Page 48 of Mail Order Bride

“Yep,” I nod, a bit too enthusiastically. I guess I'm a little afraid of what he is going to think. Joel is a very down-to-earth guy. He doesn’t seem like the type to take big risks, maybe not even small ones. “Hollywood. I've always wanted to be an actress.”

“Mmm.”

“What does that mean?” I ask him, poking him playfully with my elbow. I used to think I could read a person's mind by looking at their body language. I guess that’s fairly naive, though. I try to tune in, I try to make a vision or guidance or my intuition come and tell me what to say or do, but nothing happens. I can't quite figure Joel out. One minute he's loving and attentive and the next he's quiet and distant. Right now, it feels like he's a million miles away.

“My life is here, Gina. I thought yours was, too.”

He sounds disappointed, his voice is laced with melancholy. “Plus, your father and that woman are here now. I thought that would make you happy.”

The melancholy has been replaced with bitterness. I get the sense that I’ve just destroyed something pure between us, that I’ve cut a cord, like a little bit of purity and trust has been burned away. And that’s when I see it, the image in my mind. Joel and a woman are standing outside a building. It looks like a motel. He’s not smiling, but she is.

“I thought you could come with me,” I tell him, brushing the thought away. “It will be like a honeymoon, of sorts. Arealhoneymoon.”

“Nothing in Hollywood is real, Gina.”

The next day,I use Daddy’s car to go into town. I need to do a grocery run, but first I plan to stop by the library to see if I can find some books on acting, or agents, or both. I walk into the dusty old building and find a woman behind the counter. She looks a thousand years old. Her skin is wrinkled and peeling, like old parchment, but her eyes are sharp and piercing.

She’s sort of hunched over, resting her face in her palm in a way that makes me wonder whether she’s sleeping or she’s dead. I’m almost afraid to approach her.

“Excuse me,” I say softly.

Her head pops up like a jack-in-the-box. Like these are the first words she's heard in sixty years. Her expression suggests that she's not too thrilled to see me. Her eyes lock onto mine, and I can see the contempt in them. “How can I help you?”

“I'm looking for a book—or several books—on acting. I'm trying to find out what I need to do to get started.”

I can feel the anger radiating from her, like a furnace. She can't believe I am standing here, that I am asking for help. I feel the heat of her gaze on me, like a physical force.What could possibly make a person so angry?

“Do you have a library card?” she asks.

“No, not yet. I just moved here. I—”

“I know who you are.”

I open my mouth to speak, but she doesn’t give me the chance.

“You married that Miller boy.”

He’s hardly a boy. “Joel, yes.”

She shakes her head. “Plenty of nice young women around here, and he had to go and pick up a Yankee,” she tells me with a scoff. “But then, that boy’s always been a little off. Not the brightest bulb in the box, if you know what I mean.”

“I’m from Tennessee, actually. And, no, I don’t know what you mean.”

“Didn’t figure you would,” she says. “Anyway, you'll need a library card.”

“Great. How—”

“But it's probably no matter anyhow,” she adds. “I don’t think we carry what you're looking for.”

“Oh,” I say. “Well, maybe you could order something.”

“Well, maybe you could order something,” she repeats in a singsong voice. A very mocking, singsong voice.

“I wouldn't hold your breath. All of our orders have been placed for this year.”

“It's only February.”

“All the same. I said what I said.”

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