salad with her homemade salad dressing. My taste buds died and went to heaven every time this woman cooked. It was a wonder I hadn’t gained weight with the way she fed me.
“As usual, Marta, you outdid yourself. I can’t believe you’ve never made that before.”
“My mother used to say—if you can read, you can cook.”
“No, I think there’s a little bit of magic involved when you cook.”
“You are a charmer, Nikki. I don’t understand why some woman hasn’t scooped you up yet.”
“You and me, both, Marta,” I said, filling the dishwasher.
“I wish my Caroline liked women.”
Caroline was Marta’s only daughter. She was a lovely young woman married to her career as an Ob-Gyn.
“I don’t know, Marta; I think she probably sees enough lady parts in a day. At the end of the day, that is a lot to compete with.”
“You are so fresh.” She pinched my cheek as she walked by me to get plates for dessert.
“Hey,” I protested. “What did I say about that cheek pinching thing?”
“But they are such adorable cheeks.”
“And what sinful concoction have you whipped up for dessert?”
“Your favorite. Chocolate cream pie.”
“You are too good to me,” I said, taking the plate heaped with a generous portion of pie covered in fresh whipped cream. “You know, Marta, it’s too bad YOU aren’t young- er …”
She laughed. “Ah, Nikki, I would be a handful for you.” She sat down across from me and patted my hand. “What about this Quinn of yours? Are you sure there is no hope?”
I took a bite of pie and let the chocolate slide around on my tongue before swallowing. “I wish there was, Marta. I wish there was.”
“I see in your eyes how this tortures you. This is not good for a heart, Nikki, to pine for something you cannot have.”
“Aren’t all writers tortured?”
“No. Betty Comden was a delight. She and her writing partner Adolph Green were always very happy.”
“Yes, but they wrote musicals, Marta.”
“And you write romance. Funny, isn’t it? You write such passionate stories with happy endings, but you cannot find yours.”
“That’s going to cost you another piece of pie, old lady.”
She laughed, and I did too. We both knew I was leaving with the remainder of the pie, and a plate to heat up for dinner tomorrow.
Chapter Twelve
I could be caught occasionally in a Barnes and Noble if there were no other choices, but I loved the independent bookstore. And The Strand, on 12 th and Broadway, was the last survivor of almost fifty bookstores that had once been “Book Row” in New York, running from Union Square to Astor Place. Just the thought of all those bookstores made me yearn to be back in quieter days, before machines took over our lives. So I would always arrive early to one of my events and wander through the shelves of books and merchandise. Anonymity was a good thing. Being able to still wander about without people scrambling for your autograph was priceless, and also ironic, since that was why I was there that night.
My colleague turned friend, Harrison Montgomery, and I were to talk for an hour on crafting the Queer romance. Perhaps it was lack of a real relationship that made it easy for both of us to fantasize and write such rich and wonderful ones. I was hoping we could avoid discussing our lack of love lives. When it was over at eight, we would sign books, and then sneak away for dinner at Extra Virgin (Harrison’s choice, just for the name alone), where we would be able to truly catch up on things.
I picked up a denim blue onesie with the words “future author” and an ink quill silkscreened on it and thought about Quinn’s baby. The gift was a no brainer; it would amuse Quinn to no end, and what baby wouldn’t look adorable in that? I found myself drifting to the children’s books, wondering what it would have been like if I had actually
“As usual, Marta, you outdid yourself. I can’t believe you’ve never made that before.”
“My mother used to say—if you can read, you can cook.”
“No, I think there’s a little bit of magic involved when you cook.”
“You are a charmer, Nikki. I don’t understand why some woman hasn’t scooped you up yet.”
“You and me, both, Marta,” I said, filling the dishwasher.
“I wish my Caroline liked women.”
Caroline was Marta’s only daughter. She was a lovely young woman married to her career as an Ob-Gyn.
“I don’t know, Marta; I think she probably sees enough lady parts in a day. At the end of the day, that is a lot to compete with.”
“You are so fresh.” She pinched my cheek as she walked by me to get plates for dessert.
“Hey,” I protested. “What did I say about that cheek pinching thing?”
“But they are such adorable cheeks.”
“And what sinful concoction have you whipped up for dessert?”
“Your favorite. Chocolate cream pie.”
“You are too good to me,” I said, taking the plate heaped with a generous portion of pie covered in fresh whipped cream. “You know, Marta, it’s too bad YOU aren’t young- er …”
She laughed. “Ah, Nikki, I would be a handful for you.” She sat down across from me and patted my hand. “What about this Quinn of yours? Are you sure there is no hope?”
I took a bite of pie and let the chocolate slide around on my tongue before swallowing. “I wish there was, Marta. I wish there was.”
“I see in your eyes how this tortures you. This is not good for a heart, Nikki, to pine for something you cannot have.”
“Aren’t all writers tortured?”
“No. Betty Comden was a delight. She and her writing partner Adolph Green were always very happy.”
“Yes, but they wrote musicals, Marta.”
“And you write romance. Funny, isn’t it? You write such passionate stories with happy endings, but you cannot find yours.”
“That’s going to cost you another piece of pie, old lady.”
She laughed, and I did too. We both knew I was leaving with the remainder of the pie, and a plate to heat up for dinner tomorrow.
Chapter Twelve
I could be caught occasionally in a Barnes and Noble if there were no other choices, but I loved the independent bookstore. And The Strand, on 12 th and Broadway, was the last survivor of almost fifty bookstores that had once been “Book Row” in New York, running from Union Square to Astor Place. Just the thought of all those bookstores made me yearn to be back in quieter days, before machines took over our lives. So I would always arrive early to one of my events and wander through the shelves of books and merchandise. Anonymity was a good thing. Being able to still wander about without people scrambling for your autograph was priceless, and also ironic, since that was why I was there that night.
My colleague turned friend, Harrison Montgomery, and I were to talk for an hour on crafting the Queer romance. Perhaps it was lack of a real relationship that made it easy for both of us to fantasize and write such rich and wonderful ones. I was hoping we could avoid discussing our lack of love lives. When it was over at eight, we would sign books, and then sneak away for dinner at Extra Virgin (Harrison’s choice, just for the name alone), where we would be able to truly catch up on things.
I picked up a denim blue onesie with the words “future author” and an ink quill silkscreened on it and thought about Quinn’s baby. The gift was a no brainer; it would amuse Quinn to no end, and what baby wouldn’t look adorable in that? I found myself drifting to the children’s books, wondering what it would have been like if I had actually
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