rentals and spent an hour playing with my son during the library’s Mommy Time program. After an hour of The Wheels on the Bus and Parachute Parade, I wandered over to the bestselling paperback shelves, feeding my continual delusion that someday I’d actually find time to read something besides new recipes for cooking chicken cutlets.
A man perused the shelf beside me, picking up various books, reading the blurbs, and quickly replacing them. He was shorter than Roy and lacked my husband’s muscle tone, but he had gorgeous blue eyes, sandy-colored hair, and straight, white teeth behind full, red lips. I guessed him to be in his mid-thirties and found it odd to see him in the library at ten o’clock on a Monday morning. Maybe he was unemployed? In the current economic circumstances, a lot of people came to the library to access the Internet for employment ads or to update their résumés. Or maybe he was just a visitor, here for the local surfing, which would be a washout with today’s pending thunderstorms. Though he didn’t look much like a surfer in a pale pink button-down shirt and dark khaki pants. More like a surfer-slash-executive, or a surfboard salesman.
When he reached in front of me for the third time, he offered a fleeting smile. “Sorry.”
“That’s okay,” I murmured with a smile of my own. Guilt struck my conscience. What was I doing? Flirting with some guy in the library? With a toddler on my hip? I hitched Luke a little higher and took a step away, one shelf over, focusing on the rows of titles for something interesting. The familiar orange sticker that signified a novel by a local author caught my eye, and I picked up the book. Family Bloodlines. The story, about a woman bored with her housewife life who becomes obsessed with a serial killer, left me flat. With a “Pffft,” I shoved the book back in its place on the shelf.
“Excuse me.” The man sidled near me again. “Can I ask you a question?”
“Hmmm?” I didn’t even look at him this time, remaining noncommittal, in case he was a creep. Or worse. I’d already made eye contact, which was a huge mistake. I wouldn’t add to my momentary lapse of good judgment and endanger myself or my child. Instinctively, my hold tightened on Luke.
“Why’d you put that book back?”
On the shallowest scale, the answer was none of his business. I gave him the look I normally reserved for my kids when they were caught in the act of some infraction. “Is there a problem?”
“No, not really.” He glanced toward the shelf where I’d replaced the book and gestured with his thumb. “You see, I’m the author of that novel.”
I looked at the orange sticker on the spine—local author—then back at this executive-surfer-dude-looking guy. “You wrote Family Bloodlines ?”
Pointing to the black boldface type below the sticker, he said, “Yup. Ambrose Chase, that’s me. I guess I’m not what you expected, huh?”
“No,” I said a little too fast. Whoops. Talk about insulting. Even though I hadn’t meant to be condescending, I sensed my denial came off that way. I shuffled my feet. “I mean, not that you don’t look like an author or anything. I don’t even know what an author would look like. It’s just…it’s kind of a weird coincidence that I picked up your book with you standing right next to me.”
“Not much of a coincidence actually.” He leaned closer to my side to whisper, “Promise not to tell, but I come in here a couple of times a week and place my book with the cover facing out on the shelf to catch a reader’s eye. That’s why I asked why you put it back. I’m always curious as to what makes a reader pick up or put down a book. Especially when it’s mine.”
Cripes. Of all the rotten luck. My one brush with greatness, and I insulted the guy. Not once, but twice. “Look, I’m sorry. It’s nothing personal. It’s just that…I’m a 911 dispatcher so I see enough tragedy on a daily
A man perused the shelf beside me, picking up various books, reading the blurbs, and quickly replacing them. He was shorter than Roy and lacked my husband’s muscle tone, but he had gorgeous blue eyes, sandy-colored hair, and straight, white teeth behind full, red lips. I guessed him to be in his mid-thirties and found it odd to see him in the library at ten o’clock on a Monday morning. Maybe he was unemployed? In the current economic circumstances, a lot of people came to the library to access the Internet for employment ads or to update their résumés. Or maybe he was just a visitor, here for the local surfing, which would be a washout with today’s pending thunderstorms. Though he didn’t look much like a surfer in a pale pink button-down shirt and dark khaki pants. More like a surfer-slash-executive, or a surfboard salesman.
When he reached in front of me for the third time, he offered a fleeting smile. “Sorry.”
“That’s okay,” I murmured with a smile of my own. Guilt struck my conscience. What was I doing? Flirting with some guy in the library? With a toddler on my hip? I hitched Luke a little higher and took a step away, one shelf over, focusing on the rows of titles for something interesting. The familiar orange sticker that signified a novel by a local author caught my eye, and I picked up the book. Family Bloodlines. The story, about a woman bored with her housewife life who becomes obsessed with a serial killer, left me flat. With a “Pffft,” I shoved the book back in its place on the shelf.
“Excuse me.” The man sidled near me again. “Can I ask you a question?”
“Hmmm?” I didn’t even look at him this time, remaining noncommittal, in case he was a creep. Or worse. I’d already made eye contact, which was a huge mistake. I wouldn’t add to my momentary lapse of good judgment and endanger myself or my child. Instinctively, my hold tightened on Luke.
“Why’d you put that book back?”
On the shallowest scale, the answer was none of his business. I gave him the look I normally reserved for my kids when they were caught in the act of some infraction. “Is there a problem?”
“No, not really.” He glanced toward the shelf where I’d replaced the book and gestured with his thumb. “You see, I’m the author of that novel.”
I looked at the orange sticker on the spine—local author—then back at this executive-surfer-dude-looking guy. “You wrote Family Bloodlines ?”
Pointing to the black boldface type below the sticker, he said, “Yup. Ambrose Chase, that’s me. I guess I’m not what you expected, huh?”
“No,” I said a little too fast. Whoops. Talk about insulting. Even though I hadn’t meant to be condescending, I sensed my denial came off that way. I shuffled my feet. “I mean, not that you don’t look like an author or anything. I don’t even know what an author would look like. It’s just…it’s kind of a weird coincidence that I picked up your book with you standing right next to me.”
“Not much of a coincidence actually.” He leaned closer to my side to whisper, “Promise not to tell, but I come in here a couple of times a week and place my book with the cover facing out on the shelf to catch a reader’s eye. That’s why I asked why you put it back. I’m always curious as to what makes a reader pick up or put down a book. Especially when it’s mine.”
Cripes. Of all the rotten luck. My one brush with greatness, and I insulted the guy. Not once, but twice. “Look, I’m sorry. It’s nothing personal. It’s just that…I’m a 911 dispatcher so I see enough tragedy on a daily
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