Book Deal (4 page)

Or presumably she was. No one behind the front counter, no trace of her perfume in the woody air, no one at all in the anteroom, for that matter. Though that wasn’t really surprising. The store was a rabbit warren of interconnected rooms, each of which had had former lives: travel offices, barbershop, five and dime. Their fortunes had declined, along with the general atrophying of most downtown shops, but from the moment Arch had left teaching and opened the first serious bookstore in the Gables, his traffic had risen steadily, astonishing nearly everyone, especially his bankers, and far overwhelming his original space.

A furrier next door goes belly up, no problem. Arch assumes the lease, blasts a passage in the adjoining wall and, voilà, instant children’s books section. Law offices upstairs flee to Broward, where there’s a more moneyed class of criminal, Arch drills a hole in the ceiling, installs a spiral staircase that winds up to the new rare books annex, presided over by Uncle Els, retired attorney and dedicated bibliophile.

The best thing about the arrangement, in Deal’s mind, was the utter Topsy-like quality of the growth. Now you could wander from hard-cover fiction (the anteroom) in two different directions: right, into children’s (a dead end), or left, into architecture and photography. religion and philosophy were further along in what had been the furrier’s vault. At the far end of that track, in the former five and dime, were paperbacks, magazines, and all the poetry publications, along with an open space where Arch sometimes hosted touring authors or invited the local aspiring writers to read. He’d stuck a freestanding fireplace in there (Deal had helped find a way through the labyrinthine Gables building code for that one) and had been threatening to add a coffee bar (you’re my builder, right, Deal?), but he finally admitted he would need more space for that, had told Deal he was biding his time until a designer of swimwear vacated the next premises in line.

Deal heard the murmur of distant voices, thought of something, checked the sign in the display window he’d been using as a mirror a minute ago. Sure enough: Diego Quintero. Reading from his new novel,
Calculation of Dreams
. Sunday. 2:00
P.M.
Deal nodded, moved on toward the reading room.

Whatever had caused the parking problems outside, it was clear that Diego Quintero had little to do with it. Arch had set up two dozen or more folding chairs in the common area of the big back room, but fewer than half of them were occupied: Arch sat at one end of the first row, beside him a middle-aged woman Deal recognized as an author’s escort, Regina something or other, spoke with a British accent though she told Deal once she’d been born in Mobile. The two of them had their eyes on Quintero, who stood gripping a music stand cum podium, head bent and sweating, his gaze fervent, his voice booming as he read from a passage about a group of Cuban peasants fleeing an approaching horde of pigs.

At the opposite end of the row was another guy he’d run into at the bookstore several times, Reed or Reeves or Rheem, an inveterate book collector, that much Deal remembered. That one sat with a stack of
Calculation of Dreams
balanced in his lap. There was a copy of the poster advertising Quintero’s reading propped at the side of his chair, a pile of
Miami Herald
issues at his feet. It meant Quintero was a growth stock in Reed/Reeves/Rheem’s eyes: Deal had stood in enough autographing lines to know. Not only would he be getting Quintero’s signature on the books, but also on the poster, and on whatever ads or reviews he’d come across in the newspaper. Deal tried to imagine some scene in Sotheby’s, twenty years in the future, “And now, what am I bid for two dozen signed ‘Cultural Calendars,’ advertising the author’s inaugural publicity tour…”

Deal nodded acknowledgment at Arch’s welcoming smile and edged on into the room, took a seat in the back row, glanced down the aisle at another member of the audience. If Janice noticed his arrival, she didn’t let on. Her gaze was fixed on Quintero, as if intensity in this audience might make up for what it lacked in size.

For his part, Quintero seemed undaunted. He had added sound effects to the proceedings, stared out at them now, rocking the podium side to side, making what Deal thought to be remarkably lifelike snortings. “Pigs,” Quintero called. He let go of the tottering music stand, waved his hands in a dramatic circle, his eyes wide. “The entire world become pigs!” Two more great snorts, and then Quintero was dramatically still, his hands pressed to his sides, his head bowed to his chest like a singer whose aria had ended. Deal glanced around, joined in the applause, wondering how a dozen people clapping, however enthusiastically, sounded from Quintero’s end of the room.

***

The question was still with Deal some time later as he made his way back through the store toward the children’s section, where Arch suggested he might find Janice. Though he wasn’t sure that a world turned into pigs was going to be of great interest to him, Deal had picked up one of Quintero’s books, as much out of admiration for the man’s game performance as for the vividness of his bizarre vision. That was one thing about coming to Arch’s store for a reading, he thought. You never knew what you might discover. He’d joined the line waiting behind the book collector (Cleese, actually, the man reminded him) as Quintero dutifully signed the books, the poster, and five copies of last Sunday’s arts column that mentioned Quintero’s appearance in a sidebar.

By the time Deal had shaken hands with Quintero, had his book signed, “To my new friend, John Deal,” and listened to a rendition of other striking barnyard sounds (
Calculation of Dreams
was a kind of Latino
Animal Farm
, the good-humored Quintero told him), Janice had disappeared, and he’d had to interrupt Arch, who was apologizing earnestly to Regina for the disappointing turnout, to ask where his wife might have gone.

He found her finally, in the deserted children’s section, squatting before one of the kid-sized bookcases, her back to him, reshelving a pile of tumbled hardcovers at her feet. Or at least that’s what she was supposed to be doing. At the moment he came in, she had a book balanced on her knees, was turning one of its sizable pages.

“You recommend that one, would you?” he said.

She whirled, the book tumbling to the floor, and caught herself from going over with an outstretched hand. She had her mouth open to say something, but closed it when she saw it was him. Her salesperson’s smile vanished, was replaced with something even more inscrutable. Not displeasure, exactly, but then again, he might have settled for the practiced smile.

“Good grief, Deal,” she said, staring up at him.

He put out his hand. She hesitated a moment, then softened, let him hoist her up.

She gave him a real smile finally, shook her hair back from her face. “You scared me,” she said.

He nodded. “It’s a good thing you weren’t in the crime section.” When she didn’t say anything, he pointed back the way he’d come.

“So how’d you like the reading?”

“He’s good,” she said after a moment. “A shame about the turnout, wasn’t it? Sunday afternoon and all.”

Deal nodded. “He seemed to take it in stride.”

She was studying him now. “I was surprised to see you,” she said. “I didn’t know you were into magical realism.”

Deal thought about it. What could it hurt, letting her think that’s why he’d come in. “He’s really something on those animal sounds,” he said.

She smiled. He probably hadn’t fooled her at all. That was one of the many things he liked about her, of course, that she’d never been fooled by him. He gestured at the fallen book. “So, how’s that one?”

She glanced down, seemed to consider the question. “It’s a Christmas book,” she said. “About a little girl who just wants her big brother to be nice to her.” She paused. “We sold a lot of them during the season, but I hadn’t really looked at it. I was just thinking Isabel might like it.”

“She doesn’t have a big brother,” Deal said.

She stared at him. “What does that have to do with anything?”

He shrugged. “It was just an observation.”

Less than five minutes, he thought, they were already into dangerous waters.

“The way your mind works,” she said, shaking her head.

“But I have many positive qualities,” he tried.

She cocked an eyebrow at him, seemed to relent. “How is Isabel?” she said finally.

“Fine,” Deal said. He paused, weighing his words. “She’s happy you’re back in town. She told me this morning, ‘Every Saturday I get to see Mommy now.’”

She nodded, her eyes averted. “I’m happy, too,” she said.

“That makes three of us, then.”

She glanced up at him, and for an instant, he saw the old Janice behind the careful facade. The woman he’d fallen in love with, so many years ago.

And then, just as suddenly, the moment passed. No one else would have noticed, of course, not even if they’d been standing right beside him. Only he could see the shadow that was back in place.

“Why don’t you bring the book by the fourplex after you get off,” he said.

“Deal…” she began, but he cut her off.

“I don’t have to be there,” he said. “You can just drop by, she’s so excited…”

“I can’t, Deal.”

She stared at him, her lower lip trembling the way it always had when she was truly upset, and he held up his hands in surrender. If anything, he was thinking, she had become prettier than ever. She’d had her hair tinted in a shade of auburn that suited her tanned face, had it stylishly cropped though still long enough to cover her ears, he noted. A few lines had deepened in her face, but they simply served to define the planes and angles that he’d always loved. See this woman across a room, you’d make for her in a heartbeat, he was thinking. No matter what.

She glanced over his shoulder to make sure no one had wandered into the anteroom. “We talked about this,” she continued, struggling to get her voice under control. “I told you what Dr. Rascoe said, and you agreed. Everything by stages. I thought you understood…”

“I do,” Deal said. “I really do. I’m sorry.”

She sighed, shook her head. Maybe it meant she accepted his apology, maybe it meant simply that he’d behaved in just the inappropriate way she’d expected. Deal had the sudden feeling he was being subjected to a test, one to which no correct answers were possible.

“So you found a place and all?” he said.

“The Mariner,” she said. “Right around the corner from the Mayfair House.”

He nodded. The Mariner was a landmark building in Coconut Grove, a wood-framed apartment building with a lot of smoked glass overhung with banyans and massive tangles of bougainvillea. Studios and one-bedroom units, mostly. The kind of place you’d want to live if you were single.

“You decided to live in the Grove, you should have said something,” he told her. “Terry Terrell would have let you have his gardener’s cottage.”

“I don’t think so, Deal.”

“It’s a nice place,” he said.

“Is this how it’s going to be, Deal? I tell you something about my life, you try and revise it?”

Her expression was neutral, but he knew he’d been pushing it again. “It’s a nice place, that’s all.”

“Free rent, sex at eleven?”

“Jesus, Janice,” he said. “Terry’s not that kind of guy.”

“He’s recently divorced, his parties make the society pages all the way over in St. Pete,” she shrugged. “What kind of guy is he?”

“What’s all this talk about sex?” a voice behind them said.

Janice’s face flushed suddenly, and Deal turned to see Arch coming down the passageway toward them.

“We have a couple of sexology books, sir,” Arch continued. He was smiling, had his arms outstretched to welcome Deal, “but we keep them in philosophy.” He paused and mimed the coming of a sudden thought. “Of course there was the Madonna book, but I’m sorry to say we sold out of those.”

Arch flung one arm around Deal’s shoulder. “Now, did you want to buy a book on sex, or are you just coming on to my new assistant manager?” he said, nodding at Janice.

It was Deal’s turn to blush. He was trying to think of something to say when a horn sounded from outside. A white car had pulled up to the curb in the loading zone, a man at the wheel, his face obscured from Deal’s view.

Janice glanced at her watch, then back at Arch. “I’m sorry, Arch. I lost track of the time,” she broke off, sweeping her hand at the pile of books still littering the floor. She started toward them, but Arch held her back.

“It’s OK,” he said. “You’ve done more than your share today.”

“I feel terrible,” she said.

“Go on,” Arch said. “The place is empty. I’ll finish up.”

She gave him a grateful look, then hurried behind a counter and scooped up a sweater and a purse. She stopped on her way out, put her hand on Deal’s arm.

“Thanks for coming by,” she said. “I’m happy to be back, Deal. I am.” Her gaze rested on his momentarily. “I’ll see you Saturday. Bright and early.”

Deal felt his features arrange themselves into a smile, felt his head bobbing in response. “Bright and early,” he managed.

Janice turned to Arch. “And I’ll see you first thing in the morning?”

“Blue Monday,” Arch said. “Slowest day of the week.”

“Come off it,” she said. “This place is a gold mine.”

“Right,” Arch said. “Look around. Books marching out the door.”

“It’s Super Bowl Sunday,” she said. “What do you expect?”

Deal felt another surprise, though it took him a moment to force his mind off the man in the car outside. The Super Bowl? He’d forgotten all about it. Who was playing, anyway? How his life had changed. When they’d lived in the house in Miami Shores, Super Bowl Sunday was one of the highlights of the winter social calendar. Every year a massive block party. A neighborhood betting pool. Halftime show by the neighborhood kids, though they’d never had a child to join in, and now that they did, look what had happened.

He turned to glance out the window again, but the white car had inched on ahead, and all he could see was the license plate, one from Sarasota County.

“That’s the art collector?” he said.