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I take that back. Of course I know why I assumed: because he is Ms. Pennington’s son. Only son. And for her, taking on commercial fiction would be like being a Montague and jumping the fence to hang out with the Capulets. And look how well that turned out for Romeo.
Truly, I’d be afraid to sit in on the Penningtons’ Thanksgiving dinners.
Oswald’s signing comes up shortly afterward, and with it a lot of heavy lifting on my part—serving both as the bodyguard ensuring people keep a solid two feet from the anthropophobic man and as a sort of translator between his readers with their fandom-speak and Oswald with his mumbling. The intensity of the next two hours saves me from any more conversation with my boss, and by the time I am giving well wishes to the last stragglers in line, William is nowhere to be seen.
“Nice job,” Lyla says, patting down my hair. “You’d think five hundred copies would be enough for this lot.”
“Then you’ve underestimated the power of properly treated hydrangeas,” I reply. I turn my face toward the podium. “Isn’t that right, Oswald?” I frown. “Oswald?”
Oswald is staring bleakly out at the crowd, as if he’s resigned to his life sentence in the chair. “Okey dokey. C’mon.” I move away from Lyla and take him by the hand. I give it a soothing pat and then reach my arm out behind me. “You did so well today. Didn’t he, Lyla?”
Lyla gives a generous nod and promptly slides my purse up my arm.
“Let’s get you to the hotel.”
And with one arm holding lightly to the elbow of his sleeve, I wind through the crowd, guiding Oswald toward the double doors. Once we’re back into the convention hallway with its expansive ceiling, I let go. There are only a few people shuffling about now, most having gone down to the exhibit hall or to the conference rooms to listen to the speakers. Oswald, for his part, is perking up like a water-deprived flower. He’s doing so well, in fact, that I’m about to ask him if he’d like to sit down for one last cup of coffee at the onsite coffee shop when a familiar patch of brown hair with several strands of glinting gray catches my attention. The same small, petite frame. The same short, blocky blue heels.
In that moment, time freezes.
I can’t decide whether I want to grab Oswald by the arm and drag him into the coffee shop or leave him then and there and make a mad dash for her. Or run away myself, for that matter. Maybe I don’t want to face her at all.
But before I can thoroughly think it through, I realize my body has made the decision for me, because it’s taken up Oswald’s elbow once again and is now all but rushing for the door. Claire Donovan has her back to us. She is the last in a small line waiting to place an order. If I hurry, my body—and my mind, as it’s slowly realizing—knows I just might make it to her before she slips away.
“Off we go,” I trill, speeding us up even more as we hurry down the stairs for the double doors. “As I was saying, Oswald, it was so good to see you. You were fabulous today.” I push open the doors, and a gust of wind bites at our eyes. “Please thank your wife for letting us steal you away.”
“My coat,” Oswald says, struggling to take it off his arm to put it on.
“What’s the use when you’re about to get inside this cozy taxi?” I say, already raising my arm and waving at a slowing cab coming toward the curb. As it halts, I pull open the door, then stretch my arms out wide with a large smile. “It was so good to see you.”
Dumbly, he receives my hug. “But we were going to talk over the sales channel report . . .”
“That? Let’s not worry about that today. Not on the heels of such a triumphant signing. I’ll be sure to email you all about it Monday.”
His puzzled expression is somewhat adorable, like a puppy staring at his own tail, dumbfounded as to why it keeps following him around. But as I pat the top of the open door invitingly, he blinks and follows my orders.
“Have a good flight!” I call as I shut the door. I force myself to stay planted and wave while the taxi rumbles off, counting to five with a smile pasted on my face, then turn and race back up the stairs.
My heels clap loudly on the marble floors of the empty hall. I’m a terrible host. I gave a terribly rushed parting. But if there was anyone I could shove off like that who’d respond with a five-star review, it’s him.
And this? This matters.
When I’m close enough, I scan the line at the register. The line has moved on to new faces, and for one dark moment I think Claire has gone.
Then, over by the sugar station, I spot her.
She’s opening a packet of honey and pouring it into her cup, a slight frown on her face as she takes a wooden stick and begins to stir.
My pace slows. Why is she frowning?
This must be a bad time.
This is a bad time. She’s no doubt on her way to some grand and serious lecture, somewhere only fitting for the literary elites of the biggest houses. Like a VIP room. Yes, a VIP room that nobody else knows about, where only the biggest professionals in the business gather under soft lighting and discuss the future of the industry. A circle of plush red couches. Sconces glowing. Waiters serving them food on silver trays because they are too busy determining the future of culture and literature everywhere to deal with the hassle of deciding where to dine—
And then, as if she feels eyes upon her, Claire turns and looks me directly in the eye.
She blinks, and then her eyes crinkle in recognition. Her frown dissolves as she tents up a smile and starts walking toward me.
This is it. I’m bound now.
