Chapter 3

Copyright 2000, 2006 by Elizabeth Delayne

The crowd at the discount bookstore stretched through the long aisle between reference and history down to the children's area. The ceiling was high, brightened by basic florescent lights. The news was on a large screen in the back periodical section, but the sound was down … and only the chatter of voices could be heard.

Erica looked around at the wall of magazines and newspapers for the thousandth time in the last hour, but she kept her place in line, clutching the new Burstin best seller in her hands. She felt a little faulty, knowing she'd never paid much attention to the Burstin phenomena that swept the nation and the best sellers’ lists.

The virgin spine crackled as she pried open the front cover of the hardback, brushing back one page, then another until she stopped at the dedication.

To Emogene Percy
You loved me enough
that I have to love you back.


"He dedicates his books to his characters."

Erica turned around to the man who spoke from behind. Her face must have shown her surprise and question, because a true Jonathon Burstin fan leapt forward to explain. "Emogene Percy was the dispatcher in his last book. One of those prim and proper, love me through sarcasm and a firm rod ladies."

Erica frowned, working the words over in her mind. She knew from their conversations the night before that Jonathon's father was still living, a quiet, gallant man that made her think of Paul Newman. Why dedicate the book to a character instead of his father?

The man stared back through small horned glasses and sported a goatee, a person, she figured, who wanted people to know or think he was an intellectual. "He dedicates his books to imaginary characters?"

"Not necessarily, because his characters are based on people he worked with in many ways—at least that's how he explains it. It's Burstin's trademark. In some interview way back when he was publicizing the last book, he probably told who did what. I just haven't found it out yet."

Erica pushed the cover back again, glancing at the words. Emogene Percy was an imaginary dispatcher, probably based on a real dispatcher. She let that sink in.

"So, Jonathon . . . Burstin," she added his last name as a fumble. She liked him when he was just Jonathon, her Jonathon. "He was really a policeman?"

The stranger nodded then began to rattle off other facts, just like any other big fan. Apparently, Jonathon wasn't just a writer, but his books moved through the scholarly circles. In only four years he'd published six best-sellers and his seventh was moving right up in the ratings after only two weeks out.

Erica felt her world tip a little as she turned the hardback in her hands, hoping that she responded in all the right places. The man on the back of the jacket suddenly stared back at her without emotion. His face was a hard-faced policeman--intelligent, cautious, surreal–not the man she had agreed to go to a baseball game with this evening. She didn't know this Jonathon. It wasn't that he was or had been a policeman, it was just that his face, his stance, proved him to be a different man then she thought she knew.

In the middle of the billiards game, they'd ended up wagering away their Saturday. She'd totally forgot her obligations, and so had he. A small crowd had gathered as they spared over a billiards table, the crowd filtering in and out as the hours progressed. It was quieter, less crowded, and the people who entered had been the people like them, less interested in mingling, playing the evening to get through it.

She'd won two of three challenging games, but when stumped over their wager, had quickly jumped on his suggestion to take in a Braves game at Turner Field. It had not been easy rearranging her schedule, but her assistant had proved to be a whiz all throughout the morning.

She'd dressed in the pair of cotton khaki shorts and a loose fitting peach sleeveless sweater that her limited, out of the suitcase wardrobe allowed. Coming to the bookstore had been an impulse. He hadn't invited her, but she wanted to find out if her Jonathon was really the Jonathon Burstin.

She hoped it wasn't a mistake. Last night it had been just the two of them, making their own little world out of the party. Today she was not only sharing him with the rest of the world, but everyone else knew so much more about him then she did. Jonathon suddenly seemed so big, so substantial that she felt like a giddy teenager moving to get her teen-idol's autograph.

He was just Jonathon, she told herself as she neared the table, her hands trembling a bit as she turned the book over in her hands.

She finally caught sight of him when there were just three people in front of her. She watched him smile at his fan with that hard, but polite and intelligent face that appeared on his book jacket, nodding at something the woman said. He reached out to take the book, and rolled the tip of the black pen over the front end sheet.

He had strong hands, she thought, and patient eyes. His smile looked genuine even though he had complained the night before of detesting the publicity.

Then, as the woman left, and the line stepped up, he glanced up and caught her eyes with his familiar and beautiful brown eyes. He smiled as recognition settled in and winked at her, the look on his face shifting from one of hard policeman writer, to the man she’d met last night.

It eased her heart just enough. The man behind her had tired of her listless and less than knowledgeable response. Obviously, he'd found someone more to his level behind him. She tried to catch some of their conversation, hoping to learn a little bit more, but the level of discussion was so far advanced into the plots she gave up.

And then, it was her turn.

"Well, hello. Would you mind holding on a second? I need to answer a question this reporter just asked me."

His look was blank enough to startle her, but then she slowly understood why. He was Jonathon Burstin, the premier police-genre writer in the country. She was Erica Caine, her mother's protege, princess of an architectural empire. She didn't think that either of them was popular enough on their own to capture the eye of the entertainment press, but together . . . neither of them wanted the connection launched out into the media circus.

"Hi--" she thrust the book forward when he turned his attention back to her, like the anxious fan she decided to pretend to be. "Would you sign my book? My name's Erica."

He smiled, approving of the roll, and opened the hardback cover.

"I just love your books, Mr. Burstin," she chattered on. "I was so glad you were going to be in town today. My mom loves your books, too. She gave me the day off just so I can get your autograph and meet you. Wow. This is so cool."

He smiled and finished scrawling his message, then closed the cover and handed it to her, "Really?" he asked, his brown eyes twinkling, "How many have you read?"

"Well, none—not counting this one. This is my first," she chattered, then stopped, smiled and accepted the handshake. "My mother will be so excited."

It was hard to part, Jonathon being the first person she'd connected with so hard and fast in a long time. She stepped away and wondered into the stacks of shelves, to open the cover in private.

Erica~

She liked the way he'd scrawled her name, and laughed at herself when she realized that she was blushing.

You're the most refreshing moment of the day.
Meet me between Austen and Dickens just after four.
~ J. Burstin

* * * * *

Four o'clock came slow. Jonathon finished up the autograph signings, chatted a bit with the store owner and the reporter, then excused himself and wondered nonchalantly into the classics. He wondered if Erica had picked up on his choice--writers from the romantic period, one so hopeful, the other more cynical.

There he found her, leaning back against the shelf, engrossed in his book. It gave him more then a little pride to know that he had captured her attention. He stood and watched for some minutes. She wasn't just a fan; not to him. She was a witty, intelligent woman, with the grace and class that had fit into his world last night.

And she obviously liked his book. It had been over two hours since he'd seen her last, but she was already halfway through the pages.

"I'm going to have to write more if you finish so quickly."

Erica smiled and slowly closed the book, using her finger to mark the page, "It's captivating. You can't ask me to stop."

"No?" he stepped forward, took the book from her, and pointedly closed it. "I'm not about to play favorites with myself."

Erica laughed at the determined look in his eye. "You really are a good writer."

"I like to think so."

"Are you still a policeman? The man behind me in line told me you were. Among other things."

"No," it wasn't quite a lie, he told himself. "I'm a writer. I spend my time writing, playing billiard games in the back halls of expensive get-togethers, and attending to my passion of baseball. Now, do you want to eat before the game, or stand in between British romance discussing the theories of Jonathon Burstin?"

"Are those my only choices?" she eyed the book he now held.

"Yes," he answered and carefully slipped the book behind his back as he reached for her hand with his other. It was an automatic gesture that surprised them both. He looked down at her hand in his, turning his wrist to study how delicate her hand looked against his rough skin. Last night everything had seemed so even, so right. They were at a classy place, both outsiders. But what would she think of him if she knew his roots? This soft-skinned woman.



Jonathon looked up to find her watching him. The look in her eyes probably mirrored the surprise in his own.

This was a weekend, a brief moment in time. They moved in different worlds. They would enjoy this, because they both needed it . . . he wouldn't, couldn't think beyond. He wouldn't have felt so assured if he knew that Erica was telling herself the same thing ... and failing at it.

As if they stood on the brink of more. So much more.

He raised their hands between them, saw the flicker of surprise and delight in her eyes. "Mind if I hold onto this?"

She laughed again, and shook her head quickly as if expelling the questions and doubts from her mind. "No."


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