“What?”
“They’re always located very close to hotels.” She grabbed his hand. “Come on.”
He picked up her book, The Peculiar Sadness of Lemon Cake, and opened it to see what romance novel she was hiding underneath the dust jacket. But to his surprise, it ended up being the actual novel.
“You’re reading this?”
“I finished it just before you walked up to me.”
“I read it too, a couple of years ago. What did you think?”
“It was peculiarly sad.”
He laughed.
“But I loved the fabulist elements.”
Aaron raised an eyebrow. “Do tell. I’m impressed.”
“Yes, I ended up rereading Torpor in the Suburbs and liked it so much I wanted another fabulist novel. Also, I adore lemon cake.”
“Me too. With a nice sugary glaze on top.”
“Glaze? It has to be at least an inch layer of butter cream frosting.”
“But glaze is so much more subtle and nuanced.”
“Who wants nuance when you’re eating cake?”
The two of them walked hand-in-hand, happily squabbling as they headed toward the exit.
Epilogue
Aaron was impatiently prowling the house, pent up with nervous energy. He had a special surprise planned for Laurie tonight. Only a few more minutes, and she’d be home from her classes at Metro Atlanta University.
Dusty II, III and IV barked; someone was ringing the doorbell. Aaron answered it, and outside stood a plump woman with cottony white hair, wire-rim spectacles and eyes that…Dare he say it? Twinkled. In fact, if she weren’t wearing a mustard yellow pantsuit she could be mistaken for Mrs. Claus.
“Down, Windusts,” Aaron said to his dogs. He used their more formal names when he was being stern with them. All three dogs liked to greet strangers by jumping on them and licking their faces. The dogs ignored him and clawed at the woman’s pantsuit as if trying to climb her. Aaron gently pulled them down by their collars.
“Windust?” the woman said.
“My favorite author.”
“You must be Aaron.”
“I am. And you are…?”
“Sorry for dropping in. I tried calling but the phone rang and rang.”
“Oh, yes. I forgot to plug it back in. I was writing earlier and I—”
“No need to explain,” she said with a smile. “There’s an important matter I need to discuss with you. Are you alone?”
“I am,” Aaron said. It was an odd question from a complete stranger, and perhaps he should be wary, but frankly this woman looked as harmless as a teddy bear.
“This won’t take long.”
“I’m sorry. I still didn’t catch your name…”
“Windust,” she said.
At the sound of their names, the dogs nudged the woman’s hand, angling for head pats.
She smiled. “I’m Windust. Nicholas Windust, to be precise. You can call me Nicole.”
Aaron opened his mouth but nothing came out. The language portion of his brain seemed to be temporarily disabled. “I’m sorry. Did you say—?”
“Could I come in? I promise to be brief.”
“Yes. Please do.”
Aaron ushered her inside. He’d never been around such a famous person before. When he imagined such encounters he was as unflappable as a Buckingham Palace guard. Not so with Nicole Windust. Aaron fluttered about, offering her drinks, mixed nuts and the most comfortable seat in his condo. She refused everything except the chair. When she sat, it squeaked. She glanced behind her and picked up a bunny rabbit.
Aaron took it from her and tossed it to one of the dogs. “Forgive me. We have toys everywhere.”
“I have two dogs of my own.” She sat again and said, “I was sorry to hear about your father, Aaron. We never met, you know.”
That much was clear. Aaron was one hundred percent certain his father did not know Nick Windust was female.
“I did, however, have a high regard for him.”
“Thank you. And he thought of you as the most talented author in the world…but you probably already knew that.”
“I do. I don’t generally read my own press, but I made an exception for your father. I read every word he ever wrote about me. He had such a keen understanding of a novelist’s mind. I was surprised he wasn’t a novelist himself.”
“He was…for a time…It didn’t suit him.”
“It’s not for everyone.” She touched her cheek. “Is there something on my face?”
“I’m sorry I was staring. I’m so surprised—”
“I understand. Only a handful of trusted confidantes know that Nick Windust is female. I hope you’ll keep my secret?”
“Of course. But my curiosity has gotten the better of me. Why did you—?”
“In the fifties I wrote two novels under Nicole Winston, my real name. They were summarily dismissed. My first novel under the name Nick Windust was widely reviewed…I understand you’re a novelist, Aaron.”
“I am. Not yet published, but…Well, I’m working on that. How did you know?”
“Your father told me. In fact, he sent me a copy of your manuscript through my publisher.”
So that’s what happened to it. Aaron had always wondered what had become of the package his father sent off before his death. He assumed it’d been lost in the mail.
“I’ve been on deadline and couldn’t read it until recently.”
“I’m confused. Why did he want you to read my novel?”
“Because he was impressed with it. In fact, he compared it to my earlier works.”
“You can’t be serious.”
Nicole smiled. “Of course, he was biased.”
Aaron nodded solemnly. “He was dying, and his mind may have been clouded with painkillers.”
Or maybe, in his last hours, he got sentimental about Aaron’s work. To compare Aaron with a young Nick Windust, the world’s most accomplished author, was frankly ludicrous.
“Maybe you should read what he wrote.”
She retrieved the manuscript from her briefcase and handed it to Aaron. A note on Metro Atlanta University letterhead was clipped to the top page.
Dear Mr. Windust:
My name is Dr. Horace Flowers. We’ve never met but I daresay that the only person who knows your writings better than you is me. Over the years your fiction has given me much to chew on, e. g. your narrative instincts, command of language and keen sense of characterization. But as admirable as those qualities are, they aren’t why I became a Nicholas Windust authority.
I could never express this in a scholarly paper, but I’ve always wanted to say this about your work: Your stories appeal to aspects of myself that literary aesthetics can’t touch. While immersed in the pages of a Nicholas Windust novel, I briefly forget I’m a critic. Instead I’m merely a reader, hopelessly engrossed in the world of your characters. Your novels help me to connect with my own humanity.
Recently I stumbled across the work of another novelist who, in my opinion, possesses this same quality. Full disclosure: He’s my son, Aaron Mite. How he could write with such clarity, wisdom and exuberance after having me as his father is a mystery. But he’s done it. Admittedly, there’s some rawness in his work, but it strongly reminds me of your earlier novels. Forgive me for being presumptuous, but I feel the only publishing company that can do Aaron’s work justice is One.
Regards,
Horace Flowers
Aaron looked up from the letter, speechless.
“Quite the compliment, isn’t it?” she said.
He glanced back at the letter and then closed his eyes. It was the best gift his father had ever given him. “Thank you for this. I can’t tell you what it me
ans to me. It was very kind of you to share it with me.”
“Actually, my motive for visiting involves more than kindness.”
“Excuse me?”
“I’m here because I’d like to talk to you about being published by One.”
“I don’t understand…Only you’re published by One.”
“True, but that’s because my editor and I haven’t found any authors whom we both agreed on. At my urging, he read your novel last week, and he was as excited about your talent as I am.”
“But…you just said my father was biased about my work.”
“He was, meaning he didn’t give you sufficient praise. Your novel shows far more promise than my earliest efforts.”
Aaron blinked uncontrollably, having trouble absorbing her message. “You want to publish Chiaroscuro?”
“I’m sorry. I don’t know anything about Chiaroscuro. Your father sent me a novel called Klieg.”
“Kleig? That’s my first novel. I wrote it during my MFA program.”
“It doesn’t read like a debut.”
“I barely remember finishing it. I was caught up in a crazy state of euphoria over the love of writing. It scarcely felt like work at all.”
“The best way to write a book.”
“I agree. Recently I’ve been back in touch with that feeling again.” Thanks to Laurie, he thought.
“I’m delighted to hear it. So, Aaron, can my editor contact your agent with an offer?”
Dusty II jumped on Aaron’s lap and bathed his face, almost as if he understood Nicole’s question. Aaron gently tried to control him. “I’m so honored. I can’t wait to tell Bernie, my agent. And my fiancée.”
“You’re engaged?”
“Not officially. I recently purchased the ring, and I’m asking her tonight. I’m not one to make assumptions, but I do believe she might say yes.”
“Congratulations. I hope your assumptions are correct.” Nicole Windust picked up her purse. “I don’t want to take any more of your time, particularly on such a special night of your life.”
“Can’t you stay for a while longer? I’d like you to meet Laurie.”
The front door opened, and a voice rang out: “Who’s ready for happy hour?”
The three Dustys greeted their mistress, tails spinning wildly. If Aaron had a tail it would be spinning as well.
“Can I offer you a cocktail?” Aaron asked Nicole.
“I don’t want to put you out.”
“I make a superb Pink Lady.”
“A Pink Lady? Why, I haven’t had one of those in years.”
Laurie entered the living room, all white teeth, ivory skin and golden hair. The light bulbs seemed to have upped their wattage. One day Aaron expected her to blow a fuse or two.
“Great class. My mind’s buzzing like ten beehives.” She noticed Nicole and blushed. “Oh. I’m sorry. I didn’t know we had company.”
“Laurie. This is Nicole, an old friend of the family. I invited her to have a drink. Will you entertain her while I make the Pink Ladies?”
“I’d love to. Why don’t we go out on the patio? It’s gorgeous this evening.”
Laurie guided Nicole outside, chatting her up as if she’d known her for years, her voice musical and lively. Aaron retired to the kitchen and assembled the gin, grenadine, egg whites and, of course, the paper umbrellas. He could scarcely concentrate on his task, he was so exhilarated. Aaron had heard the expression “dizzy with happiness” before, and until now, he assumed people weren’t being literal. Why would happiness make a person dizzy?
Yet here he was feeling woozy, as if joy had settled into his body cavity and made his muscles and bones so light he could float away. It was ironic. He’d never been one to believe in HEAs, and yet fate appeared to have handed him one.
He thought about Laura T. Leer’s novel Torpor in the Suburbs, and how, in the end, the main character turned into a decrepit old couch. Which made Aaron wonder: If he were a character in a novel, what would he turn into?
Not furniture. Far too static, and devoid of life. No. It would have to be something light-filled and spacious, a place where butterflies fluttered, insects thrummed and the landscape was vast and open. Maybe a meadow. Yes, that would suit him nicely.
About the Author
Karin Gillespie is national bestselling author of five novels and a humor columnist for Augusta Magazine. Her nonfiction writing had been in the New York Times, The Writer and Romantic Times. She maintains a website and blog at Karingillespie.net. Sign up for her newsletter on her website, follow her on Twitter or connect with her on Facebook.
Books by Karin Gillespie
GIRL MEETS CLASS
LOVE LITERARY STYLE
Books in the Bottom Dollar Series
BET YOUR BOTTOM DOLLAR (#1)
A DOLLAR SHORT (#2)
DOLLAR DAZE (#3)
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GIRL MEETS CLASS
Karin Gillespie
(from the Henery Press Chick Lit Collection)
The unspooling of Toni Lee Wells’ Tiffany and Wild Turkey lifestyle begins with a trip to the Luckett County Jail drunk tank. An earlier wrist injury sidelined her pro tennis career, and now she’s trading her tennis whites for wild nights roaming the streets of Rose Hill, Georgia.
Her wealthy family finally gets fed up with her shenanigans. They cut off her monthly allowance but also make her a sweetheart deal: Get a job, keep it for a year, and you’ll receive an early inheritance. Act the fool or get fired, and you’ll lose it for good.
Toni Lee signs up for a fast-track Teacher Corps program. She hopes for an easy teaching gig, but ends up assigned to Harriet Hall, a high school that churns out more thugs than scholars.
What’s a spoiled Southern belle to do when confronted with a bunch of street smart students who are determined to make her life as difficult as possible? Luckily, Carl, a handsome colleague, is willing to help her negotiate the rough teaching waters and keep her bed warm at night. But when Toni Lee gets involved with some dark dealings in the school system, she fears she might lose her new beau as well as her inheritance.
Read all about it and/or grab the book from Amazon
CLICK FOR GIRL MEETS CLASS
BET YOUR BOTTOM DOLLAR
Karin Gillespie
The Bottom Dollar Series (#1)
(From the Henery Press Chick Lit Collection)
Welcome to the Bottom Dollar Emporium in Cayboo Creek, South Carolina, where everything from coconut mallow cookies to Clabber Girl Baking Powder costs a dollar but the coffee and gossip are free. For the Bottom Dollar gals, work time is sisterhood time.
When news gets out that a corporate dollar store is coming to town, the women are thrown into a tizzy, hoping to save their beloved store as well their friendships. Meanwhile the manager is canoodling with the town’s wealthiest bachelor and their romance unearths some startling family secrets.
The first in a series, Bet Your Bottom Dollar serves up a heaping portion of small town Southern life and introduces readers to a cast of eccentric characters. Pull up a wicker chair, set out a tall glass of Cheer Wine, and immerse yourself in the adventures of a group of women whom the Atlanta Jou
rnal Constitution calls, “… the kind of steel magnolias who would make Scarlett O’Hara envious.”
Read all about it and/or grab the book from Amazon
CLICK FOR BET YOUR BOTTOM DOLLAR
BLOGGER GIRL
Meredith Schorr
(From the Henery Press Chick Lit Collection)
What happens when your high school nemesis becomes the shining star in a universe you pretty much saved? Book blogger Kimberly Long is about to find out.
A chick lit enthusiast since the first time she read Bridget Jones’s Diary, Kim, with her blog, Pastel is the New Black, has worked tirelessly by night to keep the genre alive, and help squash the claim that “chick lit is dead” once and for all. Not bad for a woman who by day ekes out a meager living as a pretty, and pretty-much-nameless, legal secretary in a Manhattan law firm. While Kim’s day job holds no passion for her, the handsome (and shaving challenged) associate down the hall is another story. Yet another story is that Hannah Marshak, one of her most hated high school classmates, has now popped onto the chick lit scene with a hot new book that’s turning heads—and pages—across the land. It’s also popped into Kim’s inbox—for review.
With their ten-year reunion drawing near, Kim’s coming close to combustion over the hype about Hannah’s book. And as everyone around her seems to be moving on and up, she begins to question whether being a “blogger girl” makes the grade in her offline life.
Love Literary Style Page 26