Rachelle wondered what her old school friends were up to, whether they ever talked about her, and whether they ever missed her. She wondered if she’d get up the nerve to invite any of them to the wedding.
She wondered if her mother would be available to walk her down the aisle.
More than that, she wondered if Riccardo’s mother would allow something like that to happen. Rachelle guessed not, as it wasn’t traditional. It seemed everything had to fit into a narrative. Rachelle had never fit into an appropriate narrative in her entire life.
Why would she start now? Because she’d fallen in love with someone?
Oh, but she loved Riccardo. She’d changed her life for him. He was her Italian love, her Italian life. He was her everything.
10
Manhattan, New York
The readers cleared out of the bookstore by ten thirty, leaving Estelle, her agent Anne, her daughter Sam, and her granddaughter Darcy alone. Estelle’s face hurt from grinning. She gathered everyone in hugs, thanking them for their hard work tonight. Incredibly, they’d sold all of the books that had been piled high on the table. She’d signed each of them, her hand cramping as she chatted to each of her fans. She couldn’t believe how many of them were widows. It was as though they’d decided to go through every stage of life together.
She wondered what Roland would have said about that. Would he have had a word of wisdom or a kindness that would have lifted her spirits? Regardless, it was incredible not to feel so alone in something so enormous.
But it was awful that so many women had to lose their husbands. It was awful that each of them lived with a shadow on their hearts.
The three of them took a cab back to the hotel, where Estelle, Darcy, and Sam sat in their shared living room and chatted about the exhausting day. Darcy couldn’t stop yawning, proof of how young her children were and how hard she had to work to keep her house afloat. Soon, Darcy kissed her grandmother and mother good night and disappeared into her bedroom. Sam went shortly after that, stretching her arms over her head. “Congratulations, Mom,” she said. “Can’t wait for many more bookstore parties after this!”
This left Estelle alone in her room, still in her chic one-piece, watching the traffic stream by outside. She wasn’t the least bit tired, which felt bizarre. She’d overworked herself emotionally, physically, and mentally. She should have been given the gift of slumber.
Eventually, she made her way downstairs for a nightcap at the hotel bar. She’d hardly had time to drink anything at the bookstore, as she’d been in conversation the entire time. Maybe a dark red wine and a bit of banter with the bartender would make her sleepy. She could only hope.
Downstairs, she grabbed a seat at the bar and ordered an Italian wine, thinking again of Rachelle and wondering how she was. She wondered if Rachelle ever served this at her restaurant and whether, by having it, Estelle was somehow communicating with her granddaughter. Her granddaughter, the stranger.
The bartender was maybe in his thirties, and he wore a serious expression and a thick wedding band on his ring finger. Estelle itched to ask him about his life, about what had led him to fall in love with his wife, and whether he liked working as a bartender or had dreams of doing something else. She liked talking to strangers, if only because they sparked her creativity and empathy. Sometimes strangers from bars and restaurants around the world made their way into her novels.
But before she could get up the nerve to ask the bartender something, a familiar figure entered the bar. It was the man from the reading, the man who’d asked about a character in one of her older books. Although it wasn’t out of the question to see men at her readings, it was still a rarity. To see him here at the same hotel where she was staying surprised her. He stopped short upon entering, then spread his hands on the bartop and said, “Estelle Coleman.”
Estelle smiled openly. Her mind fluttered with a question that she let out at once. “Are you stalking me?”
The man laughed. “Have you ever had a stalker before?”
“Not that I know of,” Estelle said. “Thankfully, my readership usually doesn’t go that direction with things. They leave me alone.”
The man looked pleased to see her. “I don’t want to intrude on your night,” he said. “I can take my drink to go.”
“Don’t do that,” Estelle said. She could feel the bartender’s eyes on them, watching them curiously. “Have a drink with me. I can’t sleep.”
“Neither can I.” The man slid onto the stool beside her and ordered a glass of wine, the Italian one that she was having. They raised glasses and clinked them. “I’m Albert,” he said.
“Nice to meet you. It’s not every day I meet such a perceptive reader,” she said.
“It’s not every day that I meet my favorite writer,” he said.
“You flatter me.”
“It’s true.” Albert smiled. “My ex-wife read all of your books. I borrowed them and fell for them as well.”
Estelle’s heart felt stung. “I’m sorry about your divorce.”
“Water under the bridge.” Albert waved his hand. “We talked about your books, though. I think we sort of hoped they would bring us together. But the love in them told us how little we still loved each other, I think.”
Estelle was terrified. “Don’t tell me that my books broke you up!”
“No. Not at all. We weren’t meant for each other. Plain and simple.” Albert smiled. “I don’t know if I’m meant for anyone. I’m seventy-five years old, and maybe I’ll be a bachelor the rest of my life. In fact, that’s why I’m living at this hotel. I never bothered to find anywhere to live after my divorce.”
