Page 53 of A Novel Summer
Shelby pressed her fingers to her temples. “Wait. You shelve books. You log inventory. What do you mean, you can’t read?”
Mia tugged on a lock of her hair. “I can read individual words. Names. A sentence. But I can’t read paragraphs, hold it in my mind, and then add another paragraph to it. I can’t process a narrative in written form.”
Shelby leaned against the counter.
“Do your parents know?” She thought of Carmen’s visit a few weeks ago. She thought about Mia’s attitude towards school. It all made sense.
“When I was younger it was obvious there were delays or whatever. My mother got so upset, and the tutors didn’t help, and so to make everyone happy I started pretending the extra help worked—just to get them to stop worrying about it. I thought it would get better, but it didn’t.”
Shelby reached out and hugged her, feeling terrible.
“You could talk to your brother,” Shelby said, feeling Mia’s slender small frame tremble. “He’s good at finding solutions. That scientific mind, you know.”
“No!” she said, pulling away. “And you have to swear you won’t tell him.”
Shelby hesitated. “I’m not sure I can do that.”
“Why? You’re not together anymore. And we’re friends. So why would you choose him over me? Please, swear,” she said, getting worked up again.
Shelby couldn’t bring herself to make such a promise. Her mind raced, retracing the time she’d spent with Mia in the shop. She realized she might have created false memories of Mia reading books when she had, in fact, never seen her hold an actual open book.
Before she could say anything, Ezra Randall walked in with their guest author for the evening.
The reading began late. So many people showed up that Shelby had to bring out more chairs. The one person who couldn’t make it was Colleen; she was exhausted after the shower. She texted Shelby,No worries: I couldn’t imagine a better reason to be tired and miss the reading—I loved it. Thank u!!!!
Shelby sat in the front row between Pam and Annie. She saved a seat for Anders, and he made it just before the reading started. Dressed in a lightweight seersucker blazer and a pale blue button-down, he looked every bit the distinguished, award-winning novelist.
Anders leaned in and kissed her. “Since your part-timer is here, and the store owners, maybe you’ll be able to slip away a little early?”
Anders’s friends from London, married literary critics Mimi and George Oaks, were in town for the week and hosting a big party. When Anders invited her, she said, “I didn’t think British people celebrate the Fourth of July. Considering...”
“Oh, it’s not a Fourth of July party,” he said. “It’s sort of a...salon. For us expats here for the summer—and the Americans who tolerate us.” He’d winked.
It had sounded like fun at the time. But now she wished she hadn’t committed. She wanted to find a minute alone with Mia. She still couldn’t process what she’d just told her, and wished they hadn’t been interrupted. Terrible timing.
“I don’t know how soon I’ll be able to leave,” she said, looking around at the growing crowd. “I think this might go awhile. We could just stay here, then grab something to eat on our way to the fireworks?”
He smiled appreciatively, as if she’d said something clever. Then his expression straightened, and he said, “Oh...you’re serious.”
“Well...yeah,” she said. Anders glanced behind them, probably plotting his escape, she thought. “Look, I don’t want to keep you here if your friends are expecting you. Why don’t you go to the party, then meet me at the pier later for fireworks?”
He was visibly relieved. “Brilliant.” And she thought, how easy it was to have a relationship with a man who was secure enough in his own life to allow her to have her own.
They faced the bay, and the sunlight played on the water like a painting. The author, holding a copy of her book in front of her, looked like someone staged in a stock photo. It made her wish Anders had been to one of her own events, and she realized it wasn’t too late: she could invite him to go with her to Boston.
Pam leaned in close and whispered, “We’ve had our doubts about the store, what with Colleen on bed rest and all. But you’ve really come through, Shelby.” She squeezed her arm.
She exhaled. She thought about what Doug had said earlier that day, about timing and life and things not always going according to plan. WhenSecrets of Summerhad published two months ago, she never imagined where the summer would lead. And that day at lunch with Claudia, she’d wondered if she’d ever get to the finish line with the new novel. And now she’d almost finished a draft. In fact, she hoped to be done before she went to her next book event. That way, she and Claudia could meet in person to discuss the manuscript.
Thinking of Claudia, Shelby snapped a photo of the author reading from her opening, then turned around to get one of the packed audience. Texting it to Claudia, she had an idea to send it to one more person—someone at least partly responsible for the successful event.
She typed up a text, then erased it. She started again:Thanks for your help with the beach. Annie and Pam are really happy.She attached the photo, and before she could change her mind, sent it to Justin.
Thirty-Seven
Hunter heard about the literary critics’ Fourth of July party from two other students in Anders’s class. They gossiped about it, whispering about who would be there—mentioning half a dozen writers Hunter would love to meet. She decided she’d go. In her experience, Ptown had a fairly open-door policy when it came to most holiday parties. She was willing to bet that was the case for this one.
Hunter stood in front of her mother’s walk-in closet. She felt like she’d exhausted her own wardrobe already. Surrounded by racks of her mother’s clothes, Hunter missed her parents for the first time in a while. She spoke to them once a week or so, but only in a superficial way. They didn’t ask about her job or her life because they assumed she was fine. As long as there was money in the bank, what could be wrong? It seemed to be true for them. But Hunter always felt something nagging at her. Something missing.
