Ward DeFleur sat on a wall.
Ward DeFleur had a great fall.
All the king’s horses and all the king’s men.
Couldn’t put Ward together again.
Not on Gwen’s watch, though. I guarantee she’s got an Ace bandage and a tube of Krazy Glue in her purse. She’ll repair me if it’s the last thing she ever does.
“Sit tight. I won’t be gone long.” She stood up and clipped her walkie-talkie to her belt.
“One question.” I raised my index finger.
“Shoot.” Gwen barely looked up from her cell phone. She was already sending a text, probably to my agent, Stephanie, who couldn’t be here tonight because her sister is getting married. Apparently, she asked her sister to switch the date and was horrified that she wouldn’t. In turn, I was horrified that Stephanie even asked in the first place.
“Is there security?”
“There are guards at all three doors. We’re in constant contact.”
“Just in case,” I added, so as not to seem dramatic.
“Ward,” Gwen said with intention. “You’re completely covered. Absolutely nothing will go wrong.” We locked eyes. “This is your night. Enjoy it.” She walked toward the door, turned the knob, and paused. Then she glanced over her shoulder and smiled. “Lucky number thirteen.”
“Lucky number thirteen.”
2 WARD
One hour later, I’d signed at least a hundred books. I’d listened to dozens of stories of achievement and heartache. I’d offered embraces of support and encouragement, imparted words of wisdom. And I’d posed for more photos than Taylor Swift at the Grammy Awards.
There isn’t a medication in the world that anesthetizes me better than adrenaline.
“Let’s keep the line moving so we can accommodate everyone,” Gwen said, nudging me to hurry it up.
But I won’t be rushed. This is what it’s all about. This is why my readers are loyal. Because I don’t just pretend to be invested. I actually care. My readers’ problems may be their own, but fame and fortune don’t isolate me from everyday life. We all live within our own circumstances, whatever they are. Maybe their children have special needs. Or their parents are ailing. Perhaps their spouses have been cheating on them or their mortgage is overdue. As a single, working mother with responsibilities, I, too, experience happiness and endure sorrow.
Still they’re here. For me. And that’s a very real thing.
Sure, sometimes I feel violated by the attention, well-intentioned as it is. But I won’t let it get the best of me. Not tonight. As Gwen said, absolutely nothing will go wrong. Even she and her assistant have relaxed a little. They can see that I’ve hit my stride. Every signature I scribble is another dollar sign flashing on my forehead like a neon sign.
“I’ll be here until everyone is taken care of,” I reassured her.
“The store closes at nine,” she quickly reminded me.
“Jean won’t turn customers away. She never has and never will.” Gwen didn’t argue. She may be running the show, but I’ve been doing this for most of my adult life. And sometimes I know better, plain and simple.
Two more women approached. The first one smiled kindly. “Hi, I’m Maggie. I love your books,” she gushed. “Silence in the Night is my favorite. The way you didn’t know what Selena was going to do until the second to last page. I almost died!”
“Thank you. Selena was one of my most challenging characters to write.”
“That’s so fascinating.” Maggie nodded and handed me her copy of Mysterious Stranger.
“Should I make it out to you?”
“Yes. Please. Oh, and this is my friend Bree. She was the one who first told me about you.” Maggie stepped aside to reveal a striking blond woman with inviting blue eyes and bee-stung lips.
“Bree?” I reached for her book.
“Oh. Yeah, sorry.” She nodded politely. “I’m a longtime fan of your work. I’ve read all of your novels.”
“That’s so kind of you to say, thank you.”
“Can you please sign it to my daughter, Chloe? She’s fifteen.”
“So is my daughter.”
“Funny,” she said absently.
“Do you live in Wilton?”
“No, Fairfield.”
“It’s nice there,” I said, piloting the conversation and meeting silence. “Are you okay?” I asked.
I heard Gwen grumble. If she had her way, my readers would be herded like cattle.
“I’m fine,” Bree replied, as a few tears escaped down her face.
“Oh my God, Bree.” Maggie put her arm around her and started to lead her away.
“Wait a minute.” I stood up. “Come here.” Maggie walked Bree toward me, and I opened my arms to hug her. Then I whispered in her ear, “Whatever it is, it will be okay. This, too, shall pass. I promise.”
“I’m so embarrassed.” She sniffed. “I don’t cry in public.”
“There’s nothing to be embarrassed about.” I picked up the tissue box on the table and offered her one. “It’s happened to the best of us.”
“Thank you.” She took a tissue and blotted the corners of her eyes.
Then she hurried off with Maggie, allowing the next person to take her place—a woman with nine daughters and twenty-seven grandchildren. She told me every single one of their names, all beginning with S. After that, there were three women who’d traveled from Buffalo, New York, and a book club of ten ladies who’d driven all the way from Kansas so they could be at my first event.
Before long, I looked at the clock on the wall, and it was almost nine. The line was beginning to thin out, and Gwen had disappeared. All I could think was that I was within minutes of home, where I’d return to an empty house and take a long, hot bath.
I hailed down Jean, the owner of the store. “Have you seen Gwen?”
“She’s outside on her phone.” Jean shrugged and shook her head, as if to say Kids these days. “I went out there, but she shooed me away.”
“Would you mind asking her to come back inside, please? I think we’re wrapping up here.”
I wondered what could be more important to Gwen than my fifteen-city tour. But I pushed the thought from my mind and continued greeting the last few readers. One woman presented me with a batch of sugar cookies bearing my book cover. Another bestowed me with a good-luck charm that had been passed down through her family.
Fifteen minutes later Gwen appeared, looking disturbed and, possibly, guilty. She bent over and whispered in my ear, “Ward, we have a little issue.”
I laughed, only because she’d told me, not two hours earlier, that there couldn’t be any issues. And now she, of all people, had one.
“What’s going on?”
“We can’t find Stevie.”
“What do you mean we can’t find Stevie?”
“We can’t find her,” she repeated.
“You just said that. But I don’t understand. She’s at Lily’s house. They went to a movie and she’s sleeping over.”
Now that my daughter is a teenager, her social schedule trumps attending my events any day of the week.