His mind flinched at the thought and changed gears as he purposefully turned to the fact that she was apparently the inspiration for a popular novelist’s juicy new book. He tried to imagine how he would feel if Helen had put him in one of her novels, or how Helen would feel if he’d done the same to her. Sharing with the world even the most glowing portrayal of someone he knew felt taboo, yet here was Graydon Lyons dropping Merritt into some sort of vengeful takedown dressed up as high art.
The face Merritt had made, explaining things to him on that cold step, had been one of deepest shame and regret. Why hadn’t he worked harder to prove that he wasn’t the kind of person around whom she needed to feel those things... instead oftrying to kiss her? He was someone who had spent much of his early life being embarrassed by most parts of himself. These days it wasn’t shame that disgusted him but the lack of it in the Lyonses and Hoults of the world. Why hadn’t he said that out there on Willa’s porch? Maybe she would be justified in thinking he was no better than them.
Should he text her again?
No, he would wait until Wednesday, when he would be radically normal in her presence, not at all like a crush-stricken teen, and then he’d bring it up only if the opportunity presented itself with undeniable clarity. He would say something to let herknow how things stood for him, and how he saw her no differently from before, and how really, to love someone was the brave thing to do—
The phone buzzed again, and thank God.
It was Merritt.
Actually, I’m taking my mom to a doctor’s appointment on Wednesday. Thursday okay?
Fine then. Radical normalness could wait until Thursday.
Whit did what he always did, which was to arrive at the airport far earlier than any sane person would think necessary. He felt this was excusable when he was the departing traveler, but he wasn’t. He was here to pick up his sister, and he now had an hour and a half to kill, so he found himself doing the other thing he normally did in situations like this one: driving around, today in the Seaport District, looking for a bookstore that also sold coffee. He settled on a place that was more industrial than he preferred, with lots of tall glass windows and dark steel beams, but at least the music was ambient and soothing, and the Americano he now sipped as he walked the aisles was hot and strong.
Whit’s most prosaic I-am-a-writer feature was his ability to spend hours and hours at a bookstore and never be bored. In a normal year, he was a regular at Goodenough back in Whelk Harbor. He’d become fast friends with Moishe, the nice older gentleman who worked there, while mostly ignoring the nosy questions Diana asked whenever she spotted him. But he hadn’t left the house much at all lately, and this was his first trip out of Whelk Harbor in some time. Now here he was, alone, surrounded by stories and possibility.This, he thought to himself,is nice.
The coffee bar was at the rear of the shop. Holding his cup andThe Remains of the Day, Whit slowly made his way through thefictionsection toward the front, where thenew releaseswere. The Ishiguro book was an old favorite, and he’d been wanting to reread it, but his copy had gone missing. When he reached themysterysubsection, he hesitated for a long beat, then shrugged and made the turn into the little enclave. His eyes scanned the shelves for the Ls, and there it was: his life’s work. There were several copies ofThe Hour of Matins, his first book, and then a smattering of the later works, with more copies of his last release,The One Keeping Vigil, already in paperback. His agent would want him to alert the booksellers of his presence so he could sign the merchandise, then post about it online—“If you’re in the Seaport District, there are signed copies at...” But Whit was feeling very satisfied in his silent aloneness today, and so he merely dragged a finger across the spines and then made his way to thechildren’ssection, hardly thinking about what he was doing.
There was an entire Greenwood Castle shelf, with the four extant novels and the companion texts, plus stuffed animals, journals, sticker sets, pins like the one Merritt wore on her Foothills School lanyard—the whole kit and caboodle. Atop the shelf was a cardboard cutout with enlarged illustrations of the books’ three main characters. Whit could have found this depressing: the sharp contrast in the degree of fanfare for his books and his late wife’s. Instead, he felt a warm sense of pride. How many people could say they’d made something like this before they died? And how many others could say they knew someone like that?
The glow quickly faded, however, when his eyes wandered over to another shelf in annoyingly close proximity to the Albright Longacre section. There a handwritten chalkboard sign read:series to help you survive the wait for greenwood castle 5.
Whit gripped his Ishiguro and sighed. Then he looked back at the veritable altar dedicated to his wife and resumed his trudgetowardnew releases. There was a Claire Keegan book he’d been meaning to buy and a new Ann Patchett, and, oh God, there it was. The new Graydon Lyons, in between a Min Jin Lee and an Emily St.John Mandel. Whit caught himself looking over his shoulders before picking up a copy, then shaking his head at himself. No one would catch him in the act here.
He held the book in his hands, feeling a bit like someone with an issue ofHustlerout in public. It did feel indecent to be holding it now that he knew it was definitely about Merritt. It felt like a betrayal, too, but then something in Whit—perhaps the devil on his other shoulder—told him that was silly. Books were books. Anyone could read anything. To behave otherwise was to get dangerously close to aligning with the book-banning idiots of the world, and anyway, Merritt hadn’t said hecouldn’tread it, had she? And who was he to be told anything anyway?
Whit lowered his stack of books to his waist and shook his head again. He was, of course, full of shit. He wanted to read it, and his conscience could be confronted later. Right now, he needed to be heading in the direction of the airport. (Evie’s flight would land in a mere forty-fiveminutes!) He hefted his books—Ishiguro, Keegan, Patchett, Lyons—and headed to the register.
Evie was nowhere to be seen on his first lap around the pickup lane; nor could she be spotted on his second lap, or the fourth, but by the fifth time around she was standing there smiling, with her light brown hair in a ponytail poking out the back of a Yankees cap, and the rest of her covered by sunglasses, a fawn-colored tweed trench coat, white sneakers, and jeans.
Evie waved enthusiastically as he pulled to a stop, and she gave him an enormous hug when he reached her to help with her two bags.
“Hi, Bubba,” she said.
“Hi, Evelyn.”
She gave him a light shove because she, like Willa, hated her full name.
“How was your flight?” he asked as they loaded her luggage into the back of the Range Rover.
“Fine. How was your drive? Did you get here at 6a.m.?”
“Ha-ha,” he said, closing the trunk and moving to the driver’s seat. Once they were both seated and buckled in, he looked at Evie. “Thanks for coming.”
She beamed at him. “Seriously. I’m so happy to. And excited to get out of the city for a bit.”
Whit pulled the car away from the curb. “Aren’t you sad about leaving Édouard?”
Evie laughed.
“I’ll survive. He’s the one you should worry about. He’s hopelessly in love with me. And he’ll have no one to show his fancy little outfits to with me gone.”
She had stowed her trench coat in the backseat and he could see that she was wearing a designer sweatshirt underneath. Evie had been wildly popular in high school and college, and she now enjoyed a minor degree of fame, thanks to Édouard’s former hockey career and his enduring reputation as one of the best-dressed players in the game.
“You’re one to talk, dressed like the wife of a professional athlete.”
