“There are hundreds of books that are red, so I figured I’d look into those couples and see if they were still together. So far, all of the ones I’ve found are.”
Alice flipped to a page in the middle of the ledger, settling on a name. “Jane Janvey, for instance.”
Madeline’s eyes flitted toward the ceiling. “Everything about her was an alliteration. She wore blue blazers. Plaid pants. Neon-painted nails. A Wisconsin woman. A lustful lover. I could never tell if she did this intentionally or if she couldn’t help herself. Either way, it was genuine. I had to help her find someone who was genuine too, someone free of affectation.”
“Well, you must have,” Alice said, “because she and Philip Lipson are still together.”
Madeline smiled at the consonance of his name.
Alice read from the list of names, rattling off other clients’ that she’d located online. “They are all in lasting relationships. I know that doesn’t mean they’re happy or madly in love, but they’re still together and they’re still red.”
“A few red books are hardly representative.”
“Then let’s make them representative. We can find each of these couples, every book in your library.”
“And what will that accomplish?”
“You said you’re looking for forgiveness, right? Well, you assume that you’ve done something that requires you to be forgiven. I don’t think you have. I think revisiting the people you helped will show that.”
“And what about all those books that have turned, the ones that aren’t red?” Madeline insisted, obstinate as ever.
“That’s what we need to find out,” Alice argued. “The colors must mean something. We can go through them and figure out what each color means. Then we can see which stories failed and why. If we understand why they failed, maybe we can learn to write better stories. Stronger stories. Fail-proof.”
“You make it sound so easy.”
“It won’t be easy, but we can do it together.”
As Madeline continued to stare warily at Alice, something shifted in her posture. She sat up a little taller, looked a little more robust. “If I go along with this madness, if I help you, will you make me a promise? If we look through these books and see how much more sadness than happiness I’ve brought into the world, will you vow to stop writing your stories? If I prove to you that it’s a curse not a gift we cast upon people, can you give it up?”
“If it comes to that, then yes. I will stop writing. And what about you, will you make me a promise? If we realize that there’s still so much love in these stories, will you help me write one for you? Will you let yourself be loved again?”
“Oh, Alice.” Those two small words, flush with their infinite meanings. “I never wanted to find love again. I’m not worthy of it.”
“You are,” Alice said. “And I want to give it to you. I want to help you believe in love again.”
It felt a touch silly, but she held out her hand for Madeline to shake. The old woman paused a moment, then slipped her palm into Alice’s.
17
Same Time Next Week
It became their mantra. Their parting phrase. Their tradition. Also, their boundary. When Duncan motioned goodbye, voicing those familiar words, Alice heard a door shutting to remain closed until she returned to his shop the following week. She trained herself not to think about him during the time between, as though he only existed within the walls of Willow Bindery & Paper Goods. Since she’d never seen where he lived, never witnessed him interacting with cashiers at the supermarket, waiters at restaurants, bartenders, it was easy to imagine that he never did these things, that he was just a bookbinder. Easier anyway. The brain was a powerful muscle, one Alice couldn’t control as well as she hoped.
She found her mind drifting to Duncan at inopportune times. With clients. At her desk. When she was asking guests if they preferred red or white. By late July, Santa Barbara’s wedding season was in full swing. With Alice’s cutbacks to make time for her writing, she was exclusively working those events. Often she didn’t even realize her thoughts had wandered from the demands of these over-the-top receptions to Duncan until she stood a moment too long at a diner’s side with a bottle of each.
“I said white,” a man corrected as she began to fill his glass with red.
“I told you I don’t drink,” another snapped when he saw a full glass before him, as though she was intentionally taunting him.
As she sat across the table from a client who was delineating a very long and very unsuccessful dating life, she found herself visualizing Duncan’s strong, ink-stained fingers, wondering what they might feel like if they stroked her hair.
“Alice? Did you hear me?” her client asked.
“What?” Alice sprang back into the present. “Sorry. I just started to get an image for your story. Do you mind repeating yourself?” That was proving to be a good lie.
When she and her mother watched a movie they’d rented, Alice saw Duncan’s emerald eyes, during a close-up of green eyes on screen. This made her think of Duncan’s hair, the way its deep brown accentuated those eyes, which made her wonder what his hair would look like if it wasn’t fashioned in a ponytail, how it might change his face, which made her think of his mouth, his voice, the way he said his own name,Duncan, and the way he said hers,Alice, until the credits rolled and she had not registered anything else about the film.
Bobby clicked off the TV and looked over at her daughter, misty-eyed. “Wasn’t that wonderful?”
