Dorothy’s lips twist, but it’s more grimace than smile. “My brain doesn’t seem to be up to much, either.” The grimace fades. “I can’t understand how the child I gave up so much for and assumed I’d taught right from wrong could have done this.”
“I know. It’s . . .” My voice trails off. I simply cannot find the vocabulary required.
Dorothy’s eyes meet mine. For the first time, hers is not the look of an impatient mother-in-law to an unwelcome and unworthy daughter-in-law but one betrayed woman to another.
I pick up the book. “You’re welcome to read this if you like. I thought it was very good.”
“It is.” An odd, almost timid look steals into her eyes. “I hope you don’t mind, but I read it yesterday.”
“You read the entire book in one day?”
“Yes.”
“All four hundred eighty pages?”
She nods. “It’s hard to believe it was written by the same woman who wrote Eat, Pray, Love.”
I blink in surprise. I have never seen Dorothy with a book or e-reader in her hands. She’s never mentioned a title that she loved or hated. Has never commented on the fact that I’m a reading specialist or that I work part-time in a bookstore. She’s never set foot in Between the Covers, never asked for a recommendation. Though now that I think about it, I have sometimes found books I’m reading somewhere I didn’t remember leaving them.
She looks me straight in the eye. “I’ve always been a bit of a closet reader.”
“Why?”
“When I was growing up, my parents believed that anything that wasn’t educational or uplifting was a waste of one’s time.” She raises one eyebrow. “So, I would hide, sometimes in an actual closet with a flashlight.” Regret tinges her voice. So does anger. “My parents have been gone a long time, so I don’t typically resort to closets anymore. Or bathrooms.” She spears me with a look. “But I rarely read in public.”
I have read in many hidey-holes in order to escape real life, but the idea of parents shaming their own child into reading in a closet may be one of the saddest things I’ve ever heard.
“I’ve especially enjoyed the Outlander series,” Dorothy admits quietly. “And anything by Mary Balogh or Maeve Binchy.” Her eyes almost twinkle. “Back in the day, I was an avid fan of Kathleen Woodiwiss.”
“Wow.” My mouth gapes slightly. This is the equivalent of someone who has never been caught listening to anything but Mozart admitting that they’re a Kanye West fan.
I smile at the sheer unexpectedness of it. “I guess there are a few things we don’t know about each other.”
“It would seem so,” she concedes.
It’s enough to make me wonder whether any of the things we think we know about each other are true.
Erin
As of today, I’ve completed six days on my own as Jazmine’s full-time assistant. Following Louise’s advice to the letter, I march into the break room for coffee first thing every morning nodding and smiling at everyone I see. Then I nod and smile my way back to my desk, where I open Jazmine’s calendar on the desktop computer, my iPad, and my iPhone so that I can track her movements and access whatever she might need every minute of every day, under any and all circumstances.
Today begins like all the others. It will end when the “homemade” chocolate chip cookies that she will take to her book club are delivered at six thirty so that they’ll be fresh when she arrives at the bookstore at seven.
I eat the lunch I brought from home at my desk. Getting things done. Nodding to everyone who passes as if I don’t have a worry in the world.
Thanks to Louise, I know who is who, who to be careful of, who to trust, who wanted this job and didn’t get it, and who to never turn my back on. I’m vigilant but no longer waiting for the bogeyman to pop out from around the corner. Or for a call that will require me to do something I have no idea how to do.
Everything’s going so smoothly that at four p.m. I go into the break room and treat myself to an afternoon latte.
When I get back to my desk, there’s a newspaper clipping in the center of it. I set my latte down, lower myself into my chair, and reach for it, assuming someone dropped it off for Jazmine. But there’s no note on the clipping, which looks like it’s been ripped from one of those tabloids you see at the grocery checkout.
The black-and-white photo is of Josh in a bar, surrounded by his teammates. A tall, beautiful brunette is wrapped around him as if she’s a pole dancer and he is the pole. Despite the crappy image quality, I can practically see the hunger in her eyes and smell the sex wafting off her. Josh is grinning like he just pitched a no-hitter.
My eyes blur with the very tears Louise warned me not to shed under any circumstances. I don’t want to look at this picture a second longer—there’s a reason I’ve been avoiding Instagram except to scroll through occasionally to give myself some semblance of normalcy, but this is the moment I’ve been dreading. Ugh. I know I should bunch it up and throw it in the trash where it belongs, only I can’t quite bring myself to touch it or stop myself from memorizing every single pixel.
I sneak a look around. I don’t know who put it here, but the only reason anyone would is to make me feel like shit. It’s working.
I’m screwing up my courage, swallowing back tears, and reaching for the photo when someone clears his voice.
My head snaps up.
“Are you all right?” Rich Hanson asks.
“Of course.”
“Are you sure? Because you look like you’re about to cry.” He pushes the box of Kleenex Louise always kept on her desk toward me.
“I am not crying.” I push the Kleenex back. Rich Hanson is pretty attractive for an old guy—right around six feet, runner trim, blond hair, hazel eyes. But he’s at the top of Jazmine’s “do not turn your back on” list. Which puts him at the top of mine.
“I’m just trying to help,” he says. “Really. I only . . .”
“Thank you. But I’m fine.” I sniff and try to look efficient. “How can I help you?”
He looks at me.
“Did you have a message for Jazmine?”
“No. I was just passing by and thought I’d have a word with her. Then I noticed that you looked upset.”
“I am not upset.”
It’s clear he knows I’m lying. But he doesn’t call me on it again.
When he doesn’t speak, I stand, palming the photo in one hand and grabbing my phone with the other. “I . . . excuse me. I, um, I have to . . . go.”