Kissing Brendan Callahan (7 page)

“Oh, yes.” Antonia's face is all smiles. “Ophelia will be so happy. You are a dear.”

I beam and hold up the accordion folder. “Here are the plays.”

“Keep them for me,” she says, rising. “I need to stretch my legs.” She walks to the nonfiction section and beckons me with her index finger. I hurry over. “I hate book signings,” she whispers. “They tire me considerably. A writer needs solitude, but my agent makes me do this. Honestly, they ask me the same question over and over again. It drives me mad.” She affects a silly voice. “How do you come up with the ideas for your books?” She elbows me. “I'm glad you're to be my assistant. You seem a cut above the rest.”

I've died and gone to heaven.

“Lovely hat,” she says.

Mr. Barrett clears his throat and holds out a bottle of mineral water. “Ms. DeMarco, your fans are waiting.”

Antonia smiles and strolls to the table. She inspects the bottle. “I suppose this will do. Thank you.” She sits and turns back to me. “Wait for me, won't you? We must talk drama.”

I almost fall over. She wants me to wait for her. We're going to talk drama. “Of course,” I say. I would wait forever.

“How do you ever come up with those wonderful story ideas?” says Anne Marie, gushing.

Antonia and I exchange a knowing look. Wow! I glide around the store, dizzy with happiness. I enter a conversation with two older ladies who are trying to decide which of Antonia's books to buy. I recommend
Love Hath No Fury.
They thank me.

“I'm a friend of the author,” I slip in, tilting my head. I'm getting a handle on acting cool. I wander over to the register and talk to Marge. I tell her I'm assisting Antonia.

“You'll have to tell me what she's really like,” she says. “I'm a fan myself.”

“Of course,” I say, tilting, tilting, tilting.

“Is there something wrong with your neck?” she asks.

Perhaps my new look needs a little work.

Mr. Barrett buzzes around the store like a nervous fly. He slips copies of Antonia's books into customers' hands and guides them to the book-signing line. Every few minutes, Antonia waves him over and whispers something in his ear. He brings her different pens, tissues, more bottled water.

I stand to the side and watch Antonia. I love the way she leans forward to talk to the customers like she really cares about them. You'd never know from the way she's acting that she isn't enjoying this. Mr. Barrett looks thrilled with all the books he's selling.

I imagine that I am Antonia and all these people are here to see me. “How do you ever come up with such clever ideas for your stories?” they'd ask over and over again.

“Inspiration is everywhere,” I answer.

Someone bumps into me from behind.

“Talking to yourself again?”

I turn. It's Brendan.

THIRTEEN

Brendan's eyes bore into me. Is he thinking about my running away yesterday? Say something. Anything. I can't. I look down at his shirt, which is covered with drawings of toads and says “Toad-al Chaos.”

Beth steps between us, carrying a copy of
Enraptured Thorns in My Heart.
“Isn't this exciting? I love Antonia DeMarco.” She elbows me and smiles shyly. “Maybe you shouldn't mention this to your mother.”

This is too funny. “I won't tell her,” I say.

Brendan starts to walk away, but Beth grabs his arm. “Hey, you two,” she says. “Look at all these customers. Great opportunity to sell raffles!”

“I told you I'm not going to sell them anymore,” he says. “I'm tired of annoying people with them.”

“Nonsense. People love to buy raffle tickets. Right, Sarah?”

Brendan turns to me and our eyes lock. They really do. I thought that was just an expression, but I couldn't look away if I tried. I see the challenge in his stare:
Stand up for us!

“Brendan's right. It's a tough job and we've been doing it a long time,” I say, not looking away from his eyes. “Ask some of the younger kids.”

I've never stood up to her before. There's a hint of a smile on Brendan's face.

“Well,” Beth says, looking uncomfortable. “I suppose I should get in line.” She walks away.

“You see, strength in numbers works,” Brendan says.

“Strength in numbers,” I repeat. I fidget with the folder I'm holding. “I'm sorry I ran away yesterday.”

“You made me feel like a jerk,” he says.

“No,” I say, looking up. “It was stupid of me to run. Meeting Antonia made me nervous.”

“Yeah, right.” He puts his hand in his pocket. “Don't worry.” He takes his hand out. He crosses his arms. “It won't happen again.”

“Right,” I say, trying to sound like I don't care. “Of course not.”

“Oh, Sally.” Antonia DeMarco waves her hand. I look around for a Sally but don't see anyone. She points to me.

“Excuse me, Brendan.” I walk over.

“Sally, dear. I'm beginning to get hungry. Would you be a love and run to the nearest deli to get me a sandwich?”

“Of course. But my name is Sarah.”

“How silly of me,” she says, smiling. “I'd like tuna salad on rye bread. But without seeds. And make sure the mayonnaise is fresh. Have them add lettuce, but it must be romaine. And tomatoes, but I don't like the outside slices.”

“Is that all?” I ask.

“Yes,” she says. “I hate to be a bother.”

“Oh, you're not,” I say. “I'm your personal assistant. Anything you want.”

I turn, trying to think of the closest deli.

“Oh, and one more thing, dear.”

I turn back. “A diet root beer. A&W, of course.”

“Of course.”

I wave at Brendan. “Have to go.” He nods. I find the closest deli, but they don't have rye bread without seeds. The next deli doesn't have romaine lettuce. I end up having to go to three different delis to complete her order, putting the sandwich together myself. I've taken a long time and I hope she isn't mad.

When I get back to the bookstore, Mr. Barrett is standing over Antonia, whispering in her ear. Antonia looks pale and is massaging her temples.

“I'm developing quite a headache,” she says. “I don't know if I can continue.”

Mr. Barrett looks around and smiles at the customers. “Just a brief delay,” he says. “Ms. DeMarco will be back to signing her books in a moment.”

“I have your sandwich,” I say, offering it to her.

“Yes, have something to eat,” says Mr. Barrett.

“Thank you,” she says, opening her lunch.

I look around for Brendan. He's near the door and Anne Marie is next to him, talking and smiling, talking and smiling. I move closer. Not to make it obvious that I'm listening in on their conversation, I reach out and pull a book off the shelf. It's about golf.

I watch Brendan from the corner of my eye. I'm not trying to be cool. I'm checking to see if he's gazing lovingly into her eyes, only it's hard to tell from this distance. He laughs at something she says. I move closer. This time picking up a book on curling—whatever that is.

They are talking about some concert. “I just love the Electric Shockers,” Anne Marie gushes. “Are you a fan?” Another smile.

“Yup.” Brendan nods.

Yet another smile. “They're playing at the Garden on Saturday,” she says.

“Wow,” says Brendan. “I wouldn't mind going to that!”

I walk away because I couldn't bear to hear him ask her out. Why is it that Anne Marie always seems to be hovering around my life, taking things that belong to me? I walk back to the register, trying to recall all the things I've always hated about Brendan. Like the way he rides his bike like a maniac and his rudeness and his silly jokes. But they don't seem as real as the kiss.

Turning back, I catch Brendan and Anne Marie walking outside together, and my heart crumbles like a cookie that's been sat on.

FOURTEEN

I have a long wait for Antonia. Instead of driving myself crazy, wondering if Brendan and Anne Marie are out there kissing, I take notes. I don't want to forget this scene with its long line of adoring fans who can't keep their eyes off Antonia. I love the queenly way she sits and welcomes them and the look on their faces when they finally get to talk to her. I eavesdrop and jot down bits and pieces of conversations.

“Ladies and gentleman,” says Mr. Barrett. “I must interrupt the signing for a few minutes so that Ms. DeMarco can give a short interview.”

A nervous-looking woman steps forward. She studies the notes she's written on a crumpled piece of paper and clears her throat. “Hi, Ms. DeMarco,” she says. “I'm from Staten Island College and I'd like to ask you a few questions for the readers of our newsletter.”

“Certainly,” says Antonia.

The woman smiles. “How do you come up with the ideas for your books?”

Antonia throws her head back and gives me a look. I nod understandingly. The woman rattles off questions like, “Did you always want to be a writer? Who is your favorite author?”

“Myself, of course,” she answers with a laugh. “But seriously, I adore Shakespeare. I encourage everyone to read all of his plays.”

During the interview, I learn a few things about Antonia that I didn't know, and I record them in my notebook. She was an orphan, raised by her aunt in Vermont; she's been married three times but still believes in love; and she's had lots of odd jobs all over the country.

About fifteen minutes later, Mr. Barrett says, “Unfortunately, we must stop the interview because Antonia has a lot more books to sign.” The lady asks if Antonia will pose for the newsletter photographer, and she agrees. Mr. Barrett rushes to Antonia's side in time to be photographed with her.

Antonia signs books for another hour. About three-thirty, the line finally ends. She rises and stretches. “Where is Sally?”

I rush over. “It's Sarah,” I correct her again.

She nods and puts her hat back on. “Sarah,” she says grandly. “We have business to attend to, don't we?” I smile and feel a rush of excitement as she says my real name. We walk out of the store with Mr. Barrett, who is thanking her again and again. We get to her car, a convertible. When Antonia replaces her hat with a silky scarf and puts on sunglasses, she looks even more like a movie star.

I've never ridden in a convertible before. It's so cool. Wait until I e-mail Lynn.

“I need to unwind before I can take care of our contest business. I hope you understand.”

I nod and she pulls away speedily from the curb, cutting off the car behind her. The driver of that car beeps the horn. I look away in case it's someone I know.

I have to hold my hat in my lap because it keeps trying to fly away.

“What is your next book about?” I ask, hoping this is a question she likes.

“Oh, that,” she says, waving her hand. “I'd much rather hear about you. What are your dreams, Sarah? What are your passions?”

I blush. “I want to be a writer. I've always wanted to be one.”

She turns and smiles. “Then you shall. I can sense the writer in you.”

Antonia DeMarco senses the writer in
me.
She has known me for a little over three hours and yet she knows. I get goose bumps all over.

“What are you working on right now?” she asks. “Tell me about it.”

I wish I could tell her about my play, but under the circumstances, how could I? “I haven't finished anything yet.” I take out my notebook and read off some of my plot notes.

“You've made some good observations,” she says. “Of course, I used to do the very same thing. Details. Details. That is what has made me a great writer.”

I write
DETAILS
in my notebook. We drive up a curved road, snaking back and forth to the top of the hill as the wind blows in my hair. I point out St. Andrew's Church and its cemetery, which has tombstones dating to the mid-1600s. She pulls over and parks. We get out and walk through the graveyard.

“Look here,” she says, pointing to a small marble stone with the inscription
Eliza Stubens, 1842–1847.
“She was just a little girl.” We stand there staring at the stone. “What a pity,” she says. “What do you think she died of?”

“Probably cholera,” I say. “There was an epidemic around that time.”

“How awful.” Antonia presses one hand over her mouth and nods sadly. I can feel her sensitivity for poor Eliza.

“You certainly seem familiar with local history,” she says.

I'm about to say my mother is a history nut, but I stop myself. I don't want to bring my mother into this perfect afternoon. We move on to other stones and read off names and dates, talking about life back then. Antonia is so easy to talk to.

“I'm getting a very good feeling from you,” she says.

“Thank you,” I say.

“I've been going through a rough time.”

“That's terrible,” I say. “Can I do anything to help?”

She stares deeply into my eyes. “Sarah, what I'm about to tell you must be kept in strictest confidence. I feel that I can trust you.”

We're kindred spirits, I want to tell her.

“Please promise not to repeat what I am about to tell you.”

“Your secret is safe with me,” I say.

She stares straight ahead. “I'm blocked creatively.”

“Oh, no,” I say.

She nods. “I haven't written a thing in, well, a while. That's why I've come to Staten Island. I needed to be away from my editor, my agent, a certain Hollywood producer, and the swarms of fans. I need to think, relax, sort things out.”

“Tell me what to do,” I beg.

“Perhaps you can help keep my fans at bay so I can relax. There has been so much pressure to start my next book and then there's that screenplay.”