No, the girl who published my book.
She wore a fitted canvas jacket with fur trim, skinny jeans, and black Uggs. I really must not have lifted my head at the book signing, because Mel’s face was a stranger’s face.
At the moment, she was making a study of my desk. She smoothed a hand over my laptop, tapped the mouse, and then reached for my notebook.
“Don’t touch it,” I said quietly.
Melanie spun to face me. Her smile trembled and her voice faltered. “Sorry! So … curious about the writer’s cave.”
“The writer’s cave?”
“Yeah. Haven’t you heard that expression?”
“No.” I walked around the couch and settled down, my ankle propped on my knee, eyes on Mel. I forced a small smile, which only seemed to exacerbate her nerves.
“Well, it’s just a thing. Like, a thing people say.” She gestured frenetically. “I know because I seriously live on the Internet. I have a blog. I blog about my hobbies—gardening, cooking, reading, dance. Anyway, the cave, uh, your writing space. Stupid jargon, basically it—”
I held up a hand. “I understand. Thank you.”
Mel laughed too loud. She shifted her weight from foot to foot and avoided my stare.
“Are you hungry?” I said.
“No.”
“Thirsty?”
“Nope nope nope.”
“Suit yourself. There’s food and drinks in the fridge.” I pointed. “And the pantry. Cups are there, plates there. I won’t cook for you, so make yourself at home.”
Melanie nodded. She went to her duffel bag and began rummaging through it. I watched her with interest.
“Are you afraid to be here with me?” I said after a while. “You can stay at a hotel.”
“No, I’m fine.” She removed a book from her bag, then another, building a pile.
“Do your parents know you’re out here?”
She snorted. “I’m twenty-two. I have an apartment with friends. My parents don’t need to know everything I do anymore.”
“You say twenty-two like that’s old. You’re a child to me.”
“You’re only seven years older.” Melanie set the books on the coffee table, and I saw that they were … mine.
There was Ten Thousand Nights with its handsome jacket, and Harm’s Way, Mine Brook, The Silver Cord, all in hardcover.
“You’ll be surprised how much older you feel in seven years,” I said. I leaned over the books and inspected them, smiling. “The gravity of living”—I flipped open Mine Brook—“increases exponentially.”
Mel thrust a pen at me. I smirked and took it.
“You signed my paperbacks in Denver,” she said, “and you didn’t give me the time of day. I’m your biggest fan. So I’m trying again.”
“Fair enough.” In Mine Brook, I wrote: For Melanie, my driver. M. PIERCE.
“Sign your real name,” she said.
I opened Ten Thousand Nights and scribbled: For the persistent Melanie. W. PIERCE.
“You’re a dork.”
“All right, all right.” I laughed and rolled my eyes. I signed The Silver Cord and Harm’s Way MATTHEW R. SKY JR.
Melanie traced her finger under the scrawl. “Junior,” she said.
“Yes. Matthew was my father’s name.” I rose and moved away from the couch. “You can sit there, if you like. Before I forget—”
In the desk drawer was an envelope containing three thousand dollars, which I’d separated from my funds last night. I handed it to Mel. Her eyes widened at the feel of it; three thousand in fifties is quite a wad. “There’s that. It’s the amount I mentioned on the phone, and it should cover your travel expenses to and around here, and back to Iowa, with money to spare. If you stay on another week, I’ll pay you again.”
She fumbled with the envelope before shoving it in her duffel bag.
“You can count it,” I said. I fetched a bottle of water from the fridge and set it on the coffee table. “Please drink that. You look pale.”
“You look pale.” She plopped onto the couch. “Your hair…”
“What about it?”