Five

Others looked at her and missed who she was. He didn't.

—Hailey Fairchild, What the Heart Needs

I am relieved that Gwendolyn is not part of Mom's cookie exchange. It's the usual suspects—Mom, Gram, Mrs. Davies, and their

friends. There are so many plates of cookies spread across the dining room table that it makes my mouth water.

I can conquer any situation. I will not yield to cookie temptation.

"That is an interesting shade of green," says Geraldine Greer, who lives across the street.

She's raising an eyebrow, looking at me as if she's convinced that I meant to do this.

I can feel the face fire again. I never liked her very much. She was always stingy with her trick or treat candy at Halloween.

"It's supposed to fade," I say. Not that it has yet, despite two washings.

She shakes her head. "Dyeing your hair every color of the rainbow, such a silly fad."

Mom is standing nearby, the poster child for silly fads. "Oh, lighten up, Ger. You're just jealous 'cause you're not brave

enough to do it," she teases.

Geraldine sniffs and helps herself to more punch.

"Never mind her," Mom whispers to me. "Your hair will look great by Christmas."

But what about the talk at the school? And the book signing?

As soon as the women leave, laden with cookies, I'm back upstairs in the bathroom, washing my hair again. I blow it out and

check my reflection. Still traffic-light green. I am so not looking forward to displaying this hair at the book signing.

***

"You look fabulous," Dad tells me when I come downstairs, dressed for my appearance at Mountain Books.

I look good from the neck down at least. I'm wearing a black sweater accented with a gorgeous Christmas-red scarf and jeans.

And my shooties. Carwyn is coming to the signing and has offered to drive me. I really want to look glam for this, so I'm

hoping he'll be able to keep me upright if we encounter any slippery spots. Hopefully, Eloise Matthews will have scattered

rock salt in front of the store.

"Wow," he says when I open the door. "You look Gucci."

I push my glasses up my nose and roll my eyes. If I am looking good, it's got to be the lipstick Ramona gave me, because it's

sure not the hair.

"Seriously," he adds. "And the hair makes you look like the new Beat Generation."

He is so full of frijoles, but never mind. I'll take the compliment. "You look pretty good yourself," I say. Understatement

of the year.

He, of course, looks fabulous in his lined suede jacket, jeans, and boots—serious boots that will not slip under any condition.

"So, you ready?" he asks as I let him in.

"I don't know if I'll ever be ready," I admit.

Gram and her pals are already at the bookstore, and she's texted Mom that there's a crowd. I hope I don't stumble over my

words when it's time to read from my book.

Dad greets Carwyn with a friendly slap on the back, then calls upstairs to Mom. "Come on, hon! We're not going to get seats if we don't move it." He turns to me and gives me a hug. "See you there, Princess. Break a leg."

"That's the theater," I say.

"Okay, then break a sales record," he amends with a grin.

***

Carwyn pulls his car up in front of the bookstore. I feel like there are gremlins in my stomach having a snowball fight.

"You've done these before, right?" Carwyn says, trying to calm my nerves.

"Not in my hometown." Where I was that shy little Fairchild girl (to the older generation) and the nerd (to mine).

"You'll be great. Everyone loves you," he says and wraps an arm around my shoulders.

Everyone loves me. Except for Gwendolyn, who is sitting in the front row next to Sam. He's smiling. She's sneering. I suddenly

don't want to read from my latest novel.

But, of course, I have to.

My hair has changed drastically since Mom and I dropped by the store to check in with Eloise, but Eloise pretends not to notice.

She introduces me and everyone claps. A teen girl, also in the front row, looks ready to give me a standing O. She looks a

lot like I did at that age. Well, okay, kind of like I still look, with the brown hair and glasses. Except now my hair is

green.

I smile at her, and she beams. She has no idea I'm not bestowing that smile on her. I'm thanking her for the confidence boost.

Carwyn is smiling, too, like what I'm doing matters to him. It's hard to believe it could after all those young years of unrequited

love. I'm reading more into all this than I should, I'm sure. He's only being friendly.

After I'm done reading there is more applause, and this time my front-row fan is on her feet, along with Gram and her posse and Mom and Dad and all their friends. So far so good, but now it's time for the dreaded Q & A. It's the usual questions: Where do you get your ideas? How many hours a day do you write? What music do you listen to when you're writing?

Gwendolyn has a question. Oh, joy.

"You write romance novels, which aren't really literature, right?" she begins. Can she even spell literature ?

"That's right, I write romance novels," I say. "Was that your question?"

"No. My question is, what's the difference between literature and what you write?"

I've heard this a few million times also. It's always meant to be an insult, and the first couple of times it was thrown at

me I stammered and stuttered and blushed and said something about everyone having different taste. Now here it is again, from

the same woman who bullied me in high school and who, only a few days ago, turned me into Daughter of Grinch. I'm past being

intimidated by that question. I am smart, I am strong, and I can conquer any situation.

"I cry all the way to the bank," I say, deadpan.

Everyone laughs, and for once I'm not the one with the red face.

And I am loved. I spend an hour signing books and talking with people.

"Good job, sis," says my brother, and asks me to sign the book he bought for Gwendolyn.

I don't bother to write anything gushy in it, as I know it will wind up in her garbage can.

My admirer from the front row shyly asks if I'll sign the book she's holding "To Emily."

"Of course," I say. "Are you Emily?"

She nods and her cheeks turn pink.

"Well, thank you for coming tonight, Emily. It means a lot," I say.

"Really?" she asks.

"Yes, really," I assure her.

She produces my first book from her messenger bag and asks if I'll sign that too. "I love your books," she gushes.

"Thank you," I say. I sign both, and she clutches them to her heart and leaves smiling.

And I'm smiling too. Everyone (except Gwendolyn) was supportive, and I feel like a success.

And I feel all twittery when Carwyn, the last in line, comes up and says, "You were great." He hands me a book. "Sign it for

me?"

"Who should I sign it to?" I ask.

"Me, of course," he says.

"You don't want to read this." I scoff.

"Of course I do."

"Well, thanks for boosting my sales."

"I want to keep you crying all the way to the bank," he replies with a wink. "Anyway, it's got a happy ending, right?"

"Of course." Every woman deserves a happy ending.

"I could use a happy ending," he says, and I suspect he's thinking of his dad.

I write in the book, To my favorite neighbor , and he reads it and grins. "How about your favorite neighbor takes you out for hot chocolate?"

***

We drink that hot chocolate and debate over the best-ever Christmas movie. I insist on Elf , and he likes National Lampoon's Christmas Vacation . "The squirrel in the tree, man. That scene can't be topped."

I don't know. This one where we're sitting in Lulu's Diner, which is all decked out with tinsel garlands, drinking hot chocolate

while snow is starting to fall outside the window rates pretty high in my book.

"I'm glad you came home," he says when he drops me off.

So am I.

"Got any more book signings you need me to drive you to?" he asks.

"I'm afraid that was my fifteen minutes of fame."

"I guess I'll have to think of some other excuse to hang out, then," he says with a smile.

I smile back. "I guess you will."

I'm still buzzing when I get back in the house, and not simply from my successful signing and my parents' proud gushing.

Back in my room I text Ramona.

Hailey: Carwyn Davies is more addicting than peppermint lattes.

Ramona: Your first mistletoe kiss? Oh no. Have you???

Hailey: No. I don't want to ruin things.

Ramona: Hey, you're not under the influence of mistletoe this time. It's all good.

I hope she's right.