If I'm lucky, I'll get a client cancellation that will allow me to post late Tuesday.
If I'm not, then it won't be up until Wednesday.
Arg arg arg.
How can I make it up to you?
How about an excerpt from the holiday story I have coming out, what...jeez, today? Timing. TIMING, I DON'T HAVE IT!
Yeah, okay, excerpt from Worth The Wait, coauthored with Caitlin Ricci and out with Dreamspinner Press, which you can find here: Worth The Wait.
***
The
rain wasn’t heavy, but it was constant, a continuous misty drizzle that infused
the air with more of a chilling sensation than was actually there. In a few
months, once spring arrived, Tate knew there would be pale green buds just
starting to appear on the tips of the maple trees in their neat little sidewalk
enclosures, and the scene outside the Tattered Cover bookstore should have been
a lovely one. Instead it was three days until Christmas, and the rain was
quickly turning into sleet around him. The remaining light from the pale winter
sunset was just enough to make the wet ground sparkle a bit, reflecting in the
store’s windows, which were ringed with plain, perfect white pinpricks of
light.
A
long line of people stood on the sidewalk outside the store, in bulky
multicolored coats or under sturdy umbrellas, chatting and waiting impatiently
for the line to move forward. It was, objectively, a lovely evening scene, one
which Tate might have enjoyed if not for his quickly soaking feet as he stood
in the wet and wished he hadn’t agreed to go to the bookstore during the last
minute mad rush of Christmas shoppers.
Subjectively,
it was a special sort of punishment for the shortsighted. Tate shivered as a
tiny rivulet of ice water slid down the side of his face and dropped onto his
sodden shirt collar. His hoodie was entirely insufficient against the weather,
but he hadn’t planned on being outside long enough for it to matter and had
come straight from work, with no time to change between. He had a better coat,
far away where he’d left his car before hopping on the Sixteenth Street Mall
bus to get here, but if he went back for it now he’d be giving up his place in
line. He was already close enough to the back that he didn’t want to surrender
any potential advantage when it came to getting these books signed. The plastic
crinkled under his arms as he gripped his package tighter, and Tate sighed. At
least he’d had the foresight to wrap the books up in a plastic grocery bag to
keep them dry before heading out.
This
wasn’t exactly how he’d seen his Friday night playing out. Then again, since
his usual Friday night would have been going home and crashing on the couch
after ten hours of mostly inane help desk queries, he couldn’t say this was
worse, exactly. At least he had a purpose other than mindless relaxation
tonight.
“Anthea
Withershine will be signing her books there, Uncle Tate!” his ten-year-old
niece had informed him yesterday, awe and avarice warring in her voice. “I have
all of them. I’ve got The Mystery of the
Falling Star and The Lost Kingdom of
Lyonne and The Boy With the Clockwork
Brain and—”
“You
don’t have to list them all, Addie,” Tate’s brother, Jim, had pointed out from
where he was monitoring their Skype conversation.
“Yes
I do!” she’d insisted. “So he knows which ones I’ve got!”
“You
just said you have them all.”
“All
except her newest one, Dad,” Addie
said, not able to restrain an eye roll. “It’s not out yet, but her website says
she’ll be selling copies at the bookstore. Uncle Tate”—she turned her big,
pleading eyes on him—“can you please, please, please go and get me a copy for
my birthday? And get it signed? Can you tell her to make it out to Addie and
tell her how to spell my name right?”
“Begging
isn’t attractive,” her father informed her. “Don’t put your uncle on the spot.
Go and get ready for bed.”
She’d
reluctantly given up her spot in front of the computer, and Jim waited
patiently for Tate to shotgun the rest of his coffee. He didn’t mind getting up
early to talk to his niece, but the fifteen-hour time difference from Denver
“You
don’t have to do this, but if you want to I’ll send you some cash for the
book,” Jim said when he seemed sure he had Tate’s attention again.
“You
don’t need to do that,” Tate protested. “It’s her birthday. I can manage one
book.”
“If
you do, you’ll be her favorite uncle. Addie’s been on a Withershine kick for
the last six months, and the new releases are always slow to get here.”
Tate
chuckled. “I’m her only uncle, but I’m sure I can do this. When’s the signing?”
“There’s
this thing called the Internet. It magically connects you to information
without you ever having to leave your apartment—”
Tate
flipped his brother the finger. “Jackass.”
He’d
figured it out eventually, and figured that since the signing was on a Friday
from five to close, he could just show up after work. He’d bought used copies
of two of Withershine’s other books in advance, just in case they sold out of
the new one, and had congratulated himself on his foresight.
Tate
had had no idea that people had been lining up for this signing since morning,
but his naiveté was disabused the moment he got off the bus. The line stretched
for three blocks back down the mall, parents and kids and plenty of other
interested readers all waiting impatiently for the inches to go by. Tate had
gotten in line at the end, his head swimming a little, and had checked his
watch. Four thirty. And he’d thought he was being clever by leaving work early.
Now,
an hour and a half later, he was half a block farther along and very, very
cold. His skin crawled beneath his clothes, and Tate suppressed a shiver. He
bounced on the balls of his feet a little, trying to warm up a bit. He rolled
his neck, then his shoulders, then—“Shit!” The plastic bag holding his used
books tumbled out of his hands and spilled onto the pavement. “No, no, no.”
Tate dove for the bag, which still had one of the books in its protective skin,
but the other…. Where was it? Tate looked around wildly but couldn’t see
anything book shaped in the fading light. The streetlamps would flicker on soon,
but by then it would be too late. The book would be ruined.
“Hey.”
A light voice pulled Tate out of his growing panic. “I think I found your escapee.”
