

Strictly Pretend First 3 Chapters
Chapter 1
EMMA
It’s funny isn’t it, how life turns on a dime? One minute you’re running to the bathroom because you drank way too much champagne at your best friend’s wedding and the battle of the bladder versus the dress has finally finished with a victor — your overfull bladder that has to be emptied right now.
Because yes, getting out of this stupidly fluffy, pink marshmallow of a bridesmaid’s dress is going to be almost impossible in the tiny stalls that the overpaid designers of the Eastham Country Club thought to install.
I blame Mia. My best friend. Or former and now best friend. It’s complicated, but there’s plenty of time to tell you about that. Just as soon as I open the door to the bathroom and…
Oh!
That’s my first thought.
I’ve interrupted a very inebriated couple who decided it’s way too far to walk to the beautifully overexpensive cottages we’ve all rented out in order to indulge in a knee trembling delight.
My second thought, in case you’re wondering, is that I recognize the boxer shorts around the man’s knees.
Because I washed them yesterday. Then hung them on the line in his laundry room because they’re silk and he doesn’t like anything silk going in his tumble dryer.
My third thought is that he’s having way more fun pumping in and out of the bride’s cousin in the red dress that’s hiked up around her waist than he’s ever had with me.
When was the last time Will and I even had sex? Oh, that’s his name, by the way. Will. Or if you want the full title – since you’re currently witnessing his very enthusiastic thrusts – it’s William Paxton Devries II.
I always imagined I’d be a screamer in this situation. But I’m completely mute. Neither of them know I’m here, bearing witness to my boyfriend’s infidelity.
The man I’m supposed to share a bed with tonight. The man I’ve shared everything with for the last six months.
I back out of the room as quietly as a mouse, trying to remember how to breathe. All I can think of is that I still need to pee. And how mundane that is when my world is falling apart.
Still, I run to the next nearest bathroom, which is the men’s restroom, but who cares right now? My heart is pounding as I stride to the closest stall, yanking the door open before I squeeze myself and my stupidly fluffy cotton candy dress inside.
There’s only one way to go to the bathroom when you’re a bridesmaid masquerading as a milkmaid and that involves taking the whole dress off. Once it’s hanging on the door I pull down the barely there panties that I honestly thought Will would love, over the thigh high white stockings and let them rest around my ankles.
I’m still trying to think everything through when I hear the restroom door bang open, followed by the sound of footsteps.
Somebody shoves the door to my stall, and it creaks open because I’m a stupid idiot who didn’t remember to slide the lock closed.
“Oh, my word.” The bride’s Great Uncle Fred stares at me as I sit on the toilet naked, save for my demi cup lace bra.
“I’m sorry,” I say conversationally, like we’re shooting the breeze. “This stall’s taken.”
“I can see that.” He looks at me. “That’s nice. Pretty. Mia has good taste.”
I’m not sure if he’s talking about me or the dress at the moment, but since we’re acting like we’re besties exchanging pleasantries I smile and nod. “Yes, she does.”
“Fuchsia, is it?” he asks, shifting his feet.
“Rose, I think,” I tell him. “It’s too muted for fuchsia.”
“Hmm, yes. Well, have a lovely evening,” he says, turning away. Then he stops and I can almost see the frown forming on his face. “Isn’t this the men’s room?”
“Yes, it is,” I tell him. “Sorry. It’s just that my boyfriend’s balls deep in a woman who’s not me in the ladies’ bathroom.”
“Jolly good,” he nods. “I’ll be off then.” He backs away, then turns, walking faster than any octogenarian has the right to. I push the door to the stall closed and lock it this time, wondering if this night can get any worse.
But of course it can. Because when I’ve done what I need to do and I’m stepping back into the worst dress in the world, I’m barely paying attention to the fact that the bodice is a little too tight and there’s a label sticking out of my bra, as I yank the zipper up before it gets caught and won’t go any further.
And that’s when I start to cry. Not because my boyfriend’s a dirty rotten cheater, or because the bride’s great uncle has just seen my almost-naked body in all its glory, but because my dress is caught up with my bra and everybody will see the back gaping open when I walk out of this bathroom and back into the party that’s celebrating my beautiful, radiant friend and her equally gorgeous new husband.
* * *
BROOKS
“Single or double?” the bartender asks me, holding the bottle of G. Scott Carter whiskey above my glass.
“Triple,” I tell him, and then I shake my head. “Actually, just give me the bottle.” Because I hate weddings and right now I seem to spend more time at them than anywhere else.
He hands over the half-full bottle. Probably because he has my credit card behind the bar and I’m holding out a fifty as a tip. I pass him the bill and then I gather the bottle and glass in my hands and head out through the open glass doors onto the lawn that overlooks the lake and the Eastham Country Club golf course.
I find a spot on the lawn, far enough away from the party in the ballroom that nobody can see me sitting in the dark, but close enough – unfortunately for me – to hear the dulcet tones of Neil Diamond blasting out Sweet Caroline.
Why is that song played at every wedding and sporting event I go to? It’s a mystery.
I pour myself out more than a triple and lift the glass to my lips, enjoying the way the whiskey burns my throat as I swallow it down.
This will all be over tomorrow. Then I’ll drive back to New York City and throw myself into work. This is the tenth wedding I’ve been to in the last two years and every time I get more cynical.
Before the vows even escape the lips of the bride and groom I’m wondering when they’re going to split up, who’ll be responsible, and why anybody would ever put themselves through this.
I should probably stop attending them. But I’ve never been a man who takes the easy road. My brother, Myles, says I delight in making my life as difficult as I can, and he’s probably right.
There’s a grim sense of satisfaction in being my own worst enemy.
I’m about to pour myself a second glass when the doors to the wedding venue open and somebody stumbles through them. For a moment the music gets louder as it escapes through the open doorway into the dark, balmy night.
Whoever is storming out of the building can’t see me. I’m pretty confident of that. Yes, the moon is full, but I’m cloaked by darkness, the whiskey bottle in one hand, my glass in the other.
As they get closer, I realize it’s a woman. She leans down to pull her shoes off and throws them onto the ground.
And then she lets out a scream. It’s not too loud. More of a tester one, to see if it could work.
I have to admit, I’m quite enjoying watching her. She’s dressed in the pink monstrosity of a bridesmaid’s dress. I remember watching Mia’s bridesmaids walk down the aisle. I wasn’t sure if I was supposed to laugh.
Because this isn’t the nineties. Perms aren’t in fashion and neither are bridesmaid’s dresses that look like those crocheted toilet paper roll holders my grandmother used to have.
She can’t see me, this barefoot bridesmaid. But I can see her. The moon is full, and she has deep red hair that clashes with the pink. She picks her shoes up from the ground and strides over to the lake and, oh boy, she’s not going to throw them, is she?
Yes she does. She hurls them into the water with a surprisingly powerful arm, then stands completely still as they hit the surface before sinking under.
“Shit! My shoes!” she squeals out.
I can’t help it, I laugh. Quietly, though, so she can’t hear me. There’s something wrong with the back of her dress. It’s only half done up, the back gaping open, revealing pale skin that almost glistens in the moonlight.
And then she does something even more unexpected. She tips her head back and howls like an animal at the moon.
It’s surprisingly loud. And weirdly impressive. I’ve heard animals howl before. When I was in school, there were a couple of foxes who’d howl at each other all night outside our dorms.
But this woman, her howl is primal. And I can’t pull my eyes away from her.
She keeps going for a whole thirty seconds before she runs out of breath. Her body is silhouetted against the moon, her throat long and slender as she lifts her face to the sky, her arms held out to the side like she’s begging somebody to stop whatever’s making her scream.
But then there’s silence. She almost slumps in front of the lake. Looking alone. Defeated.
I don’t like that. I preferred her primal.
“Want a drink?” I call out to her.
The words escape my lips before I even think them through. She turns around in a hurry, her brow dipping as she looks in the darkness for me. I hold up the bottle like it’s going to make everything better.
“What is it?” she asks, as though I’m a wine waiter leaning over the table at dinner.
“Whiskey.”
“I hate whiskey.” She takes a step toward me. I can barely see her toes peeping out from the tulle of her dress.
“Me too. But it makes things better.” And stops me thinking about things I don’t want to.
“Does it?” she asks, looking interested.
I lift the glass to my lips. “Not sure. Ask me again in the morning.”
“I won’t be here in the morning. I’ll be long gone.”
I tip my head to the side, taking her in. She’s come about two steps closer, like an untamed animal desperate for food but wary of human contact. “I thought all the bridesmaids are staying until brunch.”
“Not this bridesmaid.” She’s closer still. And I remember seeing her at the reception. She was dancing with some guy. Laughing and smiling at him.
But now there’s no trace of a smile on her face. Just smudged mascara and a scowl. Yet somehow they work. She looks surprisingly pretty.
“One for the road then,” I say.
“Okay.” She nods. “Pour me a glass.”
“Ah,” I hold up the only glass. “We’ll have to share.”
She sits down next to me. Or as close as she can get in that dress. The pink skirt spills over the grass. She looks like she should be in some kind of costume drama.
“Where did you learn to yell like that?” I say. “Your lung capacity is amazing.”
“You heard me?”
“Yep.”
She holds her hand out for the glass and swallows it all down. She doesn’t even blanch at the heat of the whiskey.
“I didn’t learn it anywhere. I’m obviously a natural howler.”
“Well, it’s a pleasure to meet you.” I hold out my hand and she takes it. Close up she looks like she might be in her late twenties. Early thirties at the most. The older I get, the harder it is to tell, but at thirty-two, I don’t think there’s that much of an age gap between us.
“Bride or groom?” she asks me.
“Groom. We roomed together during college.” About a hundred years ago. Feels like a different lifetime. “You?”
She looks down at her dress and up at me again. “Take a guess.”
“Hey, some bridesmaids are related to the groom.”
“I’m all bride.”
“How do you know Mia?”
She holds the glass up – because it’s obviously become hers now – and I fill it halfway with whiskey. She lifts it to her mouth and I watch her swallow it down. She has such a pretty neck. Who knew necks could be pretty?
“I used to go to school with her.”
“Oh, you went to Columbia?” he asks.
I shake my head. “No, I went to Sanford with Mia.”
I’ve heard of it. It’s one of the most prestigious all girls’ schools in the state.
“Or I did until I was thirteen, then I left.” She finishes the glass again, and I think about suggesting she slows down, but there’s an edge of steel to her. I figure she can police her own alcohol intake.
“So how did you reconnect?”
“We bumped into each other at JFK. And a while later she introduced me to my boyfriend.”
So she has one.
“My ex-boyfriend,” she says, frowning. “Not that he knows that yet. Although he could take a wild guess.”
“The guy you were dancing with earlier?” I ask her. She turns to look at me.
“Yeah. Did you see me?”
“I did. So why is he an ex?”
She lets out a long sigh. “Because I just saw him having sex with the bride’s cousin.”
“Jemima?” Oh boy, this is the wedding that keeps on giving.
Two tiny frown lines appear between her brows. “You know her?”
I shrug. “I think I know everybody here. Either I went to prep school with them, college with them, or I know them through our families.”
She tips her head to the side, eyeing me carefully. “You don’t know me.”
“No,” I conceded. “I don’t.”
“Are you one of them, then?” she asks.
“One of what?” I’m enjoying talking to her way too much. I had planned to drown my sorrows then head back to my bungalow. Weddings are an exquisite form of torture. Good food, great drink. Miserable vibes.
“A trust fund baby.”
I lift a brow. “I’m thirty-two. Not exactly a baby.”
“Do you have a trust fund?” she asks.
“Why do you want to know?”
“There’s a war going on here,” she says, leaning closer to me. “I need to know whose side you’re on.”
“What kind of war?” I lean closer too. She has the most expressive eyes. I think they’re green, though it’s hard to tell in this light. She runs the tip of her tongue over her bottom lip.
And of course I watch.
“I don’t know,” she says. “I think I’ve drunk too much.” She lets out a sigh. “And I don’t have any shoes.”
“I know. I watched you throw them into the lake.” My lips twitch at the memory.
“Why didn’t you stop me?” She frowns and puts her hand on my shoulder. I’m only wearing my dress shirt. My jacket is on the ground next to me. I can feel the heat of her palm leaching through the thin cotton.
She’s close enough now that I can feel her breath on my face.
“Would you have let me stop you?” I murmur to her.
“Probably not,” she concedes.
I give her a half smile. “Why did you throw them in anyway?”
“Because I saw my boyfriend’s white ass thrusting into Mia’s cousin.”
“You should have thrown his shoes,” I say.
“Yes! I really should have.” She gives me another careful look. “His car is here. I could do something to that instead.”
“Like what?” I’m getting alarmed now. Did I encourage this? Am I going to be an accessory to a crime? And why am I kind of hoping the crime takes place?
“Like key his stupid new paint job. Or bust his tires.”
“Or you could go to bed and worry about it in the morning,” I suggest.
“I can’t go to bed. He’ll be there.”
I don’t point out that he could also not be there. Because I’m not sure what would be worse for her right now.
“So what are you going to do?” I ask.
“Sleep here, I suppose,” she says, sighing as she looks at the moonlit grass. “Then get up at the first light of morning and catch a bus.”
“There aren’t any buses out here.” I don’t know that for sure. But this is Westchester. I don’t think I’ve seen any kind of public transport anywhere near here.
“There are always buses somewhere,” she says, like she has experience in finding them. “You just have to look hard enough.”
She tries to stand up, but her foot gets caught in the hem of her dress, and she falls forward. I catch her before she lands face first in the dirt.
And it’s stupid, because if anybody doesn’t believe in fucking tingles, it’s me. But holding her in my arms does something weird to me. Like I’m holding a firefly. She makes me feel lit up.
“You know the worst thing?” she whispers, like we’re still mid-conversation and she hadn’t just fell into my arms.
“Tell me,” I say, deadpan.
“He’s terrible in bed. Why is it always the bad ones that sleep around?”
“I don’t know.” I brush a lock of hair out of her face. “People are assholes.”
“Are you an asshole?”
“Depends who you’re asking.” And we’ll leave it at that, because there isn’t enough space here for both of us to be angsty.
“Are you good in bed?”
Damn, that whiskey is working fast. I smile at her. “Again, probably depends who you’re asking.”
“Your girlfriend.”
“I don’t have one.”
“Your last girlfriend, then,” she says.
Ouch.
“Not good enough I guess,” I tell her. “Which is why she’s not my current girlfriend.”
“That’s silly,” she whispers, those pretty green eyes capturing mine. “Girls don’t break up with guys over bad sex.”
“They don’t?” I’m stupidly curious to hear her words of wisdom on this one. She’s amusingly unpredictable.
“No. We break up with them because they’re cheating lying bastards.” Her face turns stern. “Did she break up with you because you cheated?”
“No.”
“Have you ever cheated?”
“I kissed two girls on the same day in first grade,” I tell her. “Does that count?”
She smiles again. “Don’t tell me. You’re one of the good guys.”
I open my mouth to tell her I’m really not, but she puts her finger on my lips, stopping me. “I know, I know, it depends who I’m asking.”
So now she can read my mind, too.
I wait for her to pull her finger away, but she doesn’t. Instead, she traces my bottom lip with the pad of her finger. Then the top one. Then she cups my jaw.
“You’re very pretty,” she whispers. And it’s weird because nobody has ever called me pretty before. Sure, I inherited good genes. The same dark hair and square jaw that my brothers have. But I like the way she describes me.
“So are you.”
There’s that smile again. And I don’t feel like I’ve earned it. Not being an asshole should be the baseline, not the smile winner.
“And that’s why I should walk you back to your bungalow so you can get some sleep before you catch your bus in the morning,” I tell her.
“I’m sleeping here, I told you.” And to make her point she lays down on her back in the grass, her red hair spilling out all around her face, the pink skirt of her dress spreading everywhere else. “I’m not going back to the bungalow.”
“I’m not letting you sleep here,” I say. “I’ll go see if there’s an empty room in the hotel.”
“I can’t afford to pay for a second room.”
“I’ll pay.”
Her lashes sweep down over her eyes. “You can’t pay for my room. I don’t know you.”
“I’m not staying in it with you.” Although now I’m imagining it. Because fuck it, I’m anti wedding and relationships all the way. But I’m still a man.
“Come on,” I say, scrambling to my feet. I hold my hand out to her and she takes it, letting me pull her up to standing. Despite her shoes being somewhere at the bottom of the lake, she’s still unsteady. I keep hold of her hand to make sure she doesn’t stumble again – or do something unpredictable like launching herself into the lake – and walk her back to the main building of the Eastham Country Club, avoiding the party and heading straight for the reception desk.
This wasn’t exactly how I’d envisioned my night at the fourth wedding of the year ending. Paying for a room for a woman I won’t sleep with.
But it could have been worse. Let’s face it, the next wedding probably will be.
2
EMMA
​
It turns out there are no rooms available. Which isn’t a surprise because this is a big wedding and there are a lot fewer rooms than people here at the beautiful Eastham Country Club.
But then I see money changing hands – between my current knight-in-shining-armor and the night receptionist – and we’re unceremoniously led to a tiny room at the back of the building. It doesn’t even have a room number. Luckily, it’s far away from the wedding itself, and we don’t pass any guests, but it still feels strange as the bellhop opens the door to the single-bed room that will be my safe haven for the night.
“If you give me your email address I’ll send you the money over,” I say when the bellhop has left.
Whiskey guy shrugs. “No need. Consider it an apology from the male species.” He smiles and for the first time I see he has dimples in his cheeks. There’s just a hint of darkness where his beard is growing through, presumably after a shave this morning.
“I don’t even know your name,” I say.
“I don’t know yours either.”
“Emma.”
“Brooks.” He holds his hand out in a strangely formal way. I slide my palm into his and he curls his fingers around mine until we’re shaking.
“Is that your first name or last name?” I ask him.
“Not telling you. That way you can’t Venmo me.”
I roll my eyes. “I’m pretty sure I can ask Mia and she’ll tell me.”
“But you won’t,” he says, sounding completely sure of himself. I wonder what it’s like to be that certain about anything. I kind of envy him. Whatever made him spend the last few hours of the wedding in the grass with a bottle of booze doesn’t seem to have dented his self confidence.
Whereas I’m currently barefoot, my dress gaping open, and another howl away from going full-on-feral-beast.
“Why not?” I ask him.
“Because then you’d have to tell her about the shoes. And I get the impression you don’t want to do that.”
“You think you know me?” I ask him.
His eyes catch mine. “I don’t know you at all. I just don’t need to be paid back.”
I wrinkle my nose because I hate owing anybody anything. “Well thank you,” I tell him, because the fight has gone out of me. I hand him back his jacket. “I appreciate your help.”
“Anytime, Emma.” He slings the jacket over his shoulder and walks out, as I close the door to my tiny room. And then I open it again and call out his name.
He stops, turning to look at me. “Everything okay?”
“My zipper is stuck,” I tell him. “And that’s not a come-on, it’s the god’s honest truth.”
He laughs.
“What?”
“I don’t know. You’re just…”
“An idiot?” I say.
“I wasn’t going to say that.” He walks back into my room and I close the door and suddenly it feels even smaller in here than before. I can smell the whiskey on his breath, combined with the low notes of whatever cologne he’s wearing. Up this close I can see the curl of his chest hair peeping through the open collar of his shirt.
“What were you going to say?” I ask.
“You’re unexpected. That’s all.”
I have no idea what that means, so I turn around and offer my back to him. I take a deep breath as his fingers touch my bare skin right above the zipper, then pull at it with no effect at all.
“It’s jammed,” he says.
“I know.”
He tugs again, and it’s so hard I stumble against him.
“Shit, I’m sorry.”
“No problem.” I turn my head and look at him. He’s staring at the zipper, his brows dipped. Damn, he’s good looking in that all-American, rich boy kind of way.
“Did you choose this dress or did it choose you?” he murmurs, tugging again.
“It’s Mia’s choice. She thinks it’s ironic,” I say, as his fingers brush my skin again. They’re so warm and rough.
“Ironic in what way?” He lets go of the zipper and pulls at either side of the dress. “I’m not sure you’re going to get out of this without me cutting you out.”
“You can’t cut me out. I’ve got nothing else to wear.”
“You must have something else.”
“In my ex’s room, yes.” And I’m not going there. I’m just not. I have my purse and my phone and I’ll ask Mia to arrange for my luggage to be sent to me. “And it’s ironic because she says so. Plus she wanted to annoy her mother-in-law.”
“Sounds like the perfect way to start a marriage.” He pulls at the dress, then tugs one more time, and this time it actually works. I feel the relief of the bodice opening, the coolness of the air conditioning hitting my skin.
He clears his throat, and I remember that I’m wearing the skimpiest thong imaginable.
“Damn, I’m sorry.” He steps back right as I turn around to save my lack of modesty from any further scrutiny.
Our eyes catch and I can’t help it, I laugh. “Do you know you’re the fifth person to see my underwear today?”
“The fifth?” His voice sounds strange.
“Yes. Mia, Mia’s mom, my ex, her Great Uncle Fred, and now you.”
“Her great uncle saw your thong?”
“It’s a long story.” I let out a long breath. “Anyway, you’re also the last. I hope.”
He nods. “I hope so too.”
“Thank you. For…” I wave my hand around the room. “Everything. It was very nice to meet you, Brooks.” I go to offer him my hand again, but then I change my mind and roll onto the balls of my feet to kiss his cheek, my other hand clutching the back of my dress to stop it from gaping. But right as my lips go to graze the scruff of his jaw he turns his head and my mouth connects with his.
His lips are parted. His breath is warm. And somehow, instead of pulling away, I stay right there.
He doesn’t pull away either. He just stands there, as I kiss this virtual stranger – no he’s an actual stranger – in the hotel room he just bought me, wearing a dress that’s one finger flex away from falling around my feet.
And I don’t want to pull back. Because when I do, I’ll have to say something and I can’t think of anything else to say. So I kiss him like it’s absolutely normal, using my free hand to steady myself against his shoulder.
There’s a rumble in his throat, as though he’s decided this is a bad idea and I wait for him to push me away. But instead he runs his hand down my back, pulling me closer, his lips moving against mine as he kisses me back.
And of course he’s a damn expert at it. His kiss is slow and tantalizing. On the verge of lazy. Like he’s trying me out before deciding whether to buy. And because I’ve always been impatient, I run the tip of my tongue along his lower lip.
His throat rumbles again. Damn, I like that way too much. And then his mouth opens, his tongue sliding against mine, his palm warm against my back, his body hard against my front. I curl my fingers around his neck, the tips grazing his hairline, and arch my body against his.
He has both arms around me now, palms flat on my back, head bowed as our mouths move against each other. Despite the cool hum of the air-conditioning unit, I feel like I’m on fire.
And I can tell he’s turned on, too. It’s obvious from the thickness of him pressed against my stomach. I open my mouth to say something about it, but he takes that as me breaking the kiss and damn it, he releases my body and steps back, those expressive brows of his working overtime.
For a moment neither of us say anything. To be honest, I can’t think of a single word to say, and that’s not normal for me. I’m the queen of filling in awkward silences. He blinks, then runs his thumb along his bottom lip, still staring at me.
“Completely unexpected,” he murmurs, his voice a rasp.
“So, yeah.” I nod like an idiot. “Um, thanks for the room.”
He laughs again, and I join in because I’m not sure I’ve ever been more embarrassed in my life. “Good night, Emma.”
“Night, Brooks. Thanks for the help. And if you need anything, just call. Rooms, zippers…” I trail off because I’m making it worse.
He doesn’t answer. Just gives me a half-smile, half-grimace, then walks away. For good this time. I stand in the middle of the room, clutching my dress for the longest time, waiting until I can’t hear his footsteps anymore and can close the door without looking like the idiot I absolutely am.
And once it’s locked I let my dress fall around my bare feet. I want to howl again, this time louder. Because today has been the shitshow of all shitshows.
Instead, I take my lingerie off and stride into the shower, turning it on and stepping into the stream of cold water like it’s a punishment.
“Tomorrow’s another day,” I remind myself, like I’m Scarlett O’Hara and I’ve just lost everything I ever loved.
The only problem is, tomorrow will be worse. I’ll have to somehow get home in a broken bridesmaids dress and no shoes. And this time I won’t have a whiskey-pouring knight in shining armor to help me.
3
EMMA
​
Nine months later…
“I got your coffee,” I shout out to my granddad as I walk into The Vintage Verse, the bookshop he’s owned and run ever since I can remember. There are beads of sweat on my brow because the July heat blasted down on me during my walk back from the coffee shop. “And your breakfast.”
A strange sense of comfort hits me as I weave my way through the stacks of books, carefully balancing the Styrofoam cups and the bowl of oatmeal I bought for Granddad. This bookshop has always been my sanctuary. First when I lost my parents and my grandparents took me in, and then again last year when I split up with Will and licked my wounds in here for months.
Once upon a time this bookshop was run by both my grandparents, before my grandma passed away. They met in the sixties at some commune in Haight Ashbury. They turned on, tuned in, dropped out, and then she got pregnant with my mom and they dropped back in again, settling here in Oak Hollow, a little town on the north coast of Long Island.
My grandmother was a poet, though she only had one book published back in the seventies.
There are no copies in print. And since she died, finding it has become my grandpa’s version of the holy grail.
If there’s a yard sale, he’s there. When an estate sale or book auction comes up, he requests the catalogue and pores over it, determined to find the poetry once written by his lost love.
He hasn’t found it yet, but I don’t think he’ll give up until he does.
I sidle around two giant towers of books. The ones at the bottom have probably been there for twenty years. If anybody comes in here to buy one we’ll probably have to order a crane to extract them safely.
Granddad is on the other side, at the old wooden desk that probably predates him.
“What are you looking at?” I ask him, putting the coffee and oatmeal in front of him.
“We got a letter from the new landlord.” He puts it down and sniffs at the oatmeal. “Does it have syrup?”
“Agave.”
He shakes his head and takes the wooden spoon from the bag, looking resigned. “Your health food fads are gonna kill me.”
“That’s not exactly the plan.” I sit down opposite him and take the letter he’s put down. He has a habit of throwing away important information. Two months ago I found a letter from the electric company threatening to cut off our service being used as a bookmark in a first edition of A Tale of Two Cities.
I take a sip of my coffee and skim the letter, bracing myself for bad news. Keeping this place going is getting harder. It’s our online business that brings the money in nowadays. I set up the website when I started managing the shop full time, when Grandma was sick and Granddad spent most of his time in the hospital.
We have customers all over the world. My favorite sound is the ping of another sale coming out of my laptop.
Granddad came back to work full time after Grandma’s funeral. He loves working here. He loves his customers. Some of them have been coming in for decades to browse the shelves. Very few of them buy anything. But I get it, I really do. If he wasn’t here, he’d be in his empty house without Grandma.
I love this place too. In the months since I split with my ex it’s been my safe haven. Books have a magical way of healing broken hearts.
I frown as I reach the crux of the letter. A new management company took over the building a year ago. They’ve been noticeably absent, changing nothing at all except the bank account we send the rental money to.
“They’re sending us notice to evict?” I ask, alarmed.
Granddad looks at me, his spoon hovering between the oatmeal and his mouth. “Yep.”
“You don’t sound surprised.”
He lifts a brow. “Rita got the same letter yesterday. Mark got one, too.”
Rita runs the dress shop next door. Mark is a therapist. He’s the newest of the tenants here.
“Why didn’t you say something?” I ask him, frowning.
He shrugs. “Didn’t want to worry you. You have enough to think about.”
“They can’t make us leave,” I tell him. “We have a controled lease.” I investigated it when the new company bought the building. Unlike Mark and Rita, who are relative newcomers, when Granddad and Grandma signed their rental agreement back in the early seventies, they were guaranteed their unit for life. All they had to do is pay the rent on time.
“I guess that’s why they’re offering money,” he says. “They’ve offered the same amount to Rita and Mark.”
“They don’t have to pay Rita and Mark. They can just evict them.”
“Maybe they’re ethical landlords. I don’t know.” He puts his spoon back in the oatmeal. “Seriously, what’s wrong with apple danishes?”
“Nothing. Once in a while.” I catch his eye. “I just like having you around, that’s all.
For a moment we sit in silence. I look at the thousands of books stacked up and lining the shelves. Some of them are so dusty you can barely read the titles. Most of them have been here since I was a little girl. I can remember my mom bringing me here when we were visiting from abroad. My dad was never there. He was always working, always traveling. And later my mom traveled with him while I boarded at school.
But when I was little, this shop felt magical. Like a version of Olivanders. My grandma would take me to the children’s section and let me pick out a book. I’d sit in the corner and read while she and mom had quiet discussions, usually about my dad.
I remember falling in love with a copy of Grimm’s Fairy Tales. It was half-falling apart, covered in dust, but the pictures inside were magical. When we left that day, my mom pulling at my hand because we had a flight to catch and we were already running late, Grandma had insisted I take the book with me.
“But it’s worth a lot,” my mom had protested. “She’s a little girl.”
“I’m a big believer in books finding the owner they want,” my grandma said, smiling at me. “Take it.”
I sigh at the memory. Grandma was always generous. Not just with books but with love.
“I’m not planning on going anywhere, Emma,” Granddad tells me.
And now I feel like the thirteen-year-old girl who turned up here carrying a suitcase, still in the uniform of jumper, shirt, and tie that my school – the same one that had thrown me out for non-payment – insisted we wore.
But I’m not that girl anymore. It’s my turn to take care of him.
“I like it here,” he says. “I’m planning on running this place for a long time still.”
“Me too,” I admit.
We both need this place. Granddad, because it was the shop he built from nothing with my Grandma. And me because I don’t know what else to do with my life. I love books, I love being here. I’m single and determined to keep it that way after my breakup with Will.
For the first time in months, I feel myself getting fired up again. “I’ll send them a letter,” I tell him. “Let them know we’re not interested in being paid off.”
Grandpa’s lips twitch. “Sometimes you remind me so much of your grandma. Same red hair, same fiery temperament. I remember us being at a protest in San Francisco.” He runs his finger over his gray-stubbled jaw. “I can’t even recall what we were protesting against. Whatever it was, she was so fired up. When the cops tried to move us on she refused to go.”
“What happened?” I ask him, because I breathe in his memories like I breathe in oxygen.
“She was arrested. Ended up spending the night in jail. When I went to bail her out the next morning she was reciting poetry to all the cops in the station. They were lapping it up.”
We share a smile, and then the bell above the door rings and one of Granddad’s friend’s walks in. He throws the rest of his oatmeal into the trash can, looking sheepish, then goes over to talk to him, leaving me to my coffee and laptop.
I open it to compose a reply to Salinger Estates’ letter. I’m going to tell them to shove their offer where the sun doesn’t shine.
If they want a fight, I’ll give it to them. My grandmother’s blood flows through my veins, after all.
* * *
BROOKS
“Mr. Salinger?” Luke, my assistant says, opening the door to my office. “Mr. Salinger is here to see you.”
“Which one?” I ask him. Because in my family there are a lot of Mr. Salingers. Six of them who regularly call or stride into the office to see me because apparently they don’t realize I’m trying to get some damn work done.
“Your father,” my dad barks out, pushing past Luke without being asked to come in. “We need to talk.”
Of course we do. I pinch the bridge of my nose because it’s only nine o’clock in the morning and today is already shaping up to be the worst day of the week after yesterday. And the day before.
“I’m busy,” I say as my father sits down on the leather sofa in the corner of my office. Which used to be his office, once upon a time, until he stepped down from his position as head of Salinger Estates to spend more time with his wife and his ex-wives. One of whom is my mother.
It’s complicated. Like the rest of my life.
When my father stepped down a year ago, I was the natural choice to step into his role. Not just because I’ve been working for Salinger Estates for the last five years, but because none of my brothers were interested in the job.
It took me about five minutes to work out why. My dad isn’t exactly hands off. Thank god for my stepmother, who insists that he travels with her and his ex-wives when they go on their cruises. She’s already told me she chooses the ones without Wi-Fi so he can’t keep interfering.
“The Redfern Building. Have you sorted it out?” he asks.
I grit my teeth together. The Redfern Building was his mess. It was part of a big auction lot he bought right before he stepped down. He bid on it because he wanted a landmark hotel in Manhattan. Along with that hotel came several other small buildings he intended to refurbish and sell for a profit.
But he didn’t read the damn fine print. One building – The Redfern Building in some tiny town in Long Island – has been a thorn in the business' side ever since.
“I sent an offer to the tenants,” I tell him.
“And have they accepted?”
The letter went out last week. It was a more than generous offer. At this point, our lawyers say our hands are tied. Unless the tenants leave willingly, we can’t refurbish the building and sell it.
And dammit, we need to sell it.
“Not yet, no.”
I look down at the letter I received this morning. Luke brought it in earlier, a grimace on his face.
Dear Mr Salinger.
You can shove your offer where the sun doesn’t shine.
Yours sincerely,
E. Robbins,
Manager, The Vintage Verse
There’s nothing funny about that letter. But it’s a perfect illustration of the tail wagging the damn dog. They have an unbreakable lease and they know it. I’m fuming at the way we can’t buy our way out of this problem.
“We should just sell the damn thing with sitting tenants then,” he grumbles.
“We tried,” I tell him. “Nobody wants a building with three failing businesses occupying it, especially when one of them has an unbreakable lease.”
He lets out a huff. “Life used to be so much easier when you could just intimidate your tenants out of the building.”
I shoot him a look. My father – Rupert Salinger – built his business up from almost nothing, back when Manhattan real estate was a surefire way to make money, and landlords held all the cards.
Now — rightly — there are more curbs on landlords. He doesn’t like it. Not one bit.
“It’s under control,” I tell him, my voice tight. “I’m going to visit the tenants later in the week. Make a deal face to face.”
“You are? Isn’t it two hours away?”
Yes it is, and nobody is more annoyed than me that I have to negotiate over a stupid building we never wanted. It’s going to take at least half a day and I’m working my ass off trying to manage everything here.
“Did you need anything else?” I ask my father pointedly.
“Ah, yeah. Your moms want to know when you’ll be at Misty Lakes next,” he says.
Misty Lakes is my father’s estate in Virginia. My brothers and I all have cabins around the lake, and my father, his wife, and his two ex-wives, who are all friends, stay in the big house on the hill.
My family is beyond complicated. And it’s put me off having one of my own for life, which is a good thing.
“I’m not sure,” I tell him. “I’m very busy.”
“They miss you.” He clears his throat. “Your brothers do, too.”
That almost makes me smile because I’m pretty sure my brothers are all too busy juggling their jobs, their relationships, and their army of kids to notice I’m not there. I’m the only brother unattached and without children.
And for some reason I start to think about last year. About the bridesmaid who howled at the moon. I blink, trying to ignore the memory of her mouth against mine.
For about five minutes I thought about tracking her down. And then I remembered that I’m not interested in relationships. Sure, I hope she’s happy, but that’s it.
My dad’s phone beeps and it feels like a relief. Growing up, we barely saw him. He was too busy building his empire to notice he had six boys from two different marriages who were all desperate for his attention.
It was our mothers who raised us. My mom was his second wife, well technically his third, but we don’t talk about the first wife. Four of my brothers were from his marriage before my mom. Myself and my brother Lincoln are from my mom, and we have a little sister, Francie, from his current marriage to Julia.
As I said, complicated.
“Ah, I’m supposed to be meeting Julia at the club for brunch,” he says, his nose wrinkling as he looks around the office. “I could tell her I’m busy,” he says hopefully.
“No,” I say firmly, because the last thing I need is him poking through all the work we’re doing. “I have everything under control. You have a good time.”
“You sure?”
“Yes.” I nod. “You don’t need to worry about anything. I’ll sort the Redfern Building this week.”
He gives me a quick smile as he stands. He’s lost a little height in the past few years. He no longer looks like the scary patriarch he was when I was growing up.
Now I look in the mirror and I’m almost a carbon copy of the man he used to be.
“Goodbye, son,” he says, patting my shoulder. “And call your mother. She misses you.”
“Sure,” I tell him, watching as he leaves the office, his gait slow, lying through my teeth. “I will.”