FOUR 

 

"I've never seen you in that shirt before."

Dominic's voice startled me. I didn't know I'd left my door open. How long had he been standing there watching me change?

It was a Saturday afternoon and I was headed into town to the local bookstore. One of my favorite authors was doing a book-signing for her latest release. I'd been eagerly awaiting this event the past three months, and when I got excited like this about something it usually meant at least five outfit changes to get the right look for the day.

"It's new," I said, dismissively. What the hell was he doing in my room anyway? He still thought he had a right to let himself in whenever he wanted.

"Can I see it from the front?"

"Why?"

"Because."

Oh, I knew what this was. High libido, none of his floozies around to satisfy his appetite, so he had to look to his wife as a last resort. His wife, who'd had to endure his nasty comments about her very slight weight gain and anything else he could use to make her feel worthless. I was by no means fat, and the few pounds I'd gained had been through stress eating, thanks to his cheating.

"I don't have time to entertain you, Dominic. I'm sure you can find someone else to do that for you."

"We're still married, you know. Sometimes I think you forget that." I heard the agitation in his voice.

"Me?" Now I had to look at him, unable to believe the audacity. "Talk about pot calling the kettle black."

"Oh enough about the women. Let go of the past. God, you sound like a broken record. And you wonder why I felt the need to look elsewhere."

Had he come in here to screw me or screw with me? Because these comments, they were causing more shock than anger in me. Maybe he was taking his opportunity to fight now that Chester was at a friend's for the day.

But I didn't have the time or energy to deal with his nonsense. I had a book-signing to get to.

"And with an attitude like that, you wonder why I'm never letting you near me again."

"Never's a long time, Dani. And you're not getting any younger."

All I could do was shake my head as I stepped past him and left the room. Obnoxious jerk. Once upon a time I'd mistaken that for mere confidence, and I'd found it sexy. Now I couldn't stand to be in the same house as him let alone the same room.

 

My intention had been to get to the store early, to be close to the beginning of the line. Once I'd parked my car and walked in, I took a look at the line and my heart sank. It was about thirty people strong. I had no idea the author was so popular. And no doubt there were still more to come.

I picked up a copy of the book and joined the end of the line. At least I could read while I waited.

Of the thirty or so people, I spotted only one man, and he looked to be accompanied by a woman – his girlfriend probably, who'd dragged him along. No surprise considering the material this author wrote about. Her latest novel, the reviews said, was as anti-men as they came, and not for the faint of heart. While I didn't hate men, my dislike for my husband put me in the right frame of mind to enjoy a book like that. I couldn't wait to read it. And to finally meet the woman behind the stories.

I peered up the line, which hadn't begun to move yet as the author hadn't arrived. About five places from the front, I spotted something that made my stomach lurch. The blonde hair of the woman with her back to me. I felt stupid seconds later. There were hundreds of millions of people with blonde hair in the world. Not everyone was Miss Petal.

I almost laughed out loud. Silly. I'd been seeing her everywhere, or should I say imagining her everywhere. Behind the counter at one of our local burger joints, in the bank, driving a taxi... It was stupid, obsessive.

And then the woman in front turned around. My heart leaped, felt like it would tear through my chest. This time, it was the real thing.

When her eyes landed on me, she beamed, waved energetically, then ushered me over. A chance to skip the line? Hell yeah I would take it.

The looks we received when I joined her weren't very nice, but I didn't care.

"I never thought I would see someone I know here. She's not a very well known writer in this town," I said. I still couldn't believe one of my crazy sightings had actually been true, and that I was now standing beside the real Miss Petal. It was like meeting royalty.

"Oh, I love her. Been a fan of her work since I was a teenager. Got me through some tough times."

I wanted to hear all about those tough times, but just then the famous woman made her entrance, sat behind her table and the signing commenced.

There'd been a whole talk scheduled, but it was canceled the night before due to the author's other commitments. So once Miss Petal and I had gotten our books signed, and exchanged a few words with the woman, we made our way to the door.

She laughed. "Well, that was a bit anticlimactic."

"Yeah," I answered nervously. Around her I forgot how to converse. She must have thought I was the dullest person in town.

"You've probably got stuff to do, but I'll ask anyway. Do you wanna go for a coffee? There's a place just across the street."

"Yes!"

I don't think the words had completely left her mouth before I jumped in. It was so cringeworthy.

But as always she smiled brightly at me, so serene and perfect. Like a work of art you couldn't bear to tear your eyes away from. It should have been a crime to look as good as she did.

"Great." We set off across the street. "I don't really know anyone in town. I guess that's what happens when you move to a new state on your own."

The shop was a cozy little place with plush, comfy armchairs and a log fire. We got our coffees and found a couple of empty seats by the window. Even before she sat down, the stares from the men passing the shop began. She ignored them all. The young, the old, the hotties, the average. All of them. I saw them but she didn't.

Her eyes were on me, gleaming with intrigue. Then she thrust her hand out at me. "I think now might be a good time to do this. I'm Ava."

I shook it. "Danielle."

Ava Petal. I couldn't think of a nicer sounding name. Or maybe it was only nice because it belonged to her. I really couldn't say.

"So, another L.V. Whiteside fan. There aren't many of us out there," I said after I'd taken a long drag on my coffee. I didn't even want it, but drank it because I was nervous.

"I don't know. The line was pretty big. I was expecting a much smaller turnout. She writes such controversial stuff."

My eyes automatically drifted to her lips as she sipped her drink, and they didn't avert until she looked up and caught me staring. I was simply terrible at this stealthy watching thing. But she only smiled. It must have happened to her all the time. The gawking, the objectifying. I wanted to be different, be the one that was cool around such beauty, but I was hopeless. I could see the two male baristas staring over in our direction. Definitely because of her, not me. In all my thirty-seven years no one had been impressed enough to stare like that at me.

"You mentioned that reading her books got you through some tough times," I said. One coffee wouldn't last very long, and I wanted to learn as much about her as possible. I had to act quickly.

"Oh, just my angsty teen years. I discovered her books at the right time, when I was discovering myself."

"Really? How so?"

She let out a nervous little laugh. "Well, I learned to accept the world and how I fit in it. When you're a teenager, it can get a little confusing, even dark. She was a light at the end of the tunnel."

How cryptic. It was obvious that she wanted to keep things vague. Only problem was, her vagueness made me even more curious. I hoped one day we wouldn't be strangers anymore, that we would become such good friends that she wouldn't think twice about confiding in me. I didn't normally meet people I wanted to befriend; but there was something special about Miss Petal – about Ava – that made me want to keep her in my life.

"Well, I'm glad you found her. Do you read a lot?"

"All the time," she said enthusiastically. "I think it's a dying hobby. Most people my age would prefer to surf the internet or whatever twenty-eight year olds do these days." She chuckled. "I sound like a seventy-year-old grandmother, don't I?"

"Not at all. I love reading, too. If you were stranded on a desert island and you only had one book, what would it be?"

I'd asked that question a dozen times, and every person bar one replied that they wouldn't want to be stuck on an island with any book. I knew she wouldn't answer that way, but nothing could have prepared me for her reply.

"It would have to be Fannie Flagg's Fried Green Tomatoes at the Whistlestop Cafe."

I just gawped at her as if she were from outer space.

"What? I know, it's not a classic, not War and Peace or the Bible, but it has everything: murder, love, you name it."

"I, I know that... It's been my answer ever since I discovered and read the book as a teenager." I probably sounded spooked out. Of all the books ever written, we'd chosen the same one. Were we separated at birth?

"Well, isn't that something! Great minds. But I guess you and I probably wouldn't work well stranded on a desert island with that book. We would be fighting over who gets to read it."

We laughed.

"Or one of us would have to read it to the other. Problem solved," she added.

She would be the one, since her voice was so melodic and gentle. I started imagining us on that island, around a fire, huddled close together, keeping warm. The image was beautiful for only a few seconds, until I realized that a grown woman fantasizing about that was weird.

We spent the next twenty minutes talking books, a subject most around us would have found boring, yet we spoke excitedly. I hadn't had this much fun in a long time.

Then she offered to buy me another coffee, and I found I couldn't say no. I had things to do at home, but this was more important. This was my duty as a mother, wasn't it? Convincing myself of that, that this was about Chester, allowed me to spend the afternoon in that cafe and not consider for even a minute the implications of my desire to be there with her.

"I think you have an admirer," I said. We'd been there for almost two hours and were on our third coffees. "Guy in the yellow coat. He's been looking over here since he came in."

She twisted around to see, and gave a look so brief I was certain she hadn't seen him. He smiled, but she was already turning back to me. "Not my type."

"Is it the jacket?"

"And everything else," she said quietly, sipping her drink.

"Sorry, I'm playing matchmaker again. I do this all the time."

"It's fine. I don't know what it is, people always want to set me up with guys they know."

Because you're gorgeous, and any guy who sees you will be eternally grateful for the match, I thought.

"It happens a lot?"

"More times than I'd like to admit. I mean, eventually they get the message, when they've known me long enough."

I got the feeling she was trying to say something, but I couldn't figure out what it was.

"Trust your own judgment, that's a good motto. Well, unless you're me..."

She stared at me, her expression unreadable. "What do you mean?"

What did I mean? That I'd been foolish eight years ago with Dominic, thinking I would be the one to tame his bad boy ways? Or that even back then I'd known it wouldn't last, but had gone against my own wisdom and stuck it out this long anyway, just because I didn't want to hear I-told-you-so from my family?

"Marriage is hard, don't ever let anyone tell you otherwise." I laughed to try to recapture the carefree mood, but as often happened when the subject of my marriage cropped up, I became slightly wistful.

She looked down at her cup for awhile, and I could tell she wanted to say something, that she was holding back.

"But you've met my husband. You already know that. They're not all as bad as he is." Another laugh, even though I meant every word.

"I've spoken to him a couple of times, yes," she said. "He was at Chester's soccer game the other week."

Why wasn't she looking at me anymore? Immediately my mind jumped to the only obvious explanation for it, for her odd behavior now that we were on the subject of my marriage: she'd slept with my husband. And was this some sick game of hers to find out how strong we were, if he would ever leave me for her? I'd read enough books, and seen enough films to know how this stuff worked. Was the coffee her way of apologizing?

"Did you speak long?" I asked casually.

"Not really. A few minutes here and there. He seems nice."

"Oh, he is...with women. He's a bit of a playboy. Turns on the charm with just about every pretty face he sees." If she thought she was special, that there hadn't already been many others before her, or that there wouldn't be any after her, she was in for a surprise.

Now she looked at me. "Why would he do a thing like that when he has such an amazing wife?"

She must have seen the shock in my eyes then, because she smiled. Okay, I was not expecting her to say that. If she had slept with my husband, this was a strange way of acting. And I knew I couldn't outright ask her.

"Flattering. But he doesn't think the way you do. Eight years together and six years of marriage makes you appreciate your partner less, I suppose."

She shook her head. "That's not how it works. If it's the right person, appreciation and true love last forever." She peered down at her cup again, then added, "At least that's what I've chosen to believe. And if your husband doesn't appreciate you then he's crazy. And undeserving..."

Whatever this woman was, I realized then that she wasn't sleeping with Dominic, and never would. I wanted to hug her for being immune to his charms. And for her compliments. She didn't know just how much her comments meant to me.

The silence must have become too awkward for her, because she peered up at the clock on the wall. "Would you look at the time. I totally lost track. I'm going to a book club meeting. It starts soon." She drained her cup and got to her feet.

"Oh, right. Of course. I've got a bunch of stuff to do at home before I collect Chester."

We put on our jackets.

"I had a great time," she said. "Thank you for indulging me in book-talk, my favorite topic. I'm still so new to town and I still don't know anyone, so it's nice to actually have someone here to talk to."

"You? I would have thought you wouldn't have any problems making friends." If she had difficulty, then what hope did the rest of us have?

"It's not easy for me. I'm shy, a bit of an introvert. With adults, but not with kids."

"You don't come off as shy to me." We walked to the door together.

She looked at me. "Well, not so much with you. You're a little different, Danielle. You make me feel at ease. We probably knew each other in another life." She laughed.

I just smiled. So she felt it too? That feeling of familiarity. That feeling didn't come around often, once or twice in a lifetime maybe. Some called it kindred spirits, but that was mostly in connection with lovers.

When we said our goodbyes, I didn't go straight home. I wandered the streets like a nomad, replaying the afternoon – from the meeting in the bookstore, and the way my heart leaped with excitement when she ushered me over, to our farewell hug. She'd instigated it. And I suspect, if she hadn't ended it herself, I would have kept my arms around her forever. She smelled delicious, felt wonderful.

Kindred spirits, huh? Well, it certainly felt that way.