a growl when I accelerate. I pat the dashboard and coo, “Good car. Nice Wulfie.” I need him to keep fighting until I can get the next measly paycheck from work, along with the several hundred dollars I’m going to make from this gig.

  As I head into the restaurant, Susan spots me and ushers me into a back room where the families are already gathered—Wulfie moves at his own speed these days. To my great relief, Susan and her maid of honor, Lisa, sit on either side of me, buffering me from the inquiring smiles of relatives. Brandon, the groom, sits on Susan’s other side, his shoulder pressed against hers.

  The conversation moves to the state of Susan’s parents’ custom suit-making and tailoring business. “Our latest client is the vice president,” I hear Susan’s mom say to one of Brandon’s family members, who makes an approving noise from the back of her throat. Both of Susan’s parents are dressed in suits. Her father has a folded handkerchief tucked into his pocket, emblazoned with a design of two interlocking wedding rings.

  I sip my French onion soup and give Susan my most convincing smile, the kind of smile that might lead other rehearsal dinner attendees to believe I know secret friend things about her. Like her bra size or the time she made out with her hand and pretended it was Bobby McFee, the most popular boy at school.

  I never did anything like that, for the record. Well, not with my hand. I did make out with a Ken doll once. But everyone knows he’s a fox.

  “So, Piper.” Susan’s mom turns her conversational spigot on me. “We’re so glad your trip to the Himalayas fell through and you were able to join us after all! I’m afraid Susan hasn’t told us very much about you. What is it you do?”

  It should be outlawed for anyone to ask a twentysomething this question.

  The waiter slips around me to set a plate of maple-glazed Atlantic salmon and steamed asparagus in front of me, giving me a moment to collect myself and say, “I’m an airport bookseller.”

  Susan puts a hand on my shoulder as if she senses my discomfort. “I actually met Piper at the airport.”

  Lisa winks at me over her glass of wine as Susan and I ping-pong snippets of our friendship “meet cute.”

  Susan: “She actually chased me down the entire length of C Terminal to give me my passport back.”

  Me: “She dropped it in front of the Harry Potter display, and a little girl dressed like a witch brought it up to the counter.”

  Susan: “So us meeting was pretty much magic.”

  We look at each other and share a genuine laugh. When I was at her apartment, we formulated our “how we met” story, but these last few bits are pure improvisation. This is the first bit of fiction I’ve spun in a long time. I think guiltily of abandoned writing projects.

  “Unlike when we first met?” Brandon begins telling the story of the first time he saw Susan across the orchestra pit, which everyone except me undoubtedly has heard multiple times. “Forbidden love: string and brass,” he says, swinging an arm around her shoulders and planting a kiss on the nape of her neck.

  I’m happy to be excused from the conversation so I can focus on my salmon and asparagus. I can’t remember the last time I ate a fresh, steamed vegetable. I haven’t exactly been able to afford farmers’ market fare since graduation—if it doesn’t come in a frozen package I’m not buying it. As I work through my plate, my mind tunes back in.

  Lisa is telling a story: “I’ll never forget when Susan called me after Brandon asked her out after that fated Christmas pops rehearsal. She said, ‘It’ll never work. He’s a trumpet player, for God’s sake.’ ”

  Brandon claps a hand to his chest, feigning devastation. A ripple of polite tittering passes around the table. I titter along: The great love of my seventh-grade life was a trumpet player named Angus. He was Patient Zero in my history of lovesickness, followed by countle
ss other musicians, artists, and creative types. By the time Mr. Singer-Songwriter Scott came along, I was fully primed, and it all dates back to Angus.

  Angus had checked off all sorts of middle school clichés with his high-top sneakers, school band uniform, gigantic ears, and carroty hair, a formula that normally would have earned him geek status—but Angus had a mystery quotient of brassy confidence that drew me to him, along with almost every other girl in the seventh grade. I lusted after him as much as a bony, braces-clad seventh-grader can lust after any pubescent boy.

  I’m still thinking about Angus, and the time he serenaded the entire school with Alice Cooper’s “School’s Out” over the loudspeakers on his trumpet (in January), when I sense someone standing behind me.

  “Charlie!” Susan slides her hand from Brandon’s and leaps up from the table. “You’re here!”

  I set down my fork, bracing myself to meet the person Lin’s been referring to with crossed eyes as “Charlie ‘Ring My Bell’ Bell.” We couldn’t find a Facebook profile, so Lin created several theoretical physiques for Charlie in our notebook, none of them flattering. Lin told me I should “flirt the boy up” anyway. “You need practice,” he said, tugging on my ponytail. Touché. I haven’t flirted with anyone since the early Scott days, which might as well be the Paleolithic era.

  Time to get a look at my victim. I turn, stare, blink. Stare some more. Aaaand I’m ringing. Loud and clear. Shamelessly tolling the hour.

  He’s wearing a worn brown suit, a pair of red Chucks, an “I Love Yeats” necktie, and a smile that stops my jaw halfway through a bite of salmon. I do a head-to-toe double take, telling myself it’s just so I can draw him for Lin.

  Charlie Bell is tallish, with a slightly angular face. Strong jaw. Dark eyes with gold flecks that seem to steal bits of light from around the room. Eyebrows hefty enough to lift a set of barbells. Lips that could also pass a rigorous fitness test. Limber-looking body, with potential for quite a bit of lean muscle under that suit.