Jacob’s heart beat a desperate flutter against his throat as he opened the cover of Carnivale, this inscription calling him a hero, the word love etched above Youssef’s scrawl. This was a bit dangerous. While reading The Sword Dancer’s Daughter, Jacob had worshipped Youssef in his mind’s eye. During that breathless, initial read of Carnivale, he’d fallen a bit in love. He was hardly unique in this aspect. Carnivale was insightful and critical, but also sensual and immersive in a way that tended to make the reader feel they’d stumbled into a forbidden garden. He’d read reports of people going to Youssef’s promotional junket for Carnivale in full cosplay, and the movie adaptation was reportedly still in the works, which would only revive everything again.
For Jacob, reading Carnivale had felt like meeting a kindred spirit. He picked up on references so buried you had to have a book lover’s encyclopedic database to catch and felt as if they were sharing a secret handshake. He loved the way Rasul embraced his half-Brazilian, half-Syrian heritage while harkening both to Middle Eastern and fully modern Western story and character conventions. Carnivale was the book Jacob chose to read when he wanted to feel wicked.
Now his copy had Love, Rasul on the title page.
It was as close Jacob would come to a confession from his secret, silly crush, and he honestly couldn’t decide which was better, the memory of having him in his two most sacred places, his store and his apartment, or possessing these inscriptions. He couldn’t possibly go to GAG after this. Today called for a glass of wine, pizza delivery, and a bubble bath as he let everything marinate.
He didn’t even have the cork out of the bottle, however, before his phone rang. It was a local area code and prefix, but Jacob didn’t know the number, so he assumed it was spam. At the last second, though, instead of letting it go to voicemail, he answered anyway.
It wasn’t spam.
“—lo! This—President Larson—view. How—you?”
The president of Bayview University’s age-roughened voice was difficult on a good day, but with this bad connection, it was nearly intolerable. But why was Larson was calling him? “I’m fine, Mr. Larson, but I’m afraid we have a bad connection. I can barely hear you.”
“Evan—you to come—gala tonight—escort—” This time the break was of significant length. “—big favor.”
Jacob frowned at the cupboard, wine bottle still in hand while he tried to figure it out. “Dean Clare wants me to escort him to the gala tonight? Why?”
“No, no—” Another long break in the connection. “—visiting professor—handholding. All about appearances because—” The air filled with crackles. “—good opportunity—”
Jacob set the bottle down and sighed. “I’m very sorry, Mr. Larson, but I have absolutely no idea what you’re saying or what you need from me.”
“—coming out of a valley. Can you hear me now?”
Jacob straightened. “Yes, perfectly.”
“Can you come to the gala at eight tonight?”
“I can, but I don’t understand—”
“Going into another valley. Evan will call you later and give more details. Can we count on you?”
Count on him for what? Jacob absolutely didn’t want to go to the university gala. He’d been issued an invite both as a member of the chamber of commerce and someone on the hospital board, but he wasn’t part of the university, he hated parties, and he truly did want to soak away the day in hot soapy bubbles. But he was a sucker for someone in crisis, which Larson probably well knew. “I suppose I can come, but I really want to know more about—”
“—about to—reception—counting on you—appreciate it—”
The call went silent, then disconnected. When Jacob tried to call Larson back, he got an automated message that the caller was unavailable.
Jacob set his phone on the table with his lips tightly sealed. The gala was a welcome party for new professors and staff as well as a chance for people who enjoyed doing so to rub elbows with what passed for celebrity in northern Wisconsin. Rebecca Lambert-Diaz, the hospital board president, had suggested it would be advantageous for as many members of Mini Main Street to attend as possible and network with the community, and of course it would be good for him to make more networking connections in case he decided to run for chamber of commerce president. But he so wanted to stay home. It seemed like all he did was go to parties like this lately. And now the Gay Area Guys met every Friday night. Every Friday!
Why did everyone in this town live for an excuse to get together? Why were they determined to fill every hour of his life with activity?
Jacob ran a lint roller over his good suit, the one Matt had selected for him before all the doctors at the hospital had started getting married. Well, correction. Matt had selected several different ones first, all of them too flashy and showy, and Jacob had made him go back and find him something conservative and nondescript. He regretted this now. It wasn’t that he wanted to impress anyone! But if his favorite author gave him an approving glance, that would be a nice flutter to keep him warm in the winter.
He thought of the YouTube interview Youssef had given after Carnivale when he’d been asked if he liked parties. “I hate them,” he’d replied immediately, which had made the interviewer laugh and assume he was being facetious, because even then he was known as a party animal. “No, I’m completely serious,” he went on. “Parties are like cotton candy. Dazzling and sweet but ephemeral, evaporating in your mouth so all you want is more and more and more. And once you’ve gorged yourself, you’re sick, but you’re still dreaming about that sugary floss.”
Jacob didn’t like cotton candy or anything excessively sweet, but he’d still loved the metaphor, as well as the knowledge his favorite author felt the same way about them as he did. Did that mean, though, he should give Youssef a wide berth? He at least had to exchange pleasantries, but beyond that felt like a mystery.
Who was he kidding, he’d never have the courage to say anything meaningful.
What was he doing at this party, though? He remembered Larson said Evan Clare would call and give him further details, but Clare hadn’t reached out by 7:40, at which point Jacob couldn’t put off leaving any longer without showing up late.
With a frustrated sigh, he put out food for the cats, gathered his wallet and keys, and set off for the community center.
Since it was on the same block as the bookstore, he walked, waving to people he knew along the way. It was a busy section of town at this time of day, with parents picking up and dropping off kids from library events, church youth group, and tae kwon do practice. With the parking lot of the community center cordoned off for the gala, cars vied for precious real estate in the street, honking and edging toward parking spots about to open up. Meanwhile, Jacob enjoyed the cool breeze from the bay and wished he could spend the evening at the park, or in his apartment reading. He was going to resent not getting that bubble bath all night long.
There was a line at the entrance, which Jacob kicked himself for not anticipating. It wasn’t until he was through the door that he was able to search for the dean, and an immediate scan of the room didn’t help. All he saw were men in variations of gray and black suits and tuxedoes, and women in gowns in a dazzling array of colors and styles.