Especially after I spent the morning before our flight runningdamage control on all fronts. Given that we’re no longer the scandal-du-jour, I sent Nadia a screenshot of my squeaky-clean mentions with the texttime to re-up?She replied with a thumbs-up and a promise to get in touch as soon as she had anything to share.
Next I sent an email to the marketing VP at Woodsworth. I know Ryan didn’t want to put me in the position of having to explain myself to his boss, but I’ve never been one to sit idly by. So I detailed in writing that Ryan did nothing untoward at all. He was a perfect, professional gentleman, and I the architect of his demise, so please don’t make him pay for my bad behavior. Whether it will save his hide is yet to be seen, but here’s hoping it makes a difference.
The bookstore staff greet us warmly, stow our bags behind the counter, and lead us to the event area, which is all decked out with creative displays of the book on breakout tables. There’s about an hour till showtime, and the first order of business is to sign some of the store’s stock. I set to work while Shanthi and Maral do lighting tests and Ryan confirms the run of show with the manager. It’s a reading followed by an onstage interview with a bookstore rep who’s apparently a big fan.
The room is beginning to fill with attendees when my mom arrives, the sight of her filling my heart with competing emotions—nostalgia, trepidation, profound love. She looks adorable but out of place in the crowd of young, hip urbanites. I can tell she’s made an effort—she’s wearing her houndstooth jacket and low navy heels, and she’s styled her dark bob. When I greet her with a hug and a double-kiss, the scent of her hairspray catapults me back in time. It’s been so long since I’ve seen Mom put thought into her appearance—since Dad was alive. Her depression was too dark, too all-consuming in the year that followed his passing for something as inconsequential as her looks to even occur to her. Understandably. And then I was gone, fleeing to New York and notbearing daily witness to her gradual ascent out of the darkest part of her grief.
My visits in the intervening years have been spent at the house, where there was no need to doll up. But now, given the opportunity, here she is—a picture of who she was prior to the version of her in my rearview mirror. Close, anyway. The picture is slightly weathered, a filter applied that dulls its original colors.
“It’s so busy in here, Anahid jan,” she says in Armenian as people continue streaming in through the doors, squeezing past to get to the rows of chairs. “Maybe you should have planned this at a different store?”
“All these people are here to see me, Mayrik,” I say.
Her eyes widen with surprise. “To buy your book?” She waves at the displays lining the perimeter of the event area, my face smiling back at us three hundred–fold.
“That, and to hear me speak,” I say quickly, as though it’s insignificant. “How are you? How was the drive here?”
She shrugs, heaving a sigh. “Too much traffic in the evenings.”
I nod, sympathetic. “Rush hour. By the time we leave it will have cleared. Thanks for making the trip to be here.”
“It would have been nice to see you alone for a little while before”—she gestures vaguely to the crowd in distaste—“this.”
“You’re right,” I say. “The timing was tough, with the flight and the event. I could have planned it better.” I don’t know why I say this—I didn’t do any of the planning myself. “But we’ll have all day together tomorrow.”
Her brows meet in the middle of her forehead. “Just tomorrow? Aren’t you staying longer?”
Breathe. Just breathe.“No, remember, we have to get the train to New York Monday morning.”
“When will you be back?”
“Soon,” I promise, unwilling to commit to returning anytime in the near future.
She smiles, reaching up to cup my cheek. “I just miss you so much, janikus.”
I swallow thickly, my eyes burning. “I miss you too.”
Maral joins us, giving my mom kisses and getting an earful about the store being too crowded when an attendee accidentally bumps her handbag as they pass by.
“What’s this Sosi said about moving to Los Angeles?” Mom asks suddenly. I bet my horkoor called her as soon as we left Maral’s parents’ house last night. Seeing Maral must have jogged her memory.
Mar shoots me a censuring look, unimpressed. “We are considering possibilities,” she says vaguely, then pats my back a little too roughly. “Ana can tell you all about it later.”
Mercifully, Ryan appears at my side then. “This must be Mrs. Movilian,” he says.
My mother takes his proffered hand as I complete the introduction. “Mom, this is Ryan Grant. He’s the publicist who’s been helping with the tour.”
He gives me a funny look, like he’s waiting for me to say something more. What, I’m not sure. Does he expect me to tell my mother that he’s also made her only child orgasm to within an inch of her life?
Maral pipes up. “He planned this whole event,” she adds. Never mind that Meredith actually did the planning—giving Ryan the glory right now serves the greater good.
Mom waggles her head. “Maybe a bigger place next time,” she suggests, switching to English.
So much for glory. The store is quite large, not to mention lovely, with lofty ceilings and a dedicated event space that fits enough chairs to accommodate the attendees we were able to pull. But stating facts won’t change her mind.
To his credit, Ryan still offers her a smile that would soften butter straight out of the fridge. “With the number of tickets Ana’s able to sell, we’d have to book a stadium in every city.”
She doesn’t seem to register his compliment. “Why aren’t any of your friends here?” she asks me.
