The Wish. Diane Pershing

her. He really was the most special man. And it was true, she’d always put herself down, apologized for making anyone feel uncomfortable all her life. She’d tried, really tried, since coming west and starting her new life, to cut that out. But old habits, and old scars, ran deep. It would probably take a lobotomy to change her.

      “Well,” she said, “thanks for that. I wish I believed it,” she added ruefully.

      Inwardly Des cursed himself for snapping at her. Why had he said that? Because he cared about her, dammit. She was terrific, and he wished she knew it, could take it in.

      An awkward silence descended over the room, so Des gestured toward the table. “Um, you want to sit down? Rest for a few minutes?”

      “No,” she said brightly, “but I’d love to look at your books. May I?”

      Then she was off to the living room, walking slowly along the shelves, oohing and ahing in that enthusiastic way she had. “Look!” she said. “You have all of Dickens. And Thomas Aquinas. And, oh, Des, so many volumes of poetry! Frost and Wordsworth, and look here, Rilke’s Duino Elegies. ” Hands on hips, she turned to him. “Why didn’t you tell me?”

      “Tell you what?”

      “That you’re one of us. The word-lovers. Especially the poetry. How come I never knew that about you?”

      Her enthusiasm made him feel even more awkward; he was already nervous about her being there. He wanted her to like the place, while at the same time he was kicking himself for caring. The woman knew too much about him already.

      “It didn’t come up,” he said with a shrug.

      “Sure it did. How many mornings have I bent your ear about new authors, especially poets, I’d been reading? And you just sat there on your big horse and nodded politely. Des, you’re a fraud.”

      She said it with a grin, so he didn’t feel attacked. And she was right. She didn’t know, couldn’t know, how much of a secret life he’d led always, disguising his love of reading from his family because they would have laughed at him, called him names. He’d kept his books under his bed, read them with a flash-light way into the night, while everyone else slept.

      “I don’t have much education,” he told her.

      “Formal, you mean. Obviously you’ve educated yourself which, in my opinion, is a whole lot more meaningful. You read because you want to, not because you have to, like you do in school.” She snapped her fingers as an idea came to her. “You have to come to the shop on Tuesday night. We have poetry readings, you’ll love it. Why haven’t you ever come to my shop, by the way?”

      He’d been there once, Des could have told her, and had seen her mooning over Rance, which had irritated him, so he hadn’t been back.

      “Say you’ll come,” she persisted.

      “I usually do paperwork in the evenings.”

      “Try. Okay?”

      He couldn’t help noticing the eagerness, the openness of her expression. Once again, he shrugged. “I’ll see.”