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Chapter Ten
“This is crazy,”I could hear Tracy say as she stretched her neck to see how many people stood ahead of us in line. Ten years might have passed, but the evening I met Harrison remained fresh in my mind, one of those memories you never tire of reliving, one of those stories you never tire of repeating. “There must be a hundred people, and he’s taking forever. I mean, what’s he doing? How long does it take to sign your name?”
I shrugged, not bothering to remind her that it was her fault we were at the very back of the line, that if she hadn’t taken so long primping and gathering up her things, we might have gotten closer to the front. The truth was that I was determined to wait as long as necessary, even if it meant standing there all night. I was wearing my favorite pink silk shirt, and I’d even had my hair and makeup professionally done at Holt’s.
“What are you all dolled up for?” Tracy asked when she saw me. “You really think he’s going to notice you?” She tossed her long blond hair from one shoulder to the other, as if issuing a silent challenge.
“Oh, my God. I don’t believe this!” she cried now. “He’s letting people take pictures! We’re going to be here forever.”
“You don’t have to stay,” I said.
“Yeah, right. I didn’t buy the book so I could leave without an autograph.”
“Then stop complaining.”
“I wasn’t even that crazy about it. I mean, he takes ten pages to describe how to use a washing machine. I can read a manual, for God’s sake.”
“It’s a metaphor.”
“Oh, please. Whatever happened to plot?”
“There’s a plot.”
“Which he takes forever to get to.” She transferred her weight from one foot to the other. “Sort of like this line.”
“You don’t have to stay,” I repeated, actively wishing Tracy would leave. I’d been eagerly anticipating this night for weeks, ever since I’d seen the ad in the paper announcing that new literary sensation, Toronto’s own Harrison Bishop, would be speaking and signing books at Indigo, and I didn’t want the experience ruined. I’d readComes the Dreamerthree times, and had a long list of what I hoped were intelligent questions that I wanted to ask its author. But most of those questions had already been asked and answered by the time the moderator saw my hand, and since the evening had already gone way over schedule, I only muttered something about how grateful I was to him for sharing his talent with us.
“God, that was so lame,” my sister said as I resumed my seat.
Lining up for autographs, we were instructed to write the correct spelling of our names on a small piece of paper, so that Mr. Bishop wouldn’t have to waste time asking, and to try to be patient, that he wouldn’t leave until each and every book had been signed and personalized.
“I don’t want my book personalized,” Tracy said as I was debating whether to dot theiin Jodi with a heart. “I read somewhere that books are more valuable with just an autograph and a date. The minute you personalize them, they aren’t worth as much when you go to sell them.”
“I’m never selling mine,” I said, adding the heart, and then,on impulse, my phone number.What the hell?I reasoned.What do I have to lose?
It was almost an hour later when we finally reached the front of the line.
Harrison was seated at a long wooden table, looking as handsome and artfully disheveled as the photograph on the back of his book promised, strands of dark hair tumbling toward his deep blue eyes. Beside him sat a dewy-eyed and obviously smitten representative from the publishing house, the manager of the store standing a discreet distance behind.
“Just your autograph,” my sister announced as we approached, pushing her copy of the book toward him. “And a picture,” she added suddenly, thrusting her cellphone into my hands as she scurried around the table to scoot down beside him. She threw one arm across his shoulders as she produced her most radiant smile. “One more,” she directed. “Just to make sure.”
I dutifully snapped another three pictures, fighting the urge to throw the phone at her head.
“I just love the way you write,” she told Harrison as he was handing the book back.
“Thank you,” he said, smiling in my direction.
“I’ll take that,” she said, grabbing her phone from my hands as I pushed my name and number across the table toward him. If I thought that Tracy intended to take a picture of me with Harrison, I was quickly disabused of that notion. Instead, I watched her scoot off to one side to check on the photographs I’d just taken.
“Friend of yours?” Harrison asked.
“Sister.”
He nodded. “Ah,” he said, as if he understood.
“You have a sister?” I ventured.
“Nope. Only child.”
