“What?” she asked, confused.
“I just wanted to make sure you’re okay after your boyfriend stormed in like that.”
“He’s not my boyfriend anymore.”Lulu could hear Daniel smile through the phone.
“It took a decade to win over my now mother-in-law. Grandchildren help with that,” Lulu said. “Thank you, Madeline. I never got to reach out to tell you that. Thank you for leading me to the greatest man I’ve ever known.”
“I can’t take credit for your marriage. The story I wrote, it led you to Alphonse. Everything that came after, any joy, that was your doing.”
“Maybe so. I don’t think it’s quite so neat as that. Your story changed my life. It awakened something in me. I can’t even explain it. I felt my insides reforming, taking new shape. It wasn’t that you brought me to Alphonse or Daniel. You brought me to myself.”
“Still,” Madeline insisted, “you should not have had to endure that kind of jealousy.”
“That hardly makes it your fault. Oh, Madeline, don’t take my story as a sign of failure. It was a success. I’m a success. I will not let you see me as anything else.”
Alice could tell from the way Madeline would not meet Lulu’s eyes that she did not agree. Madeline forced a smile and told her old client, “I’m glad you’re happy.”
When Alice and Madeline settled into Alice’s old car, Alice began speaking before Madeline had a chance to control the conversation. “Okay, before you say anything, that’s not a failed story. Lulu said so herself. She credits you for the good in her life.”
“You heard what you wanted to in her story,” Madeline said, watching Lulu’s Cakes through the passenger window.
“I heard what she said. Verbatim. Your story brought her to herself. Maybe that wasn’t your intention, but it was still a positive outcome.” Alice reversed out of the parking spot and headed the short distance back to the highway.
“I’m glad she’s happy. But the truth is, my story caused her harm. Temporary harm is still lasting.”
Alice knew better that to argue when Madeline was like this. The old woman had an intractable streak. Once her mind was set, nothing Alice said could sway it. She wondered if there was any chance of winning their wager, any amount of evidence that might convince Madeline her stories netted positive results, even when the magic faded. So far they’d seen three different outcomes: a lasting romance, a relationship that ended but that enriched life, and one that while filled with stifling jealousy guided a woman toward her husband. In the end these were all happy stories. It gave Alice hope for her stories, that even if her stories did not work according to plan, she should continue writing. For her part, Madeline refused to see it that way. Their wager was not a fair fight. Madeline was not open to being wrong. Well, Alice wasn’t either. She would continue to prove to Madeline her worth until Madeline was forced to believe in it too.
23
The Complications of Love
There were two bookbinders in town, which made Alice’s choice of someone else to bind her books easy. As soon as she met Howard, she realized she should have gone to Santa Barbara Bookbinders from the start. She’d been fooled by Willow Bindery’s sleekness. Fooled by Duncan too.
Howard was a septuagenarian, happily married for a half century to Greta, who worked the register, keeping him company as he bound and repaired books. In the one-room storefront, the presses and paper cutters were out in the open, which made Alice realize just how secretive Duncan was. The only books on display were samples and current projects, no stationery or whimsical wrapping paper. Just a thin layer of dust on the floor and the thick smell of glue permeating the shop.
Alice could sense Howard and Greta’s love the moment she walked in, even though they sat silently on opposite sides of the bindery. Greta sang old folk songs and knitted while Howard worked on his books. In the front window, a table displayed hats and scarves she had made. Alice was so rarely around old love. All her stories were new, still becoming.
Howard special ordered red leather to match the grain that Duncan used, applied the same gold leaf letters to the spine, the same font to the thick stock pages. Side by side on her shelf, the books were indistinguishable. Alice could not tell which had been bound by Duncan and which by Howard. Every time she saw them commingling, she had to shake off her sadness. It surprised her, how quickly her anger had shifted to loss.
After Coco’s wedding, Duncan had left a series of messages on Alice’s voicemail. His texts piled up. They all said the same thing. He was sorry. More than sorry. Remorseful. It had been unintentional. Still, he should have told her as soon as he read that very first book, which to her horror Alice realized was 127 pages of DUNCAN, I LOVE YOU. His voicemails continued. He hadn’t meant for it to become a secret. He was truly, deeply sorry. He valued their connection. Could she please call him back?
She deleted his voicemails and texts, got as far as typing,Please leave me alone, then at the last minute erased her text without sending it. After two weeks of steady pleas, his messages stopped arriving. When she realized that she was still checking her phone for them, disappointed each time by his silence, she deleted his number, thinking with a hefty mix of regret and relief that this was the end.
A week after his calls stopped, Alice was sitting at her desk working on a story when someone knocked on her door. It was such an uncommon occurrence that she figured it was a volunteer collecting signatures for a local petition, a college student asking for donations to Greenpeace. Alice opened the door, prepared to politely refuse the stranger on the other side until she saw that it was Duncan.
He wove his hands behind his back as he sheepishly stared at the floor under Alice’s bare feet. She hugged her body, acutely aware of her exposed legs, her flimsy cotton shorts, her father’s ragged sweatshirt, her lopsided ponytail.
“What are you doing here?” she said, wishing the words had come out as a bark, disorienting him, making him cower.
Instead he looked up at her hopefully, holding out three red books. “You never came to get them, so I figured I’d drop them off.”
“And you didn’t think to pop them in the mail. Or just leave them on the doorstep without bothering me?”
“Alice—” He took a tentative step toward her, and she reflexively held her breath. He continued to hold out the books, but Alice refused to take them. Part of her wanted to slam the door in his face, another wanted to hear everything he had to say to her.
“I’m sorry about the bridesmaid.”
Alice was about to tell him he didn’t owe her a thing, that he could kiss whomever he liked. He didn’t give her time to speak, time to lie.
