Chapter 18

Thanks to the two cycling classes the night before, I was now bleeding ideas for Love on Stone Street. I was anxious to settle on a scenario, but it would have to wait another day. Today, I was a participating author at an event at Stony Brook University.

An arm wrapped itself around my waist, causing my toes to lift off the ground. I glanced up from the stack of autographed copies of A Blogger’s Life on the wood table in front of me and into the smiling green eyes of Bridget’s mother.

“I didn’t mean to startle you, Kim. Can I get you anything? A cup of coffee? A cookie? A stash of textbooks to take home? Educational books aren’t your usual genre, but you know what they say about beggars choosing.” Mrs. Donahue’s wavy red hair, the same color as Bridget’s, only tinged with white at the hairline, bounced as she laughed at her own joke.

I chuckled. “You’ve already done so much, Linda.” I did a sweep of the room. “I can’t thank you enough for getting me a spot at this event.” A tenured professor at the university, Linda used her connections to get me a booth at the book fair sponsored by the school’s MFA program. I’d give out swag, like bookmarks and keychains, and hopefully sell some books.

Linda waved me away. “As far as I’m concerned, the school should be thanking me for getting a top-tier author like you. And I have bragging rights, considering you lived in my house fifty percent of the time growing up.” The apples of her fair cheeks glowed with pride.

I fought the blush creeping up my neck. “You’re not biased or anything.”

“Maybe this much,” Linda said, indicating a small amount with her thumb and index finger. “Doors open in five. You ready?”

When I nodded my answer, Linda excused herself to work the room. Almost every booth besides mine displayed some sort of Stony Brook memorabilia, whether a red and blue banner or flag, and some of the other exhibitors wore college sweatshirts. I wondered if I was the only one who didn’t attend the school.

I felt the breath from Bridget’s sigh behind me and turned away from the library entrance, where people were now entering.

She rubbed her belly. “Could the bathroom be any farther away from your table? I think I have to pee again already.” Frowning, she said, “I always thought pregnant women exaggerated this particular side effect.” As if remembering why we were in a college library eight years after obtaining our own degrees, her eyes lit up. “It’s time!” She bumped her shoulder against mine. “You excited?”

My heartbeat drummed in my chest as adrenaline soared through my bloodstream. I didn’t think I’d ever get used to being on the author side of a writerly event. I hoped not. My excitement battled nerves at the reminder of my last event at the Brooklyn Book Festival, which didn’t quite live up to my expectations. I brushed the negative thoughts to the side. I’d promised myself this would be a stress-free day, which meant no thinking about Love on Stone Street and no daytime nightmares of wearing jeans and a t-shirt to my wedding. Although the clock was ticking, I had zero desire to make yet another unsuccessful attempt to find a dress. Anyhow, this event had been planned months ago and I intended to be fully present both in body and spirit. I’d taken the day off from work and, with Bridget along for moral support, rode the Long Island Railroad to Port Jefferson, where the campus was only a short cab ride away.

I whispered, “What do you think?” out of the side of my mouth before grinning at two young college-age girls who approached my table. I held my breath as one picked up a copy of A Blogger’s Life and read the back cover. Was I supposed to say something? I didn’t want to be pushy.

The girl returned the book to the pile, smiled politely, and the two continued on their way.

“Maybe they were underwhelmed by my author photo.”

“You can’t win ’em all,” Bridget said.

Another attendee made her approach, and determined to engage this one, I said, “Do you like romantic comedy?”

“If it’s a book, I like it.” She swept her long raven bangs off her face to reveal dark blue eyes the color of blueberries.

I grinned at the kindred spirit before me. Leaning forward, I said, “A girl after my own heart.”

She laughed. “Did you get your MFA at Stony Brook?”

“Actually, no. My choice of dress color was totally coincidental.” I gestured at the short A-line red dress I wore over black tights with a pair of black suede booties.

She gave me a closed-lip smile. “Where did you study?”

“I went to Syracuse, but I didn’t pursue a writing career until much later.” I blanched at my own words, hoping I didn’t come across as ancient to the younger girl.

She raised a bushy eyebrow. “Isn’t Syracuse more known for short story and nonfiction writers?”

I bit my lip. “To be honest, I wouldn’t know. I went there for my undergrad in communications.”

The girl’s forehead wrinkled. “Where did you get your MFA?”

I shrugged. “I didn’t.”

She scrutinized me. “You’re not a trained writer?”

“Her schooling is real-world experience. She’s a published author with an agent and a two-book deal.”

I flinched at Bridget’s assertive loyalty which, as usual, bordered on aggressive. “My friend is right. I don’t have an MFA, but I do have a publishing deal.” I smiled, hoping to restore the light mood.

The girl cackled. “I wonder what genius chose to invite an untrained author to sign at an MFA-sponsored event.”

Bridget raised her chin and thrust out her chest. “That would be my mother.”

The girl gave Bridget the once-over before turning to me. “Good luck with your book,” she said before walking away.

Bridget stared open mouthed at the girl’s retreating back. “Jeez. Should we call Doctor Natalie to extract the girl’s head from up her ass?”

“It’s a tough crowd.” I laughed to disguise my feelings of disenchantment with the event so far.

“Don’t let her get to you.” She pulled me into a hug, squeezed, and released me with a sigh. “I have to pee again.” She glanced at her vintage watch. “I think my apartment might be closer to the bathroom in this place, but I’ll be back before sundown. I’m positive you’ll be flanked by gushing fans in no time and not even notice I’m gone.”

Chances were Bridget would be as popular at a psychic convention as I was at this open house. She could predict the future about as well as I could sell a book at this place. So far, no one had done more than glance at my table before passing it by in favor of one of the neighboring booths. My discreet spying disclosed the hosts of both were Stony Brook alumni and writers of poetry and mystery respectively.

My hopes lifted when one woman stopped at my table long enough to toss a decent number of bookmarks in the red and blue tote bag gifted to all registered attendees.

“These are so cute,” she said, her eyes twinkling as she attached a key chain to her own set of keys.

I bounced lightly in place. “Thank you so much. My friend Bridget designed all my swag. She’s in the bathroom, but I’ll pass along your compliments.” I pointed at my books. “Do you, um, like chick lit by any chance?”

“Not at all!” Her freckled face turned ashen and she fiddled with her shirt sleeves. “I didn’t mean for it to come out so harsh. I respect anyone who can write a novel. It’s certainly more than I’ve accomplished as of yet. But chick lit is a little too frivolous for my tastes.” She ran a hand through her long straight ash-brown hair.

My shoulders hunched. “I understand. It’s not for everyone.” I faked a smile.

The girl frowned, clearly seeing right through me. “I’m sorry.” She removed a book from the stack. “Scratch that. The world is full of sadness. I think a happy book is exactly what I need right now.” She removed her wallet from her purse. “How much is it?”

I opened my mouth to respond and clamped it shut. It was obvious the girl had no desire to read A Blogger’s Life. I couldn’t in good conscience accept a pity purchase. But I had to. I took a deep breath and let it out. “It’s fifteen dollars,” I said while my shaking hand autographed the inside. She handed me the cash and tucked the book into her bag before walking away. “I hope you like it!” I called after her.

“Atta girl, Kim!”

My cheeks tingled in shame as I turned around to face Bridget.

She shook her head at me in amusement. “A sale is a sale is a sale.”

Later, over an early dinner at a local diner, Linda tried to take full responsibility for my crash and burn. “I should have realized an MFA event would be populated by a bunch of book snobs.”

“Like you, Mom?” Bridget asked with a smirk.

Linda pointed a sweet potato fry at Bridget. “I can appreciate the merits of genre fiction. I have the entire Jason Bourne collection.” She turned to me. “And I thoroughly enjoyed A Blogger’s Life. You don’t need formal training when you have innate talent like you.” She took a bite of her veggie burger, swallowed, and wiped her mouth with a napkin. “You would have killed it at the general student fair. I’ll see if I can get you a table at the next one. If my grandchild is born by then, I might stay home and babysit while you support Kim.” She looked at Bridget hopefully. “Yes?”

Bridget grinned. “You can babysit your grandchild whenever you want, Mom.”

I smiled at the two of them. Bridget’s reluctance to tell Jonathan she was pregnant did not spill over to her parents. They were, as expected, thrilled with the news.

Linda turned to me. “It’s settled then. I’ll check the event calendar and get back to you.”

“Thank you, Linda.” I stabbed my fork into a pancake and dipped it into syrup. As I swallowed it down like a lump of coal, I sort of hoped Linda wouldn’t pull more favors for me. So far, I was zero for two for successful writing events. I didn’t like my odds for a third.