Digging In: A Novel(64)

“Romance can serve a practical purpose,” she continued. “You should use it, Lukas, if you think it would work. We should use anything we think will work.”

“That seems cynical,” I said.

Rhiannon smiled. “I thought you said you were a practical kind of person. Don’t you want to get Petra into our offices?”

“It’s time!” called a bookstore employee. She seemed irritated by the haphazard way the customers formed a line. People doubled up, cut, and wove in and out. Petra’s fans were an eclectic bunch, everything from hipster to Wolf of Wall Street. The only thing they had in common was the inability to organize.

“We need to spring into action,” Lukas murmured.

“Just push your way in,” Rhiannon said. “That’s what Byron did.”

As if on cue, Byron waved from his spot in the middle of the line.

“He’s quick,” Lukas said, with admiration. “That’s good. We need to get in there. Paige, get to the back of the line. Keep letting people in front of you so you lock in your position. Rhiannon, find a place ten or twelve people down from me.”

I sauntered over to the end of the line, behind a madly texting woman and her college-age look-alike daughter, also madly texting. No one paid me the least bit of attention. I watched Lukas authoritatively march to the front. He stood in front of the small table until people made room for him. Surprisingly, he had that effect on people. Rhiannon slithered into the line somewhere between Lukas and Byron. I lost sight of her.

A few minutes to the hour and still no Petra. According to Tomson’s Bookshop, there would be no speech, no reading, no Q&A, just Petra scrawling her John Hancock on the inside of the book cover. I’d only been to a few of these author things, but even I recognized this as unusual. No online interviews, no podcasts, no public speaking—what was Petra hiding? Her book had hit the Times list, with mentions in Entertainment Weekly and Vanity Fair. Petra qualified as big-time. Why wasn’t she acting like it?

A few minutes after the hour. Petra’s fans grew antsy. The girl next to me stopped texting and started swiping, probably on Tinder. “This isn’t worth it,” she muttered to her mother. “She isn’t even going to talk.”

“Who cares?” said the older woman. “The photo will look good on Instagram.”

The younger one subtly rolled her eyes.

“There she is,” someone shouted.

Petra Polly appeared, hair braided, multicolored knee socks matched to an expensive-looking robin’s egg–blue silk dress, Buddy Holly glasses, and a messenger bag made out of what resembled aluminum foil—like a manic pixie dream girl for people who actually had jobs and should know better. A Tomson’s employee guided her to the table and made an announcement about the rules: Petra would only sign copies of her book; she wouldn’t pose for photos—at this the two in front of me sighed—and engaging Petra in conversation was a no-no, as there were too many of us. That didn’t throw me. We’d have to work quickly in the time it took to write the inscription, but a lot could be said in thirty-second increments.

Petra smiled wanly and nodded at Lukas. It was difficult to gauge from my vantage point, but I thought I saw him swoon. After a moment, a couple of Tomson’s employees glanced at each other and walked over to the table. I couldn’t see Petra’s response, but Lukas was gesticulating wildly. Another employee scurried over. He put a beefy hand on Lukas’s shoulder and physically pulled my boss from the line. Lukas began to animatedly plead his case, but the guy’s face went cold.

“Great,” I muttered. “Just great.”

Lukas was escorted out by the literary bouncer.

Even with Petra’s lack of engagement, the line moved at a dinosaur’s pace. Lukas was gone, hopefully helping Glynnis and Jackie back at the office. Rhiannon’s and Byron’s exchanges with the illustrious Petra happened way out of my earshot. I did know one thing—they didn’t last very long.

I practiced the script in my head, wiped my sweaty palms against Mykia’s overalls, and cupped my hand over my mouth to check my breath. The phone-obsessed mom and her daughter approached the table. Up close, Petra was tiny and delicate, with bright blue, inquisitive eyes. She smiled up at the duo but said nothing. She did take her time writing an inscription in each book. A good sign. The bookshop employees, bored and happy the line had reached its end, wandered to other parts of the store. A better sign. There wouldn’t be anyone around to stop me.

“Thank you,” Petra Polly said to the women in front of me. It was a modulated voice, the phrase coming out a little strange.

“Can we get a quick photo?” the mother said, already shoving her phone in my hand. “It’ll only take a second.”

“No,” said Petra Polly. Very calmly. Very firmly.

“It’ll just take a second,” the daughter whined.

“No,” Petra said.

Undaunted, the two women sandwiched Petra anyway. “Take it,” the mother said to me. “Quickly.”

Petra winced. No matter if she was a public figure, this was a violation. I tossed the phone in their general direction. “She said no. Have some respect.”

“You’re both bitches,” the daughter said as they walked toward the exit.

Petra and I stared at each other. “Thank you,” she finally said. The woman’s face drooped with exhaustion. I felt sorry for her, and more than a bit maternal. I had a job to do, but the job could wait a minute or two. Petra needed some coffee and a jelly donut.