Only in Novels

“Is it ten o’ clock, yet?” Lannie Maxwell glanced at her teenage assistant and pulled a stack of books from beneath the counter. “This display’s only half-ready, and she’ll be here any minute.”

The display consisted of two card tables covered with a sheet and several glossy hardbacks. A banner proclaiming “Welcome Ms. Modern Homemaker!” fluttered from the bookstore’s upstairs balcony. Gwen, Lannie’s freckle-faced assistant, was busy stacking copies of the Ms. Modern Homemaker series: recipe books, sewing manuals, covers featuring big balls of yarn and knitting needles.

“Relax Lannie,” Gwen said, checking her wrist watch. “She won’t expect us to be ready for at least thirty minutes.”

The “she” in question being Dora Eve Hensen, the author of the hottest-selling title in how-to and crafts. In fact, the only hot-selling title in the Bayside Bookstore.

“You’re just nervous, that’s all,” Gwen added, stepping back to inspect a paper poster with Ms. Modern Homemaker’s beaming image.

“Of course I am,” Lannie snapped as she clipped her hair out of the way with a barrette. A second later, she regretted her tone. “It’s just…you know, if this doesn’t work out, there’s no Plan B. That’s it.”

No need to explain what that meant; they both knew. No more Bayside Bookstore. No Jane Austen book nook upstairs, no rows of Charles Dickens and Shakespeare.

Gwen gave Lannie a reassuring look. “In the letter I got from the booking agency, they promised ten o’ clock on the dot.”

With a deep breath and a prayer for courage, Lannie forced her lips into a smile. “Right. I know that.” The clock on the counter chimed the half-hour. Nine-thirty and counting until she could save her business from ruin.

The sound of a roaring engine distracted her from the clock. Glancing out the window, she watched as a motorcycle gunned up the street and swung into a parking space opposite the store. A man in leather climbed off, removing a helmet to release dark, shaggy hair from beneath.

Tall. Dark. Rippling muscles beneath a fitted jacket. What was someone like that doing on old-fashioned Bay Street? Or prowling the streets of sleepy Macasia, New Hampshire, for that matter.

The motorcyclist looped his helmet over the handlebars and strode across the street, one hand smoothing his ruffled mane. Through the open jacket, she glimpsed a graphic tee shirt and a cross necklace made from nails.

“Um, is he coming here?” she asked. As the man’s hand reached for the locked bookstore door. The entrance bell clanked slightly as he pulled. Scrambling from behind the display, she cracked the door open.

“Sorry, we’re not open until ten,” she said.

“Yeah, I know. I’m here for the book signing.” He flashed a crooked smile.

She sensed admiration in his glance, and a warm blush climbed her cheeks as she returned his stare. Her voice had taken a momentary vacation. “Excuse me?” she croaked.

He drummed his fingers softly on the door handle. “The book signing is today right?”

“Yes, it’s today,” she answered. “You’re here for Ms. Modern Homemaker?” She tried to keep the incredulity out of her voice. Was he serious?

The man in leather’s smile grew confused. “No. I’m D.E. Hensen. I’m here to sign books.”

It took Lannie a moment to put it all together. Her eyes widened with horror as she realized what he said. She pulled the door open quickly, causing the overhead bell to jangle frantically.

“Come in,” she said, slamming the door behind him. “Look, Mr. Hensen, there’s some mistake. Maybe you’ve got the wrong bookstore or something. We’re expecting—”

“I’ve got your letter right here.” His long, tan fingers slipped inside the leather jacket and pulled out an envelope. “See? The Bayside Bookstore. That’s your address, isn’t it?”

From the corner of her eye, Lannie saw Gwen’s jaw drop.

“Would you excuse me?” Slipping past him, she grabbed Gwen by her shoulders and propelled her down the nearest aisle.

“D.E. Hensen?” She stared at Gwen’s blank face, waiting for an explanation. None came.

“Gwen, you told me you contacted the booking agency and arranged all this!” She tried to whisper, but her voice sounded harsh and echoing among the shelves.

“I wrote them,” Gwen whispered back. “I used the contact information in the computer system.”

“Are you sure you looked up the right author? Dora Hensen, right?”

Gwen gave her a pathetic look. “The database said ‘D.E. Hensen.’ I just assumed—”

Laura Briggs graduated from a Missouri liberal arts college in 2008 with a Bachelor of Arts degree in English. Since then, she has pursued a career as a freelance writer. Her passion for literature has inspired her to produce a range of online articles on writing and classic authors, as well as her first White Rose romance novel.

Discussion Questions