Christmas in Bethel

Chapter One

Up until then, my only accidental encounters involved fenders and insurance companies.

Beth Stilton’s Diary

I look kind of cute, I thought, glancing over my shoulder at the hall mirror before walking out the front door of my home. It had been a while since I tried to look anything besides legally clothed. I was dressed casually in my favorite faded jeans and a mid-length cardigan sweater made of alpaca wool. I suppose it was a little weird dressing up for a book signing. What was I hoping for? That my author would find me attractive? Or recognize me as the one he’d written the book for? I’d clearly read too much fiction.

Even though the signing went only until noon, I had taken the entire day off from work.

My author had never been through Pennsylvania before, at least not on a book tour, so I guessed, correctly, that the line for the signing would be long. I knew that the mall opened an hour early for walkers, so I strategically arrived at the mall before that, thinking I would slide in with the silver sneakers club and beat the rush. About three hundred people had the same idea. When the door opened, the crowd rushed to the bookstore, a few openly sprinting. It was like the running of the bulls in Pamplona. One woman fell, and no one stopped to help her. I would have, but before I reached her she was up and off like an Olympic athlete.

The bookstore’s overhead gate was still closed, but the lights were on and there was a table set up at the front of the store with a poster of the new book. I waited in line for a bit, when the woman next to me said she could really use a coffee. I was thinking the same thing, so I made a deal with her that I’d get us both coffee if she’d save our place. She gladly agreed and I went off to the mall Starbucks, about fifty yards from the bookstore.

“Lee,” a sleep-deprived-looking barista said dully, setting a cardboard coffee cup on the counter. As I went to get my coffee, another man, about my age, stepped forward and took it. He was attractive, moderately built with short, combed-back hair. He was wearing a casual shirt printed with newspaper headlines of UFO sightings. As he turned away, I said, “Excuse me. I think that’s mine.”

He turned to me. “Are you talking to me?”

“Yes, I believe that’s my coffee.”

He looked down at the cup. “It’s my name.”

“Mine too,” I said. “Did you have a white-chocolate mocha?”

“Definitely not.” He looked at the writing on the side of the cup. “No, you’re right.” He handed it to me. “Sorry. I just heard my name called.”

“Do you take other people’s bags at the airport too?”

He grinned as he looked into my eyes. He had beautiful blue eyes. “Only if they have my name on them.”

Then one of the workers set a cup down on the counter. “Lee.”

“That one must be mine.” He took the cup and read the label. “Yes, that’s mine.”

Just then a couple sitting at a small table near me stood. The man moved for it. “Pardon me, could I take your table?”

“Of course,” the woman said.

He sat down in one of the chairs, then looked up at me. “Care to join me?”

I glanced around to see if there was anything else, but the place was full. “Yes. Thank you.”

He looked amused. “Are you sure?”

“Very.” I set my purse and coffee on the table, then sat down.

“I’d introduce myself,” I said, “but that’s already been done.”

“Then we can skip the pleasantries,” he said.

“That’s a cool shirt,” I said.

He glanced down at it. “I know. I saw it at Nordstrom and I had to get it. It looks gangster.”

“That’s what you’re going for? Gangster?”

“I do what I can.” Suddenly his smile vanished. I noticed he was staring at my arm. “What does your tattoo say?” he asked.

I pulled back my sleeve and showed him my arm.

So it goes.

“Vonnegut,” he said. “Slaughterhouse Five. Great book.”

“In fifteen years, you’re the first person who’s got that right.”

“It’s the ultimate existential phrase.”

“It was my sad existential phase,” I said.

“Do you have any other tattoos?”

I don’t know why but I showed him my other arm. “This one.”

There is no spoon.

“From The Matrix,” he said. “Challenging the belief that there is reality outside our perception.”

“Two for two. I’m truly impressed.”

“What phase of life was that?”

“My Keanu Reeves phase.”

He grinned. “That’s funny. Any others?”

“Now you’re prying.”

“If you weren’t so accommodating, I wouldn’t be.”

I held up my wrist to reveal a cross.

**

“What phase is that?”

“My current one.”

He nodded. “It’s a bit more hopeful.”

“What about you?” I asked. “Any tats?”

“I’ve got a few markings, nothing I could show you here.”

“Markings?”

“More of a brand.”

“Like from the Marines?”

“Something like that,” he said. He went back to his coffee.

“What are you drinking?” I asked.

“Caffè americano with milk. And my own addition.” He took a small bottle of energy drink from his shirt pocket and poured it into his cup. When he was finished, he looked up at me. “You’re staring.”

“Do you always drink your coffee with an energy shot?”

He took a drink. “I call it jet fuel—enough octane to wake the dead. And it’s cheaper than crystal meth.”

“It doesn’t give you the jitters?”

He held out his hand. “Nope. Steady as a rock.”

“What about your heart?”

He grinned. “It’s been through worse.” He took another drink of his caffeine. I tried to hide how disgusting it was to me. I drank my coffee instead.

I don’t know what it was about him that made me so chatty. Maybe his shirt. “Do you work here in the mall?”

“No. Do you?”

“No. I’m here for a book signing.”

He set down his coffee. “You mean that line outside the bookstore.”

“I know, it’s massive. I’ll probably be here for hours.”

“Probably. Who’s the author?”

“J. D. Harper. Have you heard of him?”

“I have.”

I patted the bag I was carrying. “His new book came out four days ago.”

“It’s in your bag?”

“Yes.”

“May I see it?”

I took my book out and handed it to him.

“Winter in Arcadia,” he said, reading its title. “It has a nice cover.”

“I like his covers. They’ve got their own, kind of, retro style. I hear they’re making a movie from this book.”

“A movie, huh?” He turned the book over. “No picture of the author.”

“No, it’s like his thing. No pictures.”

“That’s unusual. Authors are usually publicity hounds. So you don’t know what he looks like?”

“Well, sort of. There are pictures of him posted by fans on the internet.”

He closed the book. “You just bought it?”

“No, I couldn’t wait that long. I got it the morning it came out. I’ve already read it. In fact, I’m halfway through reading it again….”

He handed the book back. “Was it any good?”

“Like I said, I started reading it again, so that’s kind of a clue.”

“Or maybe you hoped it would end differently the second time.”

“Isn’t that the definition of insanity, doing the same thing hoping for a different result?”

“Insanity, no,” he said. “Stupidity, maybe.”

“Well, the book was amazing,” I said.

“Amazing. That’s a strong word. What was so amazing about it?”

I thought about it. “I guess it’s the way it made me feel. Like the rest of his books.”

“How was that?”

“It’s hard to explain. Sort of like I’m alone with the author.” I bit my lip. “Does that sound weird?”

He shrugged. “A little.”

“Haven’t you ever read something that made you feel that way?”

“Not the kind of things I read.”

“What do you read?”

“Contracts, mostly.”

“You’re a lawyer?”

“No. But when I read for pleasure it’s mostly nonfiction. Tank battles of World War II. The Civil War. Things they make documentaries from. I loved Stephen Ambrose.”

“I’d rather read the back of a cereal box.”

“I didn’t mock your taste in books.”

“No, you mocked me.”

“When did I do that?”

“When you agreed I was weird.”

“I’m sorry,” he said. “But you set me up for that.” He took a long drink of his coffee, glanced down at his watch, then said, “I’ll even the score. Here’s something weird about me. I collect pewter Civil War figurines.”

“I didn’t know there was such a thing.”

“There’s a society of collectors.” He studied my reaction, then said, “You’re looking at me like I’m a freak.”

“No, it’s just… you don’t strike me as that kind of person.”

“What kind of person?”

“Someone who collects little figurine things.”

“You’re making me sound like a loser.”

“I didn’t mean that. It’s just, you look put together.”

“Yes, you’re definitely making me sound like a loser. What does put together have to do with collecting figurines? People collect all sorts of things. Some of these soldiers go for thousands of dollars.”

“I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to insult you.”

“Everyone collects something,” he said. “What do you collect?”

“Regrets, mostly.”

He laughed. “What else do you collect?”

“Books,” I said. “I’ve got enough for a small library.”

“Who do you read? Besides this guy?”

“I used to read Mary Higgins Clark before she passed away. I read Nicholas Sparks, Nora Roberts.”

“Big-time authors.”

“Like Mr. Harper.” I looked back over at the line, which had nearly doubled since I’d sat down, and there was still fifteen minutes before the signing even started. “That line is insane. People were waiting outside for hours.”

He glanced over at the line. “Shouldn’t you be saving your place in line? I don’t think it’s getting any shorter.”

“Someone’s holding my place. I told her I’d bring her a coffee if she’d hold my spot.”

“You got the better end of the deal,” he said. He took another drink. “I’ve never understood why people queue up like that. They do it for electronics too. It’s always on the news, people sleeping out for the new iPhone or video game. Why not just go the next day and buy it?”

“You’ve never waited in line for anything?”

“Only for my driver’s license. I avoid crowds whenever possible.”

“Book signings are different. It’s like bringing the author home with you. When I was a teenager, I slept overnight at a record store to get a signed Barry Manilow record.”

“Barry Manilow. And you made fun of me for collecting figurines.”

“I was a kid then. It was more about getting out of the house. But this is my first time waiting in line for an author.”

“What is it about this author’s books that would make you stand in that line?”

I thought for a moment, then said, “It’s kind of personal.”

“Books should be personal. Any reason in particular?”

I took a deep breath. “In my early twenties I had just left an abusive marriage. I had no family. I had just lost a baby. I had no job, no home. I had no one. Then, unfathomably, I decided to find my biological father. I still don’t know what I was looking for.”

“Home,” he said. “I think we’re all looking for home.”

His words struck me hard. After a moment I said, “Whatever it was, I didn’t find it. He said I was a mistake and wished I had never been born. I agreed with him. I decided to end my life on Christmas Day.”

His expression turned deeply sympathetic. “Why Christmas Day?”

“I don’t know. It just seemed right.”

“I’m sorry,” he said. “But you’re still here. What changed your mind?”

“He did. J. D. Harper. That’s when I found one of his books.”

He pointed to the line. “That author?”

I nodded. “The book was Bethel. It was the first time I felt like someone understood what I’d been through. It spoke to my very core. I think, mostly, I felt hope.” I paused to fight the emotion rising inside my chest. “I’ve read every book of his since then.”

“I can see why you read him,” he said.

I suddenly felt like I’d come out of a trance. “I’m sorry. I don’t know why I just spilled everything out like that to a stranger.”

“We do that,” he said. “We’re all wanting to connect somehow.” He smiled. “Even with a stranger.”

“Maybe,” I said. “Thank you for listening or whatever.”

“Thanks for sharing. No wonder you’re so excited to meet your author. I would be too. You didn’t tell me your last name.”

“Stilton,” I said.

“Like the cheese?”

“Like the cheese.”

He glanced down at his watch, then said, “I need to get to an appointment, but… would you like to go to dinner with me?”

The invitation surprised me. “That’s kind of you,” I said. “But I’ll have to say no.”

He frowned. “That’s disappointing. You’re already in a relationship?”

“No. And I’m hoping to keep it that way.”

“Well, just so we’re clear, I wasn’t asking for a relationship. Just dinner.”

“You just felt the need to feed a random stranger?”

“An interesting and attractive stranger. Why not? Besides, I give to all sorts of charities that feed people.” He stopped. “You’re really not interested, are you?”

“It’s nothing personal.”

“I’ll tell my ego that.”

“I mean, it’s all personal, just not personal about you. You seem very interesting, and yes, you’re very attractive. I’ve just had a bad run with men lately. And by lately, I mean forever.”

He slightly nodded. “I’m sorry.”

I smiled sadly. “Me too. You seem very kind. But so did the last one.”

“So it goes,” he said, grinning wryly. He finished his coffee, then stood. “All right. But if you change your mind, you’ll know where to find me.”

“I will?”

He just smiled. “Have a nice day, Leigh. It’s been a pleasure getting to know you.”

“You too,” I said softly. I watched him toss his cup in a waste receptacle, then walk off. I sighed. He really did seem like a nice guy.