Christmas in Bethel

Chapter Five

Alice was our book club’s moderator tonight. I’m proud of her, fighting her fear of being herself and owning her voice. Maxine was her usual self. Too much self, too much voice.

Beth Stilton’s Diary

The Bordeaux Babes Book Club met on the first Wednesday of each month. I had been a member for nearly three years. I learned of the club from a lobby bulletin post at church, and I probably wouldn’t have given it much thought, except the book they were reviewing that month was one of J. D. Harper’s. I was actively trying to be less of a hermit, so, in a rare show of extroversion, I showed up at that meeting. I enjoyed it so much, I hadn’t missed one since.

The club was started about two and a half years before I joined and consisted of eighteen women, twelve of whom were regulars like me. Our name had come from the first meeting where the hostess and club founder, Shelley Winder, had served two bottles of expensive Bordeaux wine she had in her cellar. Even though the club was established as a democracy, Shelley was still the acknowledged queen of the Babes. She was the oldest member of the group, smart, kind, and witty, the widow of a carpet-and-flooring magnate with showrooms in Pennsylvania and New Jersey. She deserved the respect she commanded.

There remained controversy over who had named the club. The founding members agreed that it was Kim Disera who had come up with the club’s original name, though Maxine Eggers vehemently claimed the title, which was on par for Maxine’s ego. Since Kim didn’t care whose idea it was, she let Maxine hold the honor.

I suppose that most book clubs have someone like Maxine—the know-it-all who monopolizes the conversation and talks over everyone who shares an opinion different from hers. Twenty-plus years ago Maxine wrote a book called MANHUNT: A Newly Divorced Woman’s Guide to Dating. The book was published by a small, local publisher. She had her fifteen minutes of fame with an appearance on the local morning and noon news and a place on a local bestseller’s list for one week, so she now thought herself a bestselling author, celebrity, and expert on the entire book world.

Three months after I joined the group, Maxine tried to change our name to the 6 B’s Book Club, which stood for The Bordeaux Busy-Body Brilliant Babes Book Club, but everyone agreed that people would think that the 6 B’s referred to the honey-producing flying pollinator instead of the second letter of the alphabet and people would assume there were only six of us and that we were “beelike,” whatever that meant. It was also pointed out that technically, using the words book club at the end of 6 B’s Book Club was redundant. Maxine sulked through the rest of the meeting, but we all stood resolute in our position.

We chose our books from the New York Times bestseller lists, though we occasionally strayed to culturally relevant topics and upcoming books from favorite authors, such as Nora Roberts and J. D. Harper. J.D. was the one author we universally loved—except for Maxine, who insisted that he was a formulaic writer of common skill. I don’t know why she would say that, except to make herself look smarter than us, so when Shelley reminded her that Mr. Harper’s second book, Jacob’s Ladder, had been a National Book Award finalist, she mumbled something about the book awards being political and that her book had gotten a nod from the committee but had been surreptitiously shot down by fanatic Christians. We let at least half of what Maxine said just roll over us. The other half we ignored.

Books and pleasant company were just part of the club’s appeal. There was also the wine. I’m not a wine connoisseur, but Bordeaux is a pretty great wine. People who are paid to describe wine describe Bordeaux’s flavor as pencil shavings (really?), sage, cedar, violets, spices, and minerality with fruit notes of currants, plums, and cherries. Up until joining the book club, I had tried a Bordeaux only once. It was one of the cheaper brands, but I remembered liking it.

We had developed a tradition of sorts; while our taste in books remained constant throughout the year, our choice in Bordeaux varied. Our club’s high point was a 2021 Lafite-Rothschild Bordeaux at $700 that Shelley had bought at a charity auction, which we all just sniffed and sipped a small bit, then talked a lot about.

This month’s meeting was held at Pauline Barrett’s home. Pauline, one of the club’s founders, was a displaced Texan belle about ten years older than me, as sweet as pecan pie and about as nuts, which meant that I adored her. She had made her great-grandmother’s coffee cake, which was reason enough to come. I was still kicking myself for leaving the autographed copy of Lee’s book for her in the limo. I debated telling her about it. But the more I thought about it, the more I thought I’d sound like I was just making it up.

Shelley had brought the wine this time; each month someone brought a case of twelve bottles, a bottle apiece. That might seem excessive, but it’s what we went through, though I usually limited myself to two glasses and brought the rest home.

Pauline’s home was older, but of gorgeous art deco design; it was large, tastefully furnished, and immaculately kept. (Shelley told us that Frank Lloyd Wright had been involved in the architecture, which Pauline hadn’t told us since she was afraid that it might appear boastful.) Pauline and her late husband collected valuable art, and there were original paintings and sculptures scattered around the house. I once asked her why she hadn’t remarried, and she just said she didn’t have time for that kind of nonsense, though she did have gentlemen friends whom she occasionally traveled with.

Each monthly meeting was moderated by a different member, which gave each of the dozen active members the chance once a year. My next turn was three months away. This month’s facilitator was a newer member named Alice Liddel. She was a friend of Carol Lewes, a former club member who had moved away shortly after I joined. Alice was such an introvert that we assumed she’d stop coming after her friend left, and we were all pleasantly surprised when she was there the next meeting. The moderator’s duty was to present three books from which we’d each vote on. Then, at the next meeting, to bring a biography of the author and back information on the book before opening the meeting up for discussion.

Like I said, we were all surprised when Alice agreed to take her turn at facilitating a meeting. We knew this was a huge leap for her, and we were all pulling for her. In many ways I related more to Alice than the others. Up until her arrival, they would have said that I was the quiet one in the group.

Alice had typed her notes on one sheet of paper, which she shyly hid behind.

“Today’s book…”

“A little louder, honey,” Shelley said kindly. “We can’t hear you over here.”

“Sorry.” She cleared her throat. “Today’s book is titled Winter in Arcadia by the bestselling author J. D. Harper. Mr. Harper burst the publishing scene in 2003 with Jacob’s Ladder, which climbed the New York Times bestseller list to the number one spot, was a National Book Award nominee, and has since sold more than nine million copies in thirty-seven countries. A major Hollywood movie starring Gary Oldman and Helen Mirren was made from the book.

“Jacob’s Ladder was Mr. Harper’s second book. His first book, Bethel, had been released two years earlier, but, like many debut works, received very little attention. After the success of Jacob’s Ladder, Bethel was rereleased by its publisher and also became a major bestseller.

“New York Times reviewer Jennifer Wu wrote: Had the introduction of the two books been reversed, I believe that Bethel would have likely been even better received than its remarkably popular successor.”

“Mr. Harper was born in Huntsville, Alabama, though he lived in more than a dozen different cities before attending college at Emory University in Atlanta, Georgia.”

“They’ve got a stellar creative writing program over there,” Maxine blurted out. “Some rank it as the number two writing program in the country, just below Columbia in New York.”

Alice looked at her as if waiting for permission to proceed.

“Continue,” Shelley said.

Alice cleared her throat again. “Mr. Harper.” She swallowed, then started again. “Before becoming a bestselling author, Mr. Harper worked at Porter Novelli of Atlanta, an award-winning global public relations firm with offices in more than sixty countries.”

Maxine said, “PR firms and advertising agencies put out more writers than an Alabama distillery. Law schools do, too. If you think about it—”

“Good lawd,” Shelley said. “Let the woman speak.”

“I’m just adding color,” Maxine said.

“She’s colorful enough, thank you,” Shelley said. She turned to Alice. “Go on, dear.”

“Thank you.” Alice looked back down at her sheet. “Winter in Arcadia is Mr. Harper’s ninth novel.” She looked up, glancing around at us for approval.

“That was just lovely, dear,” Shelley said. “Very nicely done.”

“Lovely indeed,” Pauline echoed. The rest of us joined in with a chorus of approval.

“Now, how did you feel about the book?” Shelley asked.

Alice breathed in slowly. “I thought it was really good. But I thought it was sad. The ending was sad.”

Maxine started, “The thing about—”

“Wait your turn,” Shelley said.

Maxine shut her mouth. The rest of us furtively glanced back and forth, hiding our amusement. Shelley didn’t take guff.

Shelley asked Alice, “What is it, for you, that made it sad?”

“Well, because I wished that Alan and Nicole could have ended up together.” She looked around the circle. “But I still thought it was a very good story with a powerful message about loyalty and self-sacrifice.” She paused for a moment, then said, “I’ve always wanted to feel loved the way that Alan loved Nicole.”

“Amen to that,” Kim said.

“You nailed it,” Deborah, a blond-haired former beauty queen, said. “Seriously, at one point, I had to stop reading because I was overheating like an automobile’s radiator in August.” Then she added, “But the ending with Nicole, I didn’t see that coming. It was like a sucker punch to the gut.”

“I hear that,” someone said.

Alice glanced down at her notes, then boldly asked, “Why do you think the author ended the story that way?”

Maxine, sufficiently humbled now, raised her hand, looking at Shelley, not Alice.

Shelley nodded and Alice said, “Yes, Maxine.”

“Moolah.”

“Moolah?” LaVonne said, her face scrunching up like a recycled can. “What does moolah have to do with anything?”

“Money is the blood of the publishing world, honey. It’s all about sales. Authors write stories that make people cry. If they cry, they buy. End of story.”

The room turned quiet. Once again Maxine thought she’d schooled us. J. D. Harper was a sellout. It made me angry.

“That’s not why he wrote the ending the way he did,” I said, making a fairly rare appearance.

Everyone turned to me.

“Oh? Tell us your theory,” Maxine said.

I glared back at her. “It’s not a theory. He said that stories sometimes just follow their own path. He didn’t want Nicole to die either, but the story dictated it. He said that writing stories is like falling in love. You think you’re pulling the strings until you realize you’re the puppet.”

“Like falling in love,” Pauline said. “Isn’t that man just a poet?”

“That totally sounds like something he’d say,” Deborah said, nodding.

“Where did you read that?” Maxine asked.

“I didn’t read it. He told me that.”

“Who told you that?”

“He did. Lee. I mean J.D.” Then I added, “Harper.”

“J. D. Harper told you how he wrote his book?”

“No. He just told me that he didn’t want Nicole to die. And a few other things.”

“Well,” she said, sitting back in her chair. “Now that we know that you and J. D. Harper are BFFs, what else did he share with you?”

“Take it easy,” Kim said. “She went to his book signing.”

“And since she was the only one at the signing, he had lots of time to talk to her about books, the weather, and whatever.”

“Maxine, leave her alone,” Shelley said.

“We’re here to talk about this book, and if J. D. Harper himself gave Miss Beth some special insight, I think we’d be remiss to not let her share it.”

I looked over at Alice, who looked as terrified as a cashier at gunpoint.

I smiled reassuringly at her, then I said to Maxine, “It wasn’t at the book signing. It was at dinner. He took me to dinner.”

A peculiar frost came over the group.

“J. D. Harper took you to dinner?” Kim asked.

Now everyone looked unsure as to whether to believe me or not. I couldn’t blame them. I hardly believed it myself.

“This just keeps getting better,” Maxine said. “Then what?”

“I went with him to his speaking event at F&M,” I said.

“I tried to get tickets to that,” Deborah said. “It was sold out.”

Maxine raised her eyebrows. “And then, back to his hotel?”

“I’m not going to talk any more about this,” I said.

There was a pause in the conversation, then Alice said, “Does anyone else have something to add to our discussion?”