“What do you expect me to say?” Danielle snapped to which Sloane had no reply.
They stood in silence for several moments. Fortunately, it was a still night, no breeze blowing at all so it wasn’t as chilly as it could have been. Finally Danielle asked:
“So what kind of father was he to you?”
With a wistful smile Sloane said that she was sure Danielle had gotten the better part of the deal.
“He was gone most of the time,” she explained. “When I did see him he was wonderful but there are times when I still feel as if I were raised by a single parent, you know?”
“What’s your mother like?”
“Wonderful; I think you’d like her. She’s, like, the total opposite of Arlene, though.”
“You mean your mother isn’t a voracious social climber and doesn’t worship Max Bland?”
Sloane laughed.
“No and no. In fact, can I tell you a secret? Mom doesn’t even like Max Bland novels. She tried to read two of them and thought they were awful.”
Danielle’s eyes widened.
“You mean to tell me,” she began, “that there is someone on this planet who doesn’t like Max’s books? Hallelujah! I was worried that the world was devolving into a Max Bland cult.”
“You don’t like his books either?”
“I love them; I think he’s one of the best writers alive, actually—and I’m very well read. The problem is that everyone else I know, as well as everyone I meet—Katie, Mom, every lesbian I ever encounter, all of my co-workers, all of my girlfriends, my gynecologist, my dentist, our housekeeper—all think so too. It’s refreshing to actually hear of an intelligent human being who isn’t on the same bandwagon as the rest of us.”
“Please don’t tell him,” Sloane said.
“About your mother? Please. Max would love to hear that. As a matter of fact, I bet he’d be willing to swap your mother for mine.”
Another silence, this one broken only by a couple of birds bickering in the branches of a nearby tree.
“So…Dad tells me you won’t answer his phone calls,” Sloane said.
“You’ve spoken to him?”
“Well, yeah.”
Danielle looked hard at Sloane.
“Why?” she asked.
“I wanted answers, Danielle. I wanted to hear his side of the story.”
“His side of the story? Isn’t it obvious? Horny man breaks wedding vows by fucking willing woman who, let’s face it, should’ve known better and—”
“Hey!”
“He was married, Sloane! Your mother knew that and yet she continued carrying on an affair with him, but if she had said no in the first place you wouldn’t be standing here next to me and I’d still have my father.”
“So now this is her fault?”
Danielle barked a sarcastic laugh.
“She was never blameless! In my book she’s public enemy number two. My God, are you seriously thinking she’s a victim?”
Sloane said nothing. Danielle continued.
“Unless you can prove that Dad forced himself on her that night when the condom broke then you’ve got no case, Sloane. Your mother is just as culpable for breaking up my parents’ marriage as Dad is and if she’s trying to spin it some other way then she’s delusional. This is why I’m so upset that she confessed everything to you. What right did she have to do that? She stupidly chose to have an affair with someone else’s husband, gets knocked up and one day decides to take everyone down with her during a drunken confessional? How dare she!”
Sloane said softly, “I hadn’t looked at it in quite that light.”
Danielle laughed again.
“Do you mean to tell me,” she said, “that when your mother told you about Dad you weren’t angry with her? For lying to you your entire life, for shattering the good image you had of Dad? I assure you, dear, if I had been in your shoes I would have jumped down Arlene’s throat.”
“I…I was too stunned, I guess,” Sloane offered. “Plus, let’s face it, in these types of situations it is so easy for us women to focus the blame on the man. Look, a lot of men in my life have treated me like crap, okay? I mean, look at me: I’m not exactly the kind of trophy gal most men will slay dragons for, right? Boyfriends have cheated on me—sometimes quite blatantly, sometimes in the same room; other guys made me feel worthless and good only for a lay; others have tried to change me by getting me to lose weight without attempting to understand me. Dad may have been absent a lot but he was still the most solid and trustworthy man in my life and the only one I could rely on to show me unconditional love; so when Mom confessed everything to me I was so angry with Dad for no longer being—”
“Perfect?” Danielle suggested and Sloane nodded.
“But you’re right,” Sloane said. “I let Mom get off scot-free, but when I get back home I’ll be sure to change that.”
After another few moments of silence Sloane said, “I’m hoping we can become friends, Danielle.”
To this Danielle shrugged. She wasn’t sure yet what kind of future relationship she would have with Sloane. On the one hand, the woman seemed nice enough; on the other hand, they didn’t really have all that much in common (excepting of course a father) and it was kind of embarrassing to be seen with her. Danielle Edwards didn’t require potential friends to be young, pretty, couture-savvy or even thin but she did require them to be presentable, to show some pride in their appearances no matter where they shopped or how much or how little they spent on their clothes. But about the only places Sloane was presentable in, Danielle felt, were monster truck rallies, rummage sales and anywhere in Tennessee.
“Who knows?” she finally replied. “I can’t promise anything, not right now, but maybe the next time I’m in New York I can manage to swing by Pennsylvania and say hello. Maybe.”
“Will you bring Mr. Bland?”
Danielle started laughing and then led her half sister back into the house.
“There’s a lot you need to learn about Max,” Danielle was saying. “We’ll start with his views on the Amish.”
Chapter 28
The next day was Tuesday, the day the special illustrated edition of The Remarkable Reign of Pope Anne I was released. Max wasn’t due to start signing until three that afternoon, but at six a.m. the line outside Truman’s Books in SoHo began forming. By eight it had circled the block and by noon had doubled back on itself. Most of the individuals in line were women and because the book in question was Pope Anne a sizable percentage of them were gay as evidenced by the amount of women holding hands or cuddling together against the chill; but Max always attracted a large number of straight women to his public appearances, as well: he was good-looking; always well-dressed; still somewhat young; funny; rich and known for being very charming during a meet-and-greet session such as a book signing. Plus, the particulars of his personal life were so out of the ordinary that they made him seem that much more exciting, and, apparently, that much more available. After all, more than a few women reasoned, if his wife could keep a lover then why couldn’t he? So invariably during an event like this many ladies would pass the novelist scraps of paper with their phone numbers on them, or notes that they had written inviting him to experience all sorts of delights.
Truman’s Books didn’t seem to be the type of place that would be picked to host the only London signing of this edition of Pope Anne. It was a small independent five year-old bookstore next to Bar Italia run by two sisters in their thirties who had always dreamed of owning a bookstore and so emptied their bank accounts to do so. It was also one of Max’s favorite places in London, he having come across it after one of his bi-weekly lunches with Katie.
The fact is, Max hated the chain bookstores; he even refused to shop in them. Every chain bookstore, in Max’s opinion, not only looked stultifyingly the same but were all staffed with idiotic morons who couldn’t tell a customer who wrote The Three Musketeers without looking it up on their computers. But the independent bookstore
s had personality, quirkiness, atmosphere, owners who knew their customers and who had actually read the books that they sell. But what Max liked best about these establishments was that the proprietors were smart enough to leave him alone to browse their shelves in peace. The last time he had walked into a Borders Books, two years ago in New York, a teenaged shelf stocker had recognized him, informed the manager and Max was then beseeched to autograph the copies of his novels the store had in stock.
It was a huge faux pas. For Max, shopping for books was a religious experience and to be bothered while doing it by opportunistic store personnel was a sin. From that point on Max snubbed the chain stores and always instructed his agent, Melanie, to plan his book tours around independent sellers, much to the chagrin of the chains which would have like nothing better than to retaliate by not selling his novels but which also knew that that would be a stupid idea financially: despite the rather recent e-book revolution, new Max Bland hardcover novels still sold out within hours and generated foot traffic into stores for months.
So, when he and Melanie were discussing venues for this particular signing Max chose the cozy confines of Truman’s. And when Tracy and Trudy Truman saw how long the line was getting on that day and realized just how much this one Tuesday was going to help them in their fight against the chain stores Tracy, the prettier of the two, turned to Trudy and said, “I want to have Max Bland’s children.” She then asked her sister if she had time to rush home and change into a more revealing top.
***
Starting at about two-thirty that afternoon every time a posh car turned the corner onto Frith Street those in line would stop talking and watch its approach expecting that it would stop in front of Truman’s and Max Bland would get out. But Max had no intention of pulling up to the curb in a posh car and making a grand entrance into Truman’s; he hated such spectacles. So while those in line scrutinized every Mercedes, BMW, Bentley or Jaguar driving down Frith Street, Max, at ten minutes to three, knocked on the back door of the bookstore. He and the three men with him had walked to the store from several blocks away, blending in easily with the busy Tuesday morning crowds.
“Ladies,” Max said in greeting as he and his companions stepped inside the stockroom from the alley behind the store. It was actually a bit of a tight squeeze because the room was crammed now with many, many large boxes bearing the logo of Sullivan Publishing, Max’s publishers in New York. He shook the hands of both sisters and then thanked them for hosting this event.
“You’re thanking us?” Trudy asked. “My sister told me earlier she wants to have your children.”
Tracy smiled prettily and said, “I wasn’t being facetious, just so you know.”
“Sorry,” Max said with his own smile, “I had a vasectomy four years ago. Now, let’s go over a bunch of stuff because I know you’re anxious to get started.” He jerked a thumb behind him to where the three burly men who had entered with him were standing. “These guys are my security detail,” he explained. “They’ll be keeping an eye on things, is all. That’s Nigel, this one’s Benny and that’s Nails.”
“I’m sorry…Nails?” Trudy asked staring up at the gargantuan bloke with no eyebrows.
The novelist shrugged.
“He likes to be called Nails, and I happen to think he’s large enough to be called whatever he wants. Now, do you have everything set up?”
He was assured everything was waiting and then Tracy boldly took Max by the hand and led him into the store proper where a table draped in black cloth dominated the room. On it awaiting Max was a box of new Sharpies, a pitcher of room temperature water and a bowl of mints.
“Excellent,” Max said, nodding. “What time do you close today?”
“We close at nine on Tuesdays,” Trudy said.
“Okay, now, I know my agent went over this with you but I want to reiterate it: I have a very firm rule when I do a book signing, and that is that everyone who is on line when it’s closing time still gets to come in and see me, got it?”
The sisters nodded.
“At nine o’clock one of my guys will go out and position himself at the back of the line; he won’t let anyone else get on line behind him but everyone who’s in front of him gets in to see me, okay? Even if that means we have to stay open a couple of hours later.”
“We’re ready for it,” Tracy assured him. “Our parents and brother are even going to show up later to give us a hand.”
“Good, cuz it’s probably gonna be a long night. Also, some people I know will most likely be stopping by—I wish they wouldn’t but I can’t seem to stop them; my guys know who they are and will just let them walk in past everybody else and they’ll probably hang out with me behind the table for a while. Is everything clear?”
The proprietors nodded; Tracy even winked at him.
“You ladies ready to sell some books, then? Excellent; let’s get started.”
***
Two hours into the signing Danielle and Katie arrived together after having both left work early and rendezvousing at Katie’s office, which was nearby. Nails, who had taken up position at the door, saw the ladies approach and waved them right in; and that moment, that moment when one of Max’s goons allowed her to bypass everyone else and freely approach the author was Katie’s favorite moment at every signing she showed up for. Several years ago Katie herself had once waited in an incredibly long line in Manhattan to have Max sign her copy of Pope Anne soon after it came out. This was back when she lived in a tiny sublet in New York, long before she met Danielle; back when she never imagined she’d one day live under the same roof as the man who wrote that amazing book which by the time he autographed a copy of it for her she had already read twice. So now, having the privilege to just walk into any bookstore and feel the envious stares of those in line as she and Danielle gained admittance behind the table, was fantastic.
“Wow, this is quite a turn-out, Max,” Katie said bending down to kiss his forehead after Danielle had done the same. Wordlessly, Trudy brought over two folding chairs for the newcomers to sit on while Max handed the book he had just signed to the current customer and said, “There you go, Lynn. Thanks for coming. Cheers.” He looked over at Katie as he opened another volume to the title page. “Yeah, I suppose I’ll be busy here awhile.” He picked up two copies of this new edition of Pope Anne that he had placed to one side of the table; he had inscribed them earlier for the two women in his life. “These are for you,” he said, handing one to Danielle, the other to Katie. Hi, what’s your name?”
“Ashley, Mr. Bland,” the forty-ish woman with highlights replied, stealing a glance at Danielle who now had her hand on Max’s shoulder possessively.
“Well, Ashley, thanks for coming. Are you American?”
“I am. I’m from Tennessee.”
“Live here?”
“Yes, uh-huh.”
“A fellow ex-pat, huh? Did you also run away from George Bush’s America?”
Those nearby who heard this joke laughed, some even clapped. Max handed Ashley’s book to her and thanked her again for coming.
“This is so sweet, Max,” Katie said after reading the inscription in her volume. He had written: “To Katie…you are proof that angels exist; never waver in your attempts to make the world a better place.”
In Danielle’s copy he inscribed: “I love you more than my next breath.” When Danielle looked up from reading that she gave him the kind of secret, intimate smile only a soul mate could give.
“So how many have you gotten so far?” Danielle queried.
“About a dozen or so,” Max answered. “They’re in the box near your feet.”
He and Danielle were referring to the notes and such that some of the women had handed to the writer when it came their turn at the table. During a signing Max always collected them in a bag or box to bring home to Danielle; she got a kick out of reading them, laughing at how audacious some of them were and then afterwards she burned them. Now while Max signed a few more copies she a
nd Katie read some of the notes and started giggling. Eventually, Danielle asked, “Have Mom and Sloane shown up yet?”
“No.”
“That’s odd,” Danielle considered. “I thought for sure she would have arrived by now. I wonder where she is.”
Checking his watch Max said, “Clerkenwell. Hi, how are you?”
“I’m fine, thanks, Mr. Bland,” a rather mousy-looking young lady said. “I love your books.”
“That’s nice of you to say. Your name?”
“Vanessa.”
“You know, I had the biggest crush on a Vanessa back in the sixth grade. She wouldn’t give me the time of day, though.”
“I bet she would now,” Vanessa replied.
“I doubt it; I think I was cuter back when I was eleven. Thanks for coming.”
“Max?” Danielle said before the next fan approached. “Why did you say Mom was in Clerkenwell?”
“Because that’s where I told her the signing was. Hi, I’m Max, what’s your name?”
After he had sent that customer off Danielle leaned in again.
“Max, you’re kidding, right?”
“No.”
“You’re not?”
“No. Your mom and Sloane are in Clerkenwell roaming the streets looking for Buford’s Book-o-Rama.”
“Excuse us just one moment,” Danielle said to the redhead now at the table. “I’ve never heard of Buford’s Book-o-Rama,” she whispered to her husband.
“That’s because it doesn’t exist,” he whispered back.
“Uh-oh,” Katie murmured while suppressing a laugh.
“Max!” Now Danielle was whispering through clenched teeth. “Why the hell did you send my mother to Clerkenwell looking for a bookstore that doesn’t exist?”
“A couple of reasons, actually. Number one, it’s funny; number two, she annoyed me this morning.”
“How?”
“Two ways; one, by still being here in England; two, and most distressingly, by walking around the house in the nude and then asking me to help her pick out wedding invitations from this impossibly large sample book.”
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