I have to speak loudly to be heard over her amusement. “I take it you know him?”
She waves a hand. “Hardly. No one knows him. We were in school around the same time. He’s a few years older.”
“From what I could glean online, he’s kind of reclusive.”
“Reclusive is putting it mildly. The man hates other humans. He hardly leaves his house, ever. Peggy, she owns The Book Nook, has been hounding him for years to get him to do a signing, a reading, hell, a midnight appearance. It’s turned into almost a vendetta at this point.”
I frown. “Do you have any idea how I can get a signed copy from him? It has to be personalized.”
She rubs her chin. “You know, you could just show up at his house and ask him.”
“Do you think it would be that easy?”
She shrugs. “You’re famous. He’s famous. He might fall all over himself for you.”
I doubt it. No one in this town has reacted the way I expected. But it’s worth a shot.
Twenty minutes later, we’ve shut down the computer, told Jack we’ll return shortly, and I’m sliding into Daphne’s small white Toyota Corolla, which has to be at least ten years old.
“Can you drive in the snow in this?”
“They’ve plowed the main roads. I’m good. I grew up in this.”
I half expect her driving to match her personality, flashy, quick, and full of energy, but instead, she’s steady and competent, and we make it off Main Street and into a nearby neighborhood without any issues.
“Okay, here’s the plan.” She comes to a halt in front of a small cottage. “I’ll wait in the car, so we don’t spook him. You go up to the door and knock.”
I blink at her. “That’s it? Knock? Then what?”
“Then, when he comes to the door, you tell him who you are and ask him for a signed copy of his book. Easy peasy.”
“You said he hates other humans.”
She puts the car in park. “You’re not like other humans, you’re famous.”
“I’m not sure. Maybe you should come with me.”
“That definitely won’t help. He hates me.”
“Why does he hate you? You said you hardly know him.”
She wrinkles her nose. “I’m being hyperbolic, he doesn’t hate me, hate me, he just views me like one of the peons. Beneath him. He definitely won’t answer the door if he sees me on the stoop.”
I frown at her. There has to be more to the story. I shove the curiosity aside. We just met; it’s none of my business.
“I’ll wait for you. Good luck.”
“Thanks.”
I walk carefully toward the front door. The sidewalk has been shoveled, but I keep my eyes down to avoid icy patches. When I reach the porch, I stomp some of the snow off my feet and glance around. The house is charming.
I had imagined a crumbling Gothic mansion with iron gates, maybe a few strategically placed ravens or gargoyles. Something with lightning rods and an attic window that occasionally flickers with candlelight and shadowed figures. Or clowns.
Instead, this place looks like it wandered out of a fairy tale.
The exterior is warm red brick, the front partially covered by a wooden trellis that must explode with green leaves in the summer. Even bare in winter, the vines twist across the wood like delicate lace. Dark green shutters frame the windows, and a narrow stone path curves through the small front garden, now buried under a soft blanket of snow.
A pair of tall maples stand watch over the yard, their branches skeletal against the pale sky.
