Christmas in Bethel

Chapter Three

Wine lubricates the tongue.

Beth Stilton’s Diary

He never called. His assistant did. She said they’d meet me at five o’clock at an Italian restaurant called Celeste, the C pronounced Ch as in Italian. I’d been there just once. It meant I had to dress up, or at least wear something better than what I’d worn to the signing.

I got to the restaurant a few minutes late, as there was more traffic than I expected, likely due to early holiday shopping and a light drift of snow that had started falling shortly after noon.

When I opened the restaurant door, my author was standing in front of the ma?tre d stand with two other women, one of whom I recognized from the book signing. I felt a twinge of disappointment, since I’d hoped it would be just the two of us. His back was to me as he was signing a menu for the ma?tre d’. He handed the menu back, then the woman from the book signing said something to him, and he turned back. He smiled when he saw me. I walked up to him. “You made it.”

“Did you doubt?”

“You never know.” He gestured to the woman I recognized from the book signing. “I think you met Carlie earlier.”

She slightly nodded. “I was the one telling you to hurry up. Sorry. It’s my job.”

I said, “He gets to be the hero while you’re the scary one pushing people through the line.”

“He is the hero, and I am the scary one,” she said.

“You had me scared,” I said.

“Carlie’s my personal assistant,” Lee said.

“I’m sorry, I didn’t catch your name,” Carlie said.

Lee said, “That’s because I’m not sure what to call her.” He turned to me. “Is it Leigh or Beth?”

“My friends call me Beth,” I said.

“Beth it is,” he said. “It will definitely be less confusing in the long run.” He motioned to a woman standing next to Carlie. “And this beautiful woman is Natalie.” She was older and taller than Carlie, with bright red hair and gaudy jewelry.

“It’s nice to meet you,” she said.

“My pleasure.”

“Natalie is our local media escort. She takes us around to the television and radio stations, book signings, and events.”

“We’re going to grab something to eat,” Carlie said. “We should be on the road by six fifteen. No later.”

“You’re not joining us?” I asked.

“No. But thank you,” she said flatly. “Good night.”

After the two of them walked out of the restaurant, Lee turned back to me. “You said you’ve been here before?”

I nodded. “Once.”

“Just once?”

“It’s a little pricey.”

“Are you ready, Mr. Harper?” the hostess asked.

“We are.”

“Right this way, please.” We followed her to the back corner of the restaurant. It was a smaller, more private area and one of the few tables next to a window that overlooked the garden. I suspected it was reserved for special guests. Lee helped me with my chair, then sat down across from me.

“Your waiter tonight is Alfredo,” she said. “He’ll be right with you.”

“Thank you,” Lee said.

“I thought Alfredo was a sauce,” I said.

He laughed. “And so much more. Alfredo is from Old English and translates to ‘elf counselor.’ Ergo, our waiter is a saucy elf counselor.”

He wasn’t disappointing.

Alfredo walked up to us. He looked very Italian.

“Buona sera,” he said with a thick Italian accent. “Could I interest you in some wine this evening?”

“Would you like some wine?” Lee asked.

“A glass of red?”

“We’d like the Castello di Monsanto, please.” He turned to me. “Or would you prefer a Bordeaux?”

“Is it legal to drink French wine in an Italian restaurant?”

He smiled. “Apparently. It’s on their wine list.”

“Whatever you choose.”

“We’ll have the Bordeaux,” he said to the waiter.

“A very good choice,” the waiter said. “Would you like an antipasto to begin your meal? Perhaps some bruschetta or calamari?”

He turned to me. “What would you like?”

“I’m good with anything.”

“You’re being a little too easy.” He asked the waiter, “Is your melon good this time of the year?”

“Very. It’s very sweet.”

“We’ll have the prosciutto e melone and the burrata.”

“Very good choices,” he said. “I will get your wine and be back in a moment.”

After he walked away, Lee asked, “Do you think he compliments you on whatever you order?”

“I don’t know, but you’re two for two.”

“Beginner’s luck.” Lee looked back down at his menu. “You’ve been here before, what do you recommend?”

“I liked their house special, the Celeste fettuccini with pepper and truffle slices.”

“Is it white or black truffle?”

“I didn’t know there was more than one kind.”

He put down his menu. “I’ll have that.”

“What if it’s the wrong truffle?”

“There is no wrong truffle.”

A young woman placed some sliced bread with small dishes of oil on our table. Lee offered me the bread, then took a piece for himself. He poured olive oil and balsamic vinegar on his plate and dipped the bread in it.

Understandably, I was much more self-conscious now that I knew who he was. It was easier when I thought of him as just a fellow Starbucks client. I started with something innocuous. “Are all your book signings as big as the one this morning?”

He shook his head. “No. Some are bigger. Some smaller. It depends on the city. You’d think that the bigger the city, the bigger the signing, but that’s not always true. The thing is, in big cities people get a bit jaded. I was signing books in downtown Manhattan, and the line was about a third of what it was this morning. The store manager apologized and said that Mick Jagger had been through the day before. Suddenly, I didn’t seem like that big of a deal.”

“I can see that.”

“That I’m not that big of a deal?”

“No. I meant…”

He laughed. “I’m kidding. But it’s a thing. Las Vegas is the same way. It’s difficult to get media because of all the stars. The last time I was there I got bumped from a radio interview because Mike Tyson walked into the studio.”

“Bumped by Mike Tyson.”

“I suppose it’s better than being hit by Tyson.” He grinned. “It could have been worse. It could have been Barry Manilow.”

“I don’t think it would hurt as much to be hit by Barry Manilow.”

He laughed. “I think not.”

Alfredo returned with our wine, pouring a small amount into Lee’s glass. Lee sniffed it, then nodded. Alfredo filled my glass halfway, then Lee’s, then left us with the bottle. I tried the wine. “That’s delicious.”

“That is good.” He took the bottle and looked at the label. “I’ll have to remember that.”

I set down my glass. “Here’s a question. What’s the strangest thing you’ve had happen at a book signing?”

“The strangest… I could write a book on book signings,” he said. “But the strangest thing…” He thought for a few seconds then said, “I’ve got it. Once, I was in a small town in southern Ohio. I must have been the biggest thing ever to come through, because I’m not exaggerating, the whole town turned up. The line went six blocks down Main Street. The people at the front of the line had been waiting there for twelve hours.”

“How did you know that?”

“She told me. You’d be surprised what people tell me.”

“I shaved my legs for your signing,” I confessed. “I can’t believe I just told you that.”

He smiled. “You made my point.”

“Now I’m embarrassed. Continue with your story, please.”

“So, the bookstore was herding people through the line like cattle.”

“Like this morning.”

“Worse. It was completely hands on, drag people away. While I’m signing, I notice that there’s this woman sitting on a chair about ten feet across from the table. She was older, maybe late seventies. But what caught my attention was that she had gauze wrapped around her head, and her hair was matted down on one side with what looked like blood. It was stuck to her head.

“I asked the bookstore owner what the woman’s story was. She casually said, ‘Oh, that’s Gretta. She was in a car accident on the way here. They put her in the back of an ambulance, but she jumped out and came here instead. She said she was feeling a little faint, so we let her sit here until her time in line came.’

“I said, ‘You’re kidding me, right?’

“?‘You’re her favorite author and she won’t leave until she gets them signed.’

“I said, ‘Please bring her over here so I can sign her books and she can go to the hospital. No, strike that. I’ll go to her.’ I got up and walked over and signed her books. I would have driven her to the hospital myself if I had to.”

I shook my head. “Fans.”

“I love my fans,” he said. He looked at me for a moment, then asked, “Are you a fan?”

“I’m not a stalker, if that’s what you’re getting at.”

“I didn’t ask if you’re a stalker. I asked if you’re a fan.”

“Who do you consider a fan?”

“Someone who shaves her legs before a book signing.”

“I don’t think that’s what it says in the dictionary.”

“What does it say in the dictionary?”

“I’ll look it up.” I pulled it up on my phone. “A fan or fanatic is someone who likes a thing, a person, or an idea.”

“That’s not a good definition,” he said. “I could like Brussels sprouts, but that doesn’t make me a fan.”

“You like Brussels sprouts?”

“No, they’re foul. Look up another definition.”

“Okay, Fan. Noun. First definition: ‘an enthusiastic devotee, usually of a sport or a performing art, usually as a spectator.’?” I looked at him. “Is writing a performing art?”

“Probably depends on the author.”

“Second definition: ‘an ardent admirer or enthusiast (as of a celebrity or a pursuit).’?” I smiled at him. “Based on that, I am a fan. I am an admirer of your work.”

“Thank you.”

“And I shaved my legs.”

Alfredo brought us our appetizers and took our entrée orders. We both got the Celeste fettucine.

“Have you had this before?” he asked, holding a knife and fork to one of the appetizers—a ripe slice of cantaloupe wrapped in prosciutto ham.

“No.”

“It’s a great combination.” He cut me a piece and put it on my plate.

I tried it while he watched in anticipation. “That is good.”

“It’s one of my personal favorites. I also love dates stuffed with blue cheese.”

We both ate a little, then he said, “Tell me about Beth.”

“I think I told you everything over coffee.”

“You read me the flap copy; tell me about the book.”

“Where should I begin?”

“Where do you work?”

“I work as a fraud analyst for an ACH provider.”

“You catch bad guys.”

“You could say that.”

“Do you go into an office?”

“Once a month. After Covid we all just started working from home. My productivity actually went up, so they told me I could work from home.”

“Is it lonely?”

“My whole life is lonely.”

“No pets?”

“Up until a year ago I had a dog. A bichon.”

“One of those little dogs.”

“She was fun-sized.”

“You said had and was. What happened to her?”

“A year ago, I opened the door to get a package and she ran out into the street in front of a car.”

“I’m sorry. How long did you have her?”

“Six years.”

“That’s hard.”

“I mourned her hard. Dogs are little angels. It’s like they know things. Like when you’re sad, or when you’re hurting. I had knee surgery a few years ago. When I came home, Puppins kept licking my knee where I’d been operated on.”

“Your dog’s name was Puppins?”

“Mary Puppins. Puppins for short.”

He smiled. “That’s pretty cute.”

“My point is, I had pants on, so she couldn’t see where they’d operated.”

“She probably smelled the bandage.”

“Thanks for taking that magic away from me.”

He laughed.

“Have you ever had a dog?” I asked.

“I have. She was my best friend. In fact, it’s one of the saddest stories in my life.”

“Tell me.”

“Well, it was a difficult time of my life. Not as bad as yours, but not good. Daisy, that was her name, was my only friend. One morning before school, my mother told me to call the dog in. Daisy was across the street when I called her. I didn’t see that a car was coming. She ran under its wheels. I ran over to her and picked her up. She licked my face, then she died in my arms.”

“That may be the saddest thing I’ve ever heard.”

“You know what the worst part was? When I carried her home, my mother was mad because I was late for school. She said, ‘Put that thing down. You can bury it after school.’?”

“What was wrong with her?”

“That’s a conversation in itself.”

“I’m sorry,” I said.

I noticed him furtively glance down at his watch.

“Who are you speaking to, and what are you speaking about tonight?” I asked.

“It’s sponsored by the Franklin and Marshall Alumni Association, so I’ll be speaking to whoever wants to come. I’ll be talking about my book.”

“Do you like to speak in public?”

“I do. Before I was a writer, I was in publicity, so it’s kind of my forte.” He looked at me. “Would you like to come?”

“I don’t have a ticket.”

“I’m your ticket.”

“Then I would love to go.”

He smiled. “You can come with me.”

“I can drive. I have my car.”

“Why would we waste that time we could have together?”

“It’s not a problem.”

He looked at me as if he was studying me, then said, “That’s right. You’ve been hurt by men. Let me reassure you. We won’t be alone, Carlie and Natalie will be with us, and after the event I’ll bring you straight back to your car.”

I felt embarrassed. “Okay. Thank you.”

He seemed happy with that. Just then a pretty, thirtysomething woman with short blond hair walked up to our table. She was trembling.

“Mr. Harper, I’m so sorry for interrupting your dinner.” Her eyes were welling up. “I just wanted to thank you for all the hours of enjoyment and escape you’ve given me. You’re my favorite writer.”

“Thank you,” he said.

She looked at me. “I’m sorry to disturb your dinner.” She turned and walked away.

“Does it still feel good to hear that?” I asked.

“Every time.”

“Does that happen often?”

He nodded. “Fairly often. Sometimes I just hear my name, like I’m in their conversation. Carlie’s more attuned to that kind of thing than I am.”

“Does it ever get annoying?”

“It depends on the circumstance. And the person’s demeanor. This young lady was very sweet and apologetic. And she apologized to you as well; that’s rare. Once I was in an intense conversation with my film agent and this woman kept trying to talk to me. My agent lost it on her. It was ugly.” He frowned. “To them it’s one time, but to me it’s every day. That’s the difference.”

“You lead a strange life,” I said.

“I have a good life. I’m blessed.”

“What does your blessed life hold for tomorrow?” I asked.

“The tour goes on. I have some early morning media, then some personal things before I leave town. How about you?”

“Usual drudgery for us mere mortals. I have work, I need to go grocery shopping and do some laundry. But I do have my book club tomorrow night. And, coincidentally, we’re reviewing your new book.”

“But my book just came out.”

“I’m sure everyone’s already read it. They’re all big fans of yours.”

“What are you going to say about my book?”

“I’m going to tell them that Winter in Arcadia flows like a prized wine, with notes of McEwan and Hosseini, leaving the reader deliriously happy and thirsty for more.”

“You’re quoting the blurb off the back of the book.”

“I was just checking to see if you read your own PR. What should I say?”

“How did the book make you feel when you read it?”

“Sad. It made me cry. Especially when Nicole died.”

“Good. Sad sells.”

“I’m sure you’re right, but I don’t understand it. Isn’t there enough sadness in life without seeking it out?”

“There’s a lot of speculation about that. But look how attentive you were when I was telling you about my dog.”

“That’s true.”

“Some psychologists say it’s the same reason we like hot peppers. The pain releases endorphins, which causes pleasurable feelings and numbs our pain. But I think it’s more than that. I think, more than anything, we want to feel. Sad stories make us feel more alive. It’s a way to experience sadness and catharsis, without the real-life anxiety or stress.

“One of the magazines asked me why I wrote stories that made people cry. I told them, ‘I don’t write to make people cry, I write to make them feel again.’ But as I thought about it, I realized that the books that most impacted my childhood were the books that made me cry. Charlotte’s Web, Old Yeller, Where the Red Fern Grows.”

“Two of those books are about dogs,” I said. “And I cried at those too.”

“We all did. The thing is, writing a story is like falling in love. You think you’re pulling the strings until you discover you’re really the puppet.”

I liked that.

He continued. “I think what’s most important isn’t whether the story is happy or sad, but that the ending is appropriate. That’s how it was in Winter.”

“You’re saying that you really didn’t know from the beginning that Nicole was going to die?”

“I didn’t. I didn’t want her to. I like happy endings. Of course, I’ll get hate mail for sure.”

“You get hate mail?”

“Hate mail. Threats. We keep a file of unhappy readers called, If I ever go missing.

“That’s not funny,” I said.

“It’s life in public,” he said. “But back to the book… you could still call it a happy ending. Nicole was finally free from her pain, and Alan was a better man for knowing her. Isn’t that happy?”

“It’s not the happy ending your readers want. Everyone wants to see them together, happily ever after.”

“That’s why they call it fiction.”

“You don’t think people can stay together happily?”

“They can, but only if they change the reason they’re together.”

“What do you mean?”

“It’s human nature. People rarely keep doing things for the same reason they started them. That includes marriage.”

“Did your parents stay married?”

“Their relationship was about as temporary as a parking lot fireworks stand. And just as volatile. And your father left you.”

“You remembered.”

“I have a good memory for detail. Do you want to talk about it?”

I shook my head. “No.”

“Fair enough.” He took a drink of wine. Our waiter arrived with our food.

Lee said, “Buon appetito,” then took a fork to the pasta. I waited for his reaction.

“Is it good?”

“Very,” he said. “White truffles.”

We ate a little in silence.

“Does your book club have a name?” he asked.

“The Bordeaux Babes Book Club.”

He nodded approvingly. “I like that. And here we have Bordeaux wine for dinner. Coincidence? I think not.”

“It’s fate,” I said.

“Would you like some more fate?”

“Please.”

He filled my glass, then reached down and lifted the book he’d brought in. “I didn’t forget that extra book I promised. Who would you like it signed to?”

“Her name is Pauline. She’s hosting the party at her house.”

He scribbled in the book, talking as he wrote, “?‘To Pauline, you are a lovely woman with impeccable taste in books. Thanks for reading. From Beth’s friend, J. D. Harper.’?” He looked up. “How’s that?”

“She’ll love it.”

He handed me the book. “How big is your book club?”

“We have about eighteen members, but only a dozen of us show up every month. We have a website.”

“You have a website?”

“We were just going to have a Facebook page, but one of our members does websites, so it was kind of a no-brainer. We post the books we’re reading, our calendar, make refreshment assignments. You’re welcome to come. I’m sure they won’t mind.”

He grinned. “Thank you, but I think I’m already booked.”

“Shame. I could have really impressed them.”

Just then Carlie walked up to our table. “We need to leave in fifteen.”

“Thank you. Would you take care of our bill?”

“Of course. The car’s out front.”

“Thank you.”

Carlie glanced at me, then walked away. I recognized the possessiveness in her eyes.

“She looks after you,” I said.

“Yes, she does.”

“Like a prison guard.”

He laughed. “Good simile.”

“Is she married?”

“Just to her job.”

“That makes sense. She has feelings for you.”

He looked a little uncomfortable. “I know.”

I began to push back from the table. “We should go.”

He held up his hand. “Don’t let her ruffle you. We still have a few minutes. Let’s finish our wine.”