“I know that you’re a big Democratic Party supporter”—Tracy sits forward earnestly in her chair—“and in fact you were one of the main reasons Bob Riverside is now in office, so I was surprised when you made Troy Jenkins, the Democratic congress-man in A Life Not Taken, the villain. Particularly when the book you wrote immediately prior to that, Safe House, demonized the Democratic mayor. Can you tell us a bit about your choice of politics for your characters, and how that may conflict with your own personal beliefs?”
Robert smiles and raises an eyebrow. “Good question, and although I tend to avoid talking politics at my book readings—I apologize in advance to any Republicans sitting in the audience—it raises an interesting point about how much of yourself and your own beliefs you should put into your writing.”
As he talks, Kit looks at Tracy in surprise. Kit hasn’t read A Life Not Taken, hadn’t read any of Robert McClore’s books before working for him, and still has not managed his entire collection. She had no idea Tracy knew his books so well, but look at her! Listen to her! She’s not just listening to Robert McClore, she’s having a discussion with him, asking him more questions and he is clearly appreciative.
Kit turns to see Charlie looking at her with a grin and a raised eyebrow. “Who knew?” she appears to be saying, and Kit shrugs. How odd, she thinks, that Tracy never said anything before.
The line of people waiting for their books to be signed snakes back through the bookstore. In a small town such as Highfield, with an event as exciting as a Robert McClore reading, many people have turned out, some who have not seen one another for years, and there is a buzz of excited chatter as people run into old neighbors, old friends, people they haven’t realized they missed until they see them tonight.
And many who have known Robert. Not friends, but people who have been on the periphery of his life, people who have turned up to reestablish a connection with him, all of whom want to talk to him, to explain how they know him, or knew him, how their grandson once mowed his lawn, or they met him thirty years ago at a party.
Robert is gracious with everyone. He greets each of them warmly and effusively, as if they are guests in his home, and Kit, standing on the sidelines with Tracy, Charlie and Edie, is impressed.
“Why doesn’t he do this more often?” Charlie asks. “I’d always heard he was a recluse, but look at him! He’s chatting to everyone! He’s not the slightest bit how I’d expected.”
“But I told you he was charming,” Kit says. “Although you’re right. I’d also thought he was overwhelmed by large crowds. What do you think, Edie? You’re the one who knows him best.”
“You do?” Tracy looks at her keenly. “How?”
“I used to be his chef,” Edie says. “And house manager. I was sort of his Girl Friday for years. He loved my macaroni and cheese, used to say it was even better than his mother’s.” She smiles at the memory.
“When was the last time you cooked for him?” Kit says.
“Years ago.” Edie struggles to remember.
“You should have brought him some macaroni and cheese tonight,” Kit says with a laugh.
“You’re right.” Edie’s face falls. “I wish I had.”
“Oh Edie,” Kit puts a gentle hand on her arm, “I was kidding. You have enough to do.”
“But you are right,” she says, worried now. “I wish I’d thought of it.”
“You can always make some this week,” Kit says, “and I’ll bring it with me as a surprise. He’d love it.” And with that they step forward to join the back of the line, inching closer and closer to Robert McClore’s table.
Robert McClore had forgotten how much he loves doing these events. He had forgotten how much he enjoys talking to intelligent people, people who read his books, about their thoughts, their feelings. He had forgotten how much he enjoys discovering how his books have touched people, made them think about things differently, sent them off, on occasion, on journeys they would otherwise not have gone on.
He is not, naturally, nearly as much of an isolationist as his reputation would lead you to think. In fact, back in the day, he was as gregarious as they come. He loves people, what kind of a writer would he be, in fact, if he did not love people, was not interested