Halfway to You(37)

Maggie signs her receipt and slides it back across the bar. “It’s nice seeing you again, Matt. Thanks for your concern about Ann. It’s . . . heartening to know that she still has people around who care about her.” And with that, she exits the bar, leaving Matt and his odd sentiments behind.





ANN


Denver, Colorado, USA

July 1987

“I have a surprise,” Keith said as we walked side by side into the final bookstore on my book tour. “I added one more stop.”

I halted, and my publicist, Kim—who had been walking behind us with a notebook in hand—stumbled to a stop behind Keith. “You’re kidding,” I said, not amused.

I hadn’t enjoyed the tour—the last place I wanted to be was back in America, with its abrasive crowds and young, ugly cities. But my book had sold at auction. Three competing publishers had bid, driving up the size of my advance and garnering much anticipation. Chasing Shadows had received stellar early reviews from established authors and critics at trade journals, and suddenly my short stories and travel articles were getting into publications like the New Yorker and Travel + Leisure. Award buzz for Chasing Shadows was already humming.

The tour was inevitable.

My gratitude toward Chasing Shadows’ success was the only thing that kept me going on the rigorous schedule. Five weeks after release, I’d visited eighteen bookstores and five radio studios in six major cities. Today’s afternoon event in Denver, Colorado, was supposed to be my final appearance.

For Keith to add a last-minute stop was just cruel.

Keith ushered me and Kim out of the bookstore’s doorway, over to a display table filled only with copies of my book. “It’s a small neighborhood venue with a lot of charm,” he said. “I promise you’ll love it.”

“See, now I’m starting to think you’re not kidding.”

“I’m not kidding,” Keith said.

“And when is this happening?” I asked.

“This evening,” he said. “We’ll do this appearance, have an early dinner, then drive to the last stop.”

“You confirmed this?” I asked Kim. She was a rigid scheduler, and I knew she didn’t like the unexpected.

“Why not?” she said with a shrug. “You’ll sell more books.” Clearly, the tour had worn her down too.

Seeing my horror, Keith added, “It’ll be a mellow, intimate reading. No big deal.”

No big deal had practically been Keith’s catchphrase lately, and I was tired of hearing it. I hadn’t been to the United States since I’d left three years ago, and it felt wrong to be here again.

In the fourteen months before my book’s publication, my life in Italy had assumed a steady rhythm that was safe and content. In addition to my career—final edits, galley proofs, story writing, phone interviews—Carmella had helped me set up a business of sorts: translating menus for the clusters of trendy up-and-coming restaurants that were steadily moving into the area. Through free dinners and menu translations, I’d grown a sense of community and connection with the neighborhood.

I missed Trastevere dearly.

I missed my apartment. I missed my bookshelf, where, with pride, I had displayed the beautifully embossed prepublication hardback of Chasing Shadows. I missed my rickety balcony and backward water taps and the cats I often fed on the stoop. I missed drinking cappuccinos and having dinner with Carmella. I missed Rome. My home.

Though the booksellers I encountered on tour were friendly, the crowds overwhelmed me. The questions were prying, and there was no hiding behind microphones. Moreover, I felt like a fraud. Through brunches and schmoozy dinners, I couldn’t wrap my head around why anyone would want to hear my words. I was shocked by my own accomplishments—so shocked, I believed I was undeserving.

But I was wrong to doubt myself, Maggie. I should’ve basked in that brief window of glory. I wish I had stood taller and thought, Yes, I deserve this. Because I had worked hard on that book, and so did Keith. I had gone through hell to write my main character Jane’s emotions clear and true.

Homesickness, impostor syndrome, watery eyes and a raspy voice from sleep deprivation—for all these reasons and more, I wanted to flat-out refuse Keith’s plan. But then the event manager of the bookstore found us forcefully whispering by the Chasing Shadows display, and her arrival defused the argument.

She introduced herself as Lisa and led us past the half-filled rows of audience chairs into a back room. While Keith unpacked a water bottle and my dog-eared reading copy of Chasing Shadows—which was worn and blank looking, long ago stripped of its shiny jacket, just as I felt—I asked Lisa if I could borrow a phone. She ushered me into a conjoined office and closed the door, leaving me to my privacy.

I leaned against the cluttered desk, staring down at the phone like it was a sick animal that might snap if I got too close.

A week ago, from my hotel in San Francisco, I’d dialed Mom’s number and left a message with the time and location of my reading in Denver. I’d tried again last night, eschewing another voice mail when she didn’t pick up. Nearing three years after Greece, I could count on one hand the number of times I’d spoken to my mother. Being in Denver had given me an uneasy sort of wistfulness I did not relish.

Still, I wanted my mother at this reading. The last time we’d spoken, she’d asked for more money; the least she could do was show her support in person. But I also wanted her to recognize that her daughter was better off, that the distance had ultimately been good for me—as if, in some way, my success could absolve me from leaving her behind.