“Wait. Don’t you want to know the third universal beauty truth?” Velvet called. I stopped, mostly just to be polite.
“Okay.”
“The third truth is that no guy’s going to think you’re beautiful if you don’t believe it yourself.”
“Thanks again,” I said, panic rising in my throat. Only a few days.
“Good luck!” she called as I stepped back into the humid July air.
Soon after, I stood on the cobblestones of Pioneer Square, staring across the street at the red door with the golden pillars. My pits were sweaty again. Errol wanted me to do this. This was for him. For his story. For our story. This was research. So why was my heart pounding? Why was I feeling like a total chicken?
An OPEN sign beckoned from the window of Lee’s Antiquities. I imagined myself turning the knob, opening the door, and stepping inside. Tony would be sitting at the counter just like before and he’d smile at me. I took a step. I took another step. It felt like a moth was trapped in my stomach.
Still summoning courage, I darted into the candy shop next door to Lee’s and bought some chocolates. Get over yourself. Tony likes you, you know that. So march right in there and ask him on a date. And if you’re still too nervous, then remember that this is a mission to save your mother’s career, and, as it turns out, to help a dying guy with his final request.
Poor Errol. Three rounds of chemotherapy. No wonder he thought he was a Roman god. Chemicals had fried his brain.
Back on the sidewalk, little paper bag in hand, I lifted my foot to take that big step, when a girl darted in front of me. She peered through Lee’s picture window and waved. The red door opened right away and Tony stepped out. “Hi,” he said to the girl, whose long blond hair was the color of honey.
“Hi,” she said back.
Tony leaned against the doorway, his arms tan against the pale blue of his T-shirt. I stood off to the side, stiff and silent. He’d opened the door so quickly. Had he been waiting for her?
She swept her hair behind her shoulders. “You said noon, right?”
“Yeah. Noon.” Those two freckles danced on his cheek as he smiled at her. Then his gaze drifted over her shoulder and he saw me, standing there. Just standing there. The girl turned around and they both looked at me. Still just standing there. “Alice?” His smile dropped. “What are you doing here?”
What was I doing there?
“Alice?” Tony repeated. “You look different.”
The little moth went spastic in my stomach. “I’m doing some errands.”
Tony looked from me to the blond girl, then back to me. The girl glanced at her watch. Tony shifted his weight. No one said anything. No introductions were made, and you’d think Tony would introduce us because he always seemed so polite. Blond Girl, this is Alice. I gave her a bouquet of yellow roses. Alice, this is Blond Girl. I’m going to marry her.
“Okay,” I said. “Bye.”
“Alice?” he called as I walked away, fighting the urge to break into a run.
The sun beat down on my shoulders as I waited at an intersection. A Turkish rug seller tried to convince me to come into his shop but I ignored him. Honestly, why would a sixteen-year-old want to buy a rug? And why wouldn’t Tony want to go out with that cute girl? I’d had plenty of opportunities. I could have accepted his offer to go to the movies when we first met. I could have called him after he’d given me the flowers. I could have said something to him all those times he’d skated past.
I picked the little heart off my cheek and flicked it away. Then I reached into the paper bag and grabbed a chocolate that might have once been round, or might have once been square, but was now just a wad of melted goo.
That’s what happens when you wait too long.
Tony Lee was a distraction. I didn’t need him.
And I didn’t need to do any research. Errol was totally wrong about that. I’d read a million romance novels. I knew exactly what Heartstrings Publishers liked. I didn’t need experience with first dates or second dates or even with sex to write about it. Writers constantly write about things they’ve never experienced. What fantasy writer has actually slain a dragon or melted a witch? Do mystery writers actually commit murder? Do most romance writers have steamy affairs with ripped, long-haired hunks? I highly doubt it.
Five blocks from home I ran into Archibald. On lunch break, he sat at a kosher delicatessen’s sidewalk table, safely tucked beneath the shade of a pin-striped awning. “Alice,” he called with a graceful wave. “Your haircut is adorable.”
We hugged. Archibald’s hugs didn’t come with soft rolls of belly fat like Mrs. Bobot’s hugs or with the vast six-foot-six expanse of the reverend’s hugs. Archibald was lean and just a little taller than I was—the perfect size to be my dance partner, if I ever needed one.
“I don’t think I’ve ever seen you in so much makeup.”
“I got a makeover,” I told him.
“Well, you look very beautiful. Have you had lunch?”
“No. But I’ve got some stuff to do.” I looked anxiously in the direction of our building.
“Sit down and eat something and then you can go do whatever it is you’re going to do. It’s important to eat in hot weather.”
Why hadn’t Errol told me he was dying? Now I understood his pushiness and impatience. He wanted this story written before he died. He hadn’t been able to do it himself and time was running out, so he’d come up with all these lies to convince me to help him—that he was Cupid, that it was my destiny, that I looked like Psyche. I plopped into the chair next to Archibald. “What kind of a document do I need if I want to write a book based on someone else’s story?”
Archibald set half of his pastrami sandwich and a fat pickle slice onto a napkin, then pushed it toward me. “I’m not sure. That sounds a bit complicated. There’s an attorney at our office who specializes in copyright law. Do you want me to ask him?”
“Yeah, that would be great.” I took a bite of the sandwich.
“So, how are you? What’s new besides your hair?”
“Well …” I mentally sorted through all the newness in my life. “Mom said my name. Her doctor thinks it’s a really good sign that the medication is kicking in.”
“That’s fabulous.” Archibald beamed his one-dimpled, lopsided smile. Then he went to the counter and got some salt and vinegar chips and lemonade for me. That day’s Hawaiian shirt was blue with white orchids and it brought out the sea in his gentle eyes. “I’m so happy to hear about your mother.”
“Well, there’s some bad news too. I haven’t told her yet. Actually, I just found out yesterday.”
“What?”
“She’s not the Queen of Romance anymore. They crowned someone else.” I ripped open the bag of chips. “How can you give someone a title, then take it away?”
“It doesn’t sound fair.” He sipped his iced tea. “I suppose they’ve replaced her with someone younger. That’s always the case.”
“Probably. I hope no one tells her. That’s the last thing she needs to hear right now.”
“The secret’s safe with me.” Archibald patted my hand. Then he opened a packet of Splenda and dumped it into his tea. “I met the new tenant yesterday. I assume he’s the same Errol that all the fuss was about.” Archibald didn’t ask why I’d written Errol’s name all over my bathroom walls, but the question hovered like an annoying insect. “Obviously I don’t know him as well as you know him, but my first impression wasn’t … good. There were two girls coming out of his apartment late last night.”
“Oh, yeah, they’re his friends. They bring him food.”
“Uh-huh.” Archibald raised his eyebrows. “I was reading that a girl who doesn’t have a father often looks for affection from the wrong sort of boy. You know you can talk to me about anything, Alice. I’ll never judge you.”
What about a girl who doesn’t have a father or a mother? I wondered.
I ate a chip. The vinegar made me wince. “He’s sick from ca
ncer. That’s why those girls are taking care of him. That’s why he’s so pale.”
“Oh. I’m very sorry to hear that.”
I ate as quickly as I could, the calories converting to confidence. Errol wanted more emotion. I’d fill the story with so much emotion you’d need a box of tissues to get through it. I’d fill it with so many feelings it would be like reading a thirteen-year-old’s diary. It would be the best romance novel ever. I’d show that stupid International Romance Writers’ Guild that Belinda Amorous was still their queen.
While I shoveled in the last bites of lunch, Archibald picked an ice cube from his glass and ran it along the back of his neck. “I’ve ordered a nice roast for Sunday’s dinner. I’ll slow cook it while you’re at church.”
On the third Sunday of every month, Mrs. Bobot, my mother, and I attended the eleven a.m. service at the reverend’s church. On the third Sunday, Reverend Ruttles was the guest speaker and for ten minutes he returned to the pulpit to pontificate on a subject of his choosing. This weekend was the third Sunday. “Archibald, how come you never go to church with us?”
“I’ve never been invited.”
“But Mrs. Bobot’s always asking you to go.” I’d wiped all my lipstick onto the paper napkin. “You think the reverend doesn’t want you there. You think he’s ashamed.”
Archibald fiddled with the potato chip bag. “Perhaps ashamed is too strong a word. More like embarrassed. William’s worried about what the congregation will say if they find out their retired reverend has chosen a gay man for a roommate. Some people will jump to the wrong conclusion. But I can’t do anything about that and I can’t pretend to be someone I’m not. I lived a lie for a very long time.” Archibald looked into my eyes and I knew, at that moment, that I could ask him anything and he would give me nothing less than total honesty. “When we place more value on what other people think of us than on what we think of ourselves, it’s a formula for misery.”
I dropped my hands to my lap. Then I looked away. “You mean like my mother. Because she doesn’t want anyone to know that she’s sick.”
Archibald didn’t reply. Instead, he looked down the sidewalk. A man approached, a panting corgi at his side. Archibald poured ice water onto his bread plate, then set it on the sidewalk for the dog, who lapped it up appreciatively. The man exchanged a nice smile with Archibald, then he and the dog continued on their way. Archibald rested his chin in his hand. “I sure miss Ben.” Then he looked at his watch. “Well, I’d better get back to the office.” Before leaving he pulled me into another hug.
“Never be ashamed of who you are,” he whispered in my ear. “Who you really are.”
A bunch of messages were waiting for me from Heartstrings Publishers. Two from a worried publicist who wanted to spin the whole “dethroning” incident. She needed a new photo of my mother, without the tiara, and she wanted her to make a statement congratulating the new queen. She wanted to set up some interviews so my mother could tell the world that she’d enjoyed her reign and that her next book was going to be the best ever. There was another message from a frantic marketing assistant who needed the book’s title and synopsis that very moment. Another message from the editor asking how things were going and a final message from Mrs. Bobot that she’d be at a craft fair all afternoon but would expect me for dinner.
And so it came to be that I skillfully ignored the messages and sat at my mother’s desk and wrote chapter two, sifting through Errol’s notes. An hour passed, then two, then three, and to my astonishment, I hit print and twelve beautiful pages shot out of the printer. I smiled at the pages, proud of all those sentences, some Errol’s, some mine. He’d love this chapter. It was crammed with feelings! I’d show him right away.
But a chill suddenly swept across the back of my neck. Realm was standing right behind me. Why was I always forgetting to lock the door? “It’s rude to sneak up on a person,” I snapped.
“Yeah, well, it’s rude to make promises and not keep them.” She clutched a latte cup. Its plastic lid sparkled with lip gloss. “What are you doing? Are you writing something?” She snatched a piece of paper from the printer. “Chapter two? You’re writing a book?”
I grabbed the paper from her hand. “It’s none of your business.”
“What did you do to your hair?”
“Realm, I don’t have time for this.”
“Oh, really?” She planted herself on the living room couch. “Well, I think you’d better make time for this because I know your secret.”
The last time I’d seen Realm smile, and I mean really smile, she’d been her former self, the rosy-cheeked Lily. But there, on the couch, smug satisfaction pulled a smile across her face, exposing perfectly straight teeth.
“I don’t have a secret,” I said.
“Everyone has a secret.” She propped her tiny feet on the coffee table, her black leggings hanging loose around her ankles. “I know your mom isn’t overseas. I know she’s at a hospital up on Whidbey Island. A mental hospital.”
I gripped the top of the desk chair. My mind raced, conjuring lies like a witch conjures spells. I lined them up in my head, preparing to fire them as needed.
“You’re wondering how I found out.” She took a sip from her cup. “Maybe it’s not nice to snoop through other people’s stuff, but who cares? You were passed out from that spider bite and everyone was running around, worried about perfect little Alice. I was bored. I found the hospital bills.”
I pushed away the panic. This was an easy situation to manipulate. “She went up there for a break. So what? It’s like a spa for famous people when they get tired. They’ve got a great masseuse and a yoga instructor.”
“I don’t think so,” Realm said. “She’s been there for months. I read the doctor’s letter. You’re trying to hide it from the world, aren’t you? Her publisher doesn’t even know. I read through all the papers on the desk. They think she’s writing.”
“You’re wrong,” I said, making sure not a muscle in my face twitched, making sure to look her right in the eye.
But Realm laid a great steaming pile of blackmail at my feet. “So here’s what I’m thinking. You don’t need to read Death Cat after all. You don’t need to recommend it to your mom. All you need to do is write a letter and sign her name. You’ve been doing that a lot lately.”
“What kind of letter?”
“Your mom’s publisher has an imprint called Firestorm. They do horror novels. I want you to write a letter to Firestorm’s editor in chief saying that Death Cat is brilliant, and then sign your mother’s name.” She pulled a piece of paper from her denim shirt’s pocket. “Here’s the editor’s name and address.”
“And if I don’t?”
“Have you ever seen my blog, Alice? I’ve got quite a few followers. And I’m sure one of those tabloid papers would be very interested to know that Belinda Amorous is crazy.”
I wanted to slap Realm. I wanted to walk right over to the couch and smack her hard. We locked eyes. The breath coming from my nostrils was hot against my upper lip. “So I write this letter and then what? What else will you want, Realm?”
“I want to get Death Cat published. That’s it.”
“That’s it?”
“That’s it.”
“Fine!” I cried.
While Realm dictated from the couch, I wrote a letter on my mother’s stationery. Realm made me write idiotic things like “earthmoving debut” and “raw undiscovered talent.” When I finished, I dropped the letter onto her lap.
She held it like a trophy. “This is great. My dad doesn’t think I can be a writer. He says I don’t have the focus. He said I couldn’t lose weight, either. He was going to send me to fat camp, but I showed him.” She slunk away, down the hall, back to her cave. “And I’ll show him again.”
If Death Cat was the worst piece of crap ever written, and it probably was, then the Firestorm editor would simply think my mother knew nothing about the horror genre and Realm would get a polite rejection letter
. So in the end, the forged letter was no big deal—except it was a matter of principle. And dignity. No one likes to be cornered by blackmail. Realm had power over me. And she’d wield it again—this I knew for sure.
It was almost dinnertime. I grabbed chapter two and raced upstairs. In Errol’s kitchen, the morning’s buffet had been replaced by a jug of orange juice, a loaf of French bread, and some sliced cheeses. The living room furniture had been arranged and adorned with Velvet’s signature pink pillows. But neither Velvet nor her salon girls were there. I found Errol in his room, lying on his mattress. “Errol? Are you okay?” I asked.
The curtains were drawn but enough light crept in to see clearly. Even though a basket of fresh sheets and blankets sat in the corner, Errol lay on the bare mattress, a pillow wadded beneath his head. Sweat glistened on his forehead. He’d changed, just since that morning. I could see it now, the cancer—not the tumors or anything like that, but how it was eating away at him. The dark circles under his eyes. The sunken cheeks. The slow movements. He rubbed his face. “What’s up?”
“Why didn’t you tell me that you had cancer?”
He didn’t sit up. “Why didn’t you tell me your mother was at Harmony Hospital?”
“How did you …? Realm!”
“She came in earlier,” Errol said. “She’s lonely. She just wanted someone to talk to.”
I pushed the image of me strangling Realm from my mind. “I finished chapter two.” I set it on his desk. “I’m ready for chapter three.”
He lay still.
“Errol?” I sat at the end of the mattress. His feet reached over the edge. “We need a title. Do you have a title?”
“Why not call it The Last Story of Cupid?”
That didn’t sound romantic. “How about The True Love Story of Cupid and Psyche?”
“Whatever.”
“Errol?” I had a sudden urge to comfort him, to reach out and rub his leg. Or bring him a cold washcloth, or something. “I need a short summary of the story, for the publisher. Just the main plot points.”
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