Page 7 of The Last Book Party

“I would photograph the pile from below, to show how big it is, how unlikely the climb out of obscurity, but close enough to see some of the titles, the hundreds of stories that need to be told.”

“They may need to be told, but trust me, most of them don’t need to be read.”

“No—better. I’ll photograph you bending down to pick up one lucky manuscript. Or you’ll be sitting on the floor in the middle of the pile—I know, I know it’s not a pile, but we’ll make it a pile—and you’ll be looking down, your face hidden, reading.”

I loved that he wanted to photograph me. I was astonished, yet again, by the ease with which he floated his ideas, and how pleased he was with them.

“Next time I’m in New York.” And then he stood up and put his hand on my head. “Well, my lobster girl. We will never have another meal as good as this.”

“That is so very sad,” I said, looking up at him and not feeling the slightest bit sad. “And so very true.”

His eyes were a dark, algae green. I willed myself to hold hisgaze. I had been playing it safe long enough, letting myself get involved only with men I never really cared to know, and who I eventually realized had little interest in getting to know me. I had finally ended things with a law associate named Brian, the last in a line of unimaginative men, and was ready for something new. Annie had urged me to get out of my shell, to try new things and meet new people—new men—this summer. I’d gone to Henry and Tillie’s party and danced with abandon. I’d jumped into the surf and taken its treasure. I wanted to be the free spirit Franny seemed to think I was.

I tried to still my trembling legs as Franny bent down, brushed my hair back from my face, and kissed me. His lips were warm and soft. He took my hands and pulled me up. As we kissed again, I knew, with a mix of relief and fear, that I would follow him wherever he wanted to go, even if I ended up in way over my head.

part two

July 1987

5

Malcolm was in a closed-door meeting all afternoon, so I left my desk and went to the storeroom for a break. I ran my hands along the spines of the new Hodder, Strike hardcovers, stacked in tight, neat rows on the tall bookshelves. I pulled out a mystery with a bright red cover and opened it, hearing the slight crack in the binding. I took a deep breath and smelled the paper, which, despite being printed just weeks ago, had the same inky, musty scent of the picture books I’d loved as a child. I thought about sketching the storeroom and drawing an arrow to indicate a place on the floor for Franny’s slush pile of manuscripts. I could mail it to him, with a casual note stating that the room was ready whenever he was. Maybe I would let him know that I’d be back in Truro at the end of July and would love to see the beginnings of his mural. No expectations, just a friendly hello.

For my first few days back in New York, a breezy letter to Franny would have been sincere. Returning to work, I held the memory of Franny like a seashell in my pocket. It had been surprisingly effortless in his bed. Something about him had made it easy for me to relax. Franny’s laid-back manner made Brianseem so uptight and self-conscious. With Franny, the fooling around was unhurried and casual, the lazy, circuitous conversation even better. At one point, he lay with his head on my stomach, tracing the lines on my palm. “Very interesting,” he said, drawing out his words as his finger moved along the bottom of my thumb. “I see you will take a long journey.”

“That tickles,” I said, trying to pull my hand away. He held on and moved his finger to the center of my palm.

“You will journey to a great height, the very top of a high mountain. No, the top of a tall, tall sand dune—in the middle of a dark, moonless night.”

“Alone?” I asked.

“Hard to tell,” he said, running his finger to my wrist and up my arm. “Hmm, I see a man. A mysterious and handsome man.”

“Who is he?” I asked, shivering from the feathery tickle of his touch.

“Who is he?” Franny flipped onto his stomach, the mysterious tone gone from his voice. He climbed on top of me, covering my neck with kisses. “He is me, of course!”

The next morning, on my way back to New York, I was brimming with happiness. I liked the idea of myself as someone who could act on a whim and spend a night with Franny without needing more. I was relieved that Annie was in Toronto at a wedding. If she had been home, she would have wanted all the details and then come up with scenarios for my potential torrid romance with Franny.

But by the end of the week, I was slipping. It was difficult to concentrate at work. I tried to hold on to that carefree version of myself, but I couldn’t stop thinking about Franny, replaying his words and wondering if he was thinking about me at all. I couldn’t help imagining the two of us together as an artistic couple like Henry and Tillie.

Our magical evening had ended on a hopeful note. We had tiptoed downstairs from his room, long after we’d heard his parents come home from dinner and settle in for the night. Franny loaded my bicycle into the back of his mother’s old station wagon and drove me home. We stood for a moment by the car. I could see the moon over the top of the oak tree that my parents kept trimming to restore their neighbors’ view of the harbor. Franny put his hands on my shoulders and kissed me deeply. In a tone that sounded definitive but later struck me as noncommittal, he said, “I will see you soon.”

I got back to my desk as Malcolm came out of his office with a pale, tall man with dark, curly hair and a strong Roman nose. He looked a few years older than me, but had the mannerisms of someone younger, his hands shoved deep into his jeans pockets as he chewed his lip. I knew before Malcolm said anything that this must be Jeremy Grand, who had written a novel about a love affair in a leper colony. I hadn’t read the manuscript yet, but Malcolm had told me he’d fallen for it immediately and made a quick offer to publish it. I stood up to shake Jeremy’s hand, but he kept his hands in his pockets. He dropped his chin at me, as if we had met before.

In a vaguely British accent that belied his West Virginia origins, Malcolm said, “Jeremy tells me that he’s recently discovered you know a gentleman friend of his, the progeny of one of our esteemed authors.”

“Yeah,” Jeremy said, with a smirk. “I hear you know Franny Grey.”

The way he said it made me wonder how much Franny had told him. I felt my cheeks flush.

“I met Franny in Cape Cod.”

It sounded like a ridiculously simple sentence for something that had taken up so much of my thoughts for the past week.

“So I heard,” Jeremy said. “I spoke to him Monday before he left for Maine with Lil.”

“Lil?”

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