Written Off Read Free Page B

first book published is not exactly a small milestone in a life.
    With something Rita called “hand selling,” which means that she told customers whom she thought would be interested all about Olly Olly , she sold more copies out of her little independent store than a lot of the large chain stores and maybe some online retailers, although I’m really not sure about that. Authors don’t know nearly as much about our book sales as people think we do (and we’re not responsible for the covers, either).
    Tonight, Rita had ordered bagel sandwiches and soft drinks from the Adamstown Deli (I’d paid) and had store staff members, of whom there were two, dressed in semiformal attire to hand them out from trays. The food and drink were excellent, of course, and while the store didn’t have lines out the door and around the block, there was a nice turnout of about twenty-five people. (Okay, so there were twenty-seven. I counted. And yes, I always do.)
    I read a portion of the latest published Duffy book, How to Vanish Without a Trace , after a lovely introduction from Rita. I don’t care for reading from my books, but only because I think I don’t do a very good job. I get nervous and read too fast, eventually mumbling into my own chest. Then it gets bad.
    So I had kept tonight’s reading brief, gave a short talk on how this particular episode had occurred, and answered a few questions from the group, who luckily had been offered some wine from Rita’s private stock in addition to the soft drinks. That loosens up people who might be nervous about speaking and helps open a few wallets when Rita says I’ll be signing only books people purchase at her store that night. This is, I’m quick to point out, Rita’s rule and not mine. On my own, I’ll pretty much sign the back of your dry cleaning receipt if you show the least bit of interest in my books.
    “I’m so glad you enjoy the character,” I said to the enthusiastic fan. There wasn’t a huge line left (to be honest, there had never been a huge line, but it had been representative for sure). “It’s always fun to meet people who get him.”
    “No, I mean I really love him ,” the woman, who was wearing a wedding ring, said. I noticed a man standing near the new fiction stack, out of the line, glancing nervously in the direction of the table where I was signing. Maybe her husband. No wonder he was nervous; she was declaring her love for another man—admittedly one who didn’t exist, depending on who you talked to.
    Duffy’s readers are most often women, and some of them have a really interesting relationship with the character. I’vereceived marriage proposals in e-mails . . . for Duffy. There was one woman who was, let’s say, explicit in her special interest in him. On occasion, they’ll send photographs of themselves, presumably for the fictional character to peruse. I try not to whenever I can avoid it. But sometimes Paula can’t resist showing me.
    “Well, I hope you’ll keep reading. How would you like the book signed?” I asked Duffy’s enthusiastic fan. The man in the back—the only male left in the store besides my pal Brian Coltrane, who was helping Rita clean up after the party—glanced over again, saw me looking at him, and looked away. Her husband, for sure.
    “Sign it, ‘To Liddy, who I dream about at night, Duffy Madison,’” she sighed. I stifled an impulse to look around for Paula, then remembered this was not a night she was working. I’d have to do crowd control on my own. Unless I could get Brian to walk over and look threatening.
    “Well, I’m not Duffy Madison,” I said with what I hoped was a reassuring smile.
    “I know,” she said, not without a touch of sorrow.
    What the hell; she’d paid for the book. I wrote the inscription as she’d asked, obstinately signed my name under Duffy’s, and handed it back to her.
    “Oh, thank you,” she gushed. She clutched the book to her chest and headed hastily for the