Red Rain: A Novel (4 page)

Mark arrived early, shaking out his umbrella and squirming out of the Burberry trench coat that no longer seemed to be waterproof. He liked to watch his audience come in, liked to size up the crowd before he spoke to them.

Crowd. Would there be a crowd on a night like this? He saw a few rain-bedraggled people in one of the long, narrow store aisles. A good sign.

A smiling, middle-aged woman hurried out from behind the front counter to greet him. “Hi, Mr. Sutter. I’m Jo-Ann, the manager. Welcome. You’re early.”

She was a mouse of a woman, small and gray, with lips the same color as her skin. She was probably forty, but she looked ten years
older. She wore a loose-fitting gray turtleneck over black corduroy slacks.

“I like to come early and hang out a bit,” Mark said. “You know. Chat with people. Kind of size up the crowd.”

“Well, make yourself at home. We’ve already sold several books, and we got a lot of phone calls. I think there’ll be a crowd.” She squinted at him. “How does it feel to be controversial?”

Mark laughed. “I’m enjoying it, actually.”

She nodded solemnly. “Of course you are.”

Mark wondered exactly what she meant.

“Sometimes it’s good to stir people up,” she said. And then quickly changed gears: “Can I get you a bottle of water?”

“No. I’m fine.”

“Sure? I have plenty of water.”

“No. Really. I saw enough water driving here.”

His joke fell flat. He knew it wasn’t much of a joke. He shouldn’t try to be funny. No one expected it of him. But what was this obsession with water? In every city at every bookstore, they tried to shove bottle after bottle of water at him.

“The rain is from the hurricane,” she said, “but we’re lucky. I have the radio on. They said it’s veering out into the ocean. We’ll just get the rain.”

“Hurricane?”

She squinted at him. “You didn’t hear? It’s a big one. Down South.”

Mark felt his throat tighten. “My wife is down South. On an island. I didn’t know. I had my iPod in the car. I—”

“Maybe you should try to call her.” She turned and saw the line of customers at the front counter. “I’d better get back.” She gave his wrist a quick squeeze. Like saying
Good luck
. Then she turned and made her way back to the other two clerks at the counter.

She stepped behind one of the cash registers and pulled on a pair of tight white rubber gloves.
To protect herself from money germs?

Mark slid his BlackBerry from the pocket of his jeans, raised it to push Lea’s number. Then stopped. No bars.

I’m sure she’s okay. I’ll phone her after the book signing.

He stepped toward the back and leaned against a bookshelf where he could watch customers enter. He could see a gauzy reflection of himself in the front window, floating over the pyramid of display copies of his book. A gust of wind rattled the window and sent rivulets of rainwater streaking down the glass.

“Where do I put this?” A man in a brown rain slicker and canvas tennis hat shook his umbrella in a red-haired store clerk’s face, sending a spray of rainwater over the front counter. The young man pointed to the tall can by the door, already jammed with wet umbrellas.

The store was small, narrow and deep with two aisles leading back through tall wooden bookshelves. Rows of low-hanging fluorescent lights sent down a pale glare, making everyone look a little green. At the back, a steep stairway led upstairs to the author event area.

Mark felt his skin prickle. He rubbed his stubbled cheeks. The air in the store felt hot and damp despite the cold blasts every time the door opened. He could smell the ocean.

In a few hours I’ll be home.

He could hear a low mumble of voices from upstairs. A respectable crowd on a stormy Wednesday night in Easthampton.
Please—let there be fifty people.
That’s all an author cares about. A crowd big enough not to be embarrassing. Please—not four people who all choose to sit in the back row.

To his relief, he saw several couples lined up at the cash register. They all had his book in their hands. Did they look happy? No.

They’ve all come for a fight
.

He turned back toward the front door and felt his stomach rumble. Not from stage fright. He looked forward to another confrontation. If only he could keep them from shouting this time.

He suddenly pictured the young woman in Boston who turned purple and started to tremble. That was
awkward
. And the angry couple who followed him to the parking lot and refused to let him get into the car until they had their say.

His stomach churned again from the bacon cheeseburger he had eaten too fast at Rowdy Hall, the noisy, crowded hamburger joint across the street. He always ate too fast when he was alone.

I’ll be home tonight.

His house in Sag Harbor was twenty minutes away, maybe a little longer if the storm continued. He had driven to the bookstore directly from MacArthur Airport in Ronkonkoma. He hadn’t had even two seconds to stop at home and say hi.

Ira and Elena. When did he see them last? Two weeks ago? He talked to them on the phone every night, and he Skyped them when he could. But the conversations were always forced and hurried.

Elena was okay. Even at the gawky age of fourteen, she bobbed merrily through life like a kite in a strong wind. Ira was the sensitive one, always overthinking everything, so shy and serious. Poor guy. Sixth grade. His first year in middle school.

Mark should have been there to help him get through it. Or Lea. But she was away, too. He hated it when they were both away at the same time.

“When you write a travel blog, you kind of have to travel,” Lea had said.

“I’m not accusing you of anything,” he had countered. “I’m just saying . . .”

“That one of us should stay home.”

“No. I’m just saying it’s a
shame
that one of us isn’t staying home.”

That made her laugh. “I love your subtle distinctions. I wasn’t a psych major like you, darling, but I know when I’m being guilted.”

Guilted?

No way he could convince her to stay home till he got back.
Travel & Leisure
had let her go. Budget cutbacks. The usual thing. Now Lea was determined to produce the best adventure-travel blog in the universe, build a huge audience, collect millions in advertising, and show her old bosses what a mistake they had made.

She was ambitious. And she was a fighter. The youngest of seven, with four brothers and two sisters, Lea was used to fighting for what she wanted.

And so . . . they went their separate ways, and Mark’s sister, Roz, stayed with the kids.

Mark had to admit, the ten-city book tour was not as glamorous as he had imagined. And he was taken by surprise by all the anger waiting for him at every bookstore. After all, he’d only written a book. He hadn’t
murdered
anyone.

He wasn’t naïve. He knew his book would spark controversy. But he never dreamed that parents would react with such alarm, as if he were threatening parenthood itself.

Which maybe he was.

Because of all the controversy,
Kids Will Be Kids
was at the top of the nonfiction bestseller list. Exactly what he had strived for. He wanted to reach as many parents as possible.

He wasn’t trying to become famous by stirring things up. He believed his studies of his young patients validated his parenting theories.

He glanced at the clock, then watched more rain-soaked stragglers push into the bookstore. Someone tapped his shoulder. The red-haired store clerk—
Adam,
it said on his ID badge. “Mr. Sutter, can I get you some water?”

“No thanks. I’m good.”

“You sure?”

He turned to the steep wooden staircase. He could hear the crowd up there shifting, folding chairs squeaking, the mumble of voices. Someone laughed loudly.

Showtime.

N
ot quite ready. He made his way toward the bathroom behind the office in back. A large man in a gray hoodie and faded jeans blocked the aisle. He was scanning a shelf of fiction, but turned as Mark approached.

“Hi. Are you here for my book talk?”

The man shook his head. “No. I’m not much of a reader. I’m here for my wife.”

“Your wife?”

“Yeah. She heard there’s a new James Patterson.” He swung back to the bookshelf. “You’re not him, are you?”

“No. No, I’m not. Sorry.”

Sorry? Why did I say sorry?

Mark edged past him into the phone-booth-size bathroom and checked the mirror. Brought his face close and grinned. He rubbed his front teeth with one finger. No hamburger or lettuce there. Nothing hanging from his nose.

He smoothed a hand over the stubble on his cheeks and brushed back his short hair, his hazel eyes dark in the dim light from the ceiling. He wasn’t admiring himself. He was
preparing
himself.

Lea called him Gyllenhaal. She said he was a dead ringer for the
actor. Flattering? Yes. A two-day stubble, short, dark hair and big eyes, and he was Jake Gyllenhaal to her.

I love you, Lea.

Only thirty-nine but even in this bad light, he could see patches of gray spreading over the sides of his hair. No problem. A psychologist doesn’t want to be
too
good-looking. He needs some maturity. Some authority.

He wore a trim black suit jacket over dark, straight-legged denim jeans. His white shirt was open at the collar. Not too formal. He wanted to appear open and friendly. They would see he wasn’t a stuffed shirt. He was a young father. A child psychologist with a serious point of view. But casual. Even likable?

He grinned. He should wear a suit of armor. The lions were waiting upstairs to rip him to shreds and devour the remains.

His stomach churned again. Maybe it wasn’t the cheeseburger. Maybe it was the two Heinekens.

Up the stairs, Mark. Go get ’em.

He used the wooden banister to pull himself. The steps creaked beneath him. He practiced a smile. It didn’t feel right. Tried a smaller one. Above the mumbling of the crowd, he could hear rain pattering against the sloped skylight window in the ceiling.

The stage area came into view as he reached the top. A good crowd. The folding chairs were all filled. And a row of people stood behind them. Some leaned against the bookshelf walls. Two young women had made cushions of their coats and sat cross-legged on the floor to the side of the podium.

At least a hundred people. No. More like one fifty.

So far, a success. Jo-Ann flashed him a smile from beside the podium. Good. The store manager was pleased.

He surveyed the crowd. Mostly couples. Parents. Some gripped his book in their laps. To have it signed or to throw at him? They watched him warily as he moved toward the podium.

“He’s young,” someone whispered, just loudly enough to be heard.

“Does he have kids?”

“If he does, can you imagine what they’re like?”

A cell phone erupted and was quickly cut off. He saw three very old people, frail, hunkered in the front row, still in their raincoats, shopping bags on the floor in front of them. Regulars, probably. Lonely people who come to every bookstore event.

Jo-Ann started to introduce him. There were hurried footsteps on the stairs. More arrivals. She wrapped her hand around the microphone as she talked, and it made an annoying scraping sound.

“—already seem to be familiar with our guest author and his book, so I expect a lively discussion tonight.”

Mark heard a few people snicker at that.

“Some things you may not know about Mark Sutter,” Jo-Ann continued. “He’s a Sag Harbor resident, not a summer person. He and his wife live here year-round with their two children.”

She read from a handwritten index card. One hand held the card. The other squeezed the microphone as if trying to get juice from it.

“Mr. Sutter was born on Long Island in 1973. He grew up in Great Neck. He has a BS in Child Psychology from the University of Wisconsin. Mr. Sutter has a national reputation. He has contributed to many major psychology and science journals.
Kids Will Be Kids
is his first book, based on studies he made over the past five years observing his own juvenile patients and their parents.”

She finally let go of the microphone and motioned to Mark with a tight smile. “Let’s all welcome tonight’s author, Mark Sutter.”

Tepid applause. Mark forced the practiced smile to his face and took two steps toward the podium.

Jo-Ann turned and wrapped her hand around the microphone again. The applause died quickly. She waved Mark back. “Oh, I almost forgot,” she said, “while I have you all here. Such a nice crowd. It’s so wonderful to see people come out on a rainy night to discuss books.”

Mark shoved his hands into his jeans pockets and waited. He studied the crowd. A twentysomething couple in the second row
had their heads down, tapping away on their phones. Behind them, a large man in a Yankees cap and blue-and-white Yankees jacket had the
Daily News
open in front of him.

Rain pattered the skylight window. Mark glimpsed a flicker of lightning high in the green-black sky. He blinked—and saw someone he recognized in the third row. A young woman in a short blue skirt over black tights and a white tube top.

His eyes took in the gleaming white-blond hair. Blue eyes. High cheekbones. Red-lipped smile.

She didn’t register at first. Mainly because she didn’t tell him she’d be there. The improbably named Autumn Holliday, his assistant. She realized he had finally spotted her. She smiled and her eyes went wide. She gave him an excited wave.

Why did she get all dolled up for this?

Autumn always showed up at his office in jeans and oversize rock-band T-shirts, her hair tied carelessly back in a ponytail. Now he couldn’t help but stare. She looked like one of those stunning Nordic ice-queen fashion models.

“Autumn? What are you doing here?” He mouthed the words silently.

“—Thriller Night here at HamptonBooks,” Jo-Ann was saying. “I think you’ll all want to be here. Our guest author will be Harlan Coben, and if you were here last year, I’m sure you will remember how funny and charming Mr. Coben can be. So . . . don’t forget next Saturday night.”