When book-signing turns into a nostalgic event
There I was all dressed waiting for the first arrival, slightly nervous on how it was going to be. The announcement was made one week ago about my book-signing being on 30th April 2016. I wanted it to be a meaningful event . . . but just how meaningful it was going to be I didn’t realize.
TNEB, who had been behaving themselves for the past few months, earning my respect since “The Flood Encounter”, suddenly decided that they must give me a scare on my big day. So while I was posing for photographs before the event began, wanting my husband’s interior décor showcased, I suddenly found myself groping in the dark, nearly running into the mirrors and glass furniture in my very high gold stilettos, designed to give women a backache.
“I think your audience arrives,” my husband said, leaving me on my own as he went to inspect the electric panel, no doubt wanting to use those magical fingers and fix the problem, knowing how much I was looking forward to my book signing.
My heart sank as the knock came again, and I pulled open the door, forcing a smile on my face, “Hello. Please come in. Sorry, the electricity just went off.”
The girl was petite, cute, and she smiled broadly murmuring "it doesn't matter". I was about to shut the door when another girl came behind her and the lady introduced her as her daughter.
“Please sit down,” I said, and cursed myself for not having installed the generator before I began this journey. And then, as if my prayer was answered, the lights flickered on and behold I saw the beautiful face of the woman sitting next to me. We made small talk, during which she told me she had two daughters, and she’s brought the eldest with her. “Do you have a special message you’d like me to write,” I asked, drawing out my pen and flashing my chalk-white teeth at her. “Suzanne, right?”
“Suzanne Reinhardt.” She adjusted the shawl over her head and it was tucked around her neck. She had such a lovely smile and each time she gave me one, little dimples would appear in her cheeks. “Are your brothers still in the music field?” she asked.
“Yes,” I said, signing her book, wondering at the back of my mind how she could have known that. I looked at her daughter, who was dressed in denims and a black lace top, a pair of nude wedges gracing her feet. “What’s your name?”
“Liv.”
“Pronounced as “Leeve” her mother put in, “it’s a Norwegian name.”
“What do you do, Liv?”
“I’m studying in a catering college. I’m going to write a book of recipes soon.”
My eyes widened at the determination on her face. Wow! At that age I hadn’t been so sure of myself. “Good on you, Liv. From whom did you inherit your talent, your mom?”
“Dad.” She grinned. I turned back to her mother and found her with a teasing smile on her face.
“You don’t recognize me, do you, Cecilia?”
No one called me Cecilia, only those who know me pretty well. My eyes narrowed on her face once again, and this time, she removed her shawl and said. “I was formerly Suzanne Gabriel. We studied together until 6th grade.”
The way I looked at her made her howl in laughter. We threw our arms around each other, our eyes slightly moist at the turn of events. We couldn’t stop talking as there was so much catching up to do. My husband captured us on camera, patiently waiting as we posed in different endroits like giggly school-girls happy to be together again.
I was suddenly remembering our school life, and one particular incident stood out. It was the time when I’d lost my best friend to another aggressive girl, who I believed in my childish mind, stole her. I was sitting on a wooden bench in an old dilapidated classroom with my forehead resting on the desk, crying as if my heart was broken, when I felt a tiny arm crawl around my shoulder. I didn’t know who it was, but I was comforted that I wasn’t alone, that someone must like me to have taken the trouble to find out if I was okay.
My head lifted and I saw a petite girl with twin braids, smiling warmly at me, her cheeks deeply grooved. Her brown eyes held compassion, and I remember the look she gave me as she took my hand in hers and said stoutly “I’ll be your best friend.”
Suzanne had migrated to another school after that and we lost touch. But as they say, memories do linger. And here we are thirty three years later renewing our friendship.
Suzanne and Liv left me to my book-signing, the fragrance of friendship still in the air as I continued with the event, which now took on a different allure.
It was no more a book-signing . . . it was nostalgia all the way. And I was thinking to myself I had one more reason to love The French Encounter, for bringing wonderful people back into my life.
TNEB, who had been behaving themselves for the past few months, earning my respect since “The Flood Encounter”, suddenly decided that they must give me a scare on my big day. So while I was posing for photographs before the event began, wanting my husband’s interior décor showcased, I suddenly found myself groping in the dark, nearly running into the mirrors and glass furniture in my very high gold stilettos, designed to give women a backache.
“I think your audience arrives,” my husband said, leaving me on my own as he went to inspect the electric panel, no doubt wanting to use those magical fingers and fix the problem, knowing how much I was looking forward to my book signing.
My heart sank as the knock came again, and I pulled open the door, forcing a smile on my face, “Hello. Please come in. Sorry, the electricity just went off.”
The girl was petite, cute, and she smiled broadly murmuring "it doesn't matter". I was about to shut the door when another girl came behind her and the lady introduced her as her daughter.
“Please sit down,” I said, and cursed myself for not having installed the generator before I began this journey. And then, as if my prayer was answered, the lights flickered on and behold I saw the beautiful face of the woman sitting next to me. We made small talk, during which she told me she had two daughters, and she’s brought the eldest with her. “Do you have a special message you’d like me to write,” I asked, drawing out my pen and flashing my chalk-white teeth at her. “Suzanne, right?”
“Suzanne Reinhardt.” She adjusted the shawl over her head and it was tucked around her neck. She had such a lovely smile and each time she gave me one, little dimples would appear in her cheeks. “Are your brothers still in the music field?” she asked.
“Yes,” I said, signing her book, wondering at the back of my mind how she could have known that. I looked at her daughter, who was dressed in denims and a black lace top, a pair of nude wedges gracing her feet. “What’s your name?”
“Liv.”
“Pronounced as “Leeve” her mother put in, “it’s a Norwegian name.”
“What do you do, Liv?”
“I’m studying in a catering college. I’m going to write a book of recipes soon.”
My eyes widened at the determination on her face. Wow! At that age I hadn’t been so sure of myself. “Good on you, Liv. From whom did you inherit your talent, your mom?”
“Dad.” She grinned. I turned back to her mother and found her with a teasing smile on her face.
“You don’t recognize me, do you, Cecilia?”
No one called me Cecilia, only those who know me pretty well. My eyes narrowed on her face once again, and this time, she removed her shawl and said. “I was formerly Suzanne Gabriel. We studied together until 6th grade.”
The way I looked at her made her howl in laughter. We threw our arms around each other, our eyes slightly moist at the turn of events. We couldn’t stop talking as there was so much catching up to do. My husband captured us on camera, patiently waiting as we posed in different endroits like giggly school-girls happy to be together again.
I was suddenly remembering our school life, and one particular incident stood out. It was the time when I’d lost my best friend to another aggressive girl, who I believed in my childish mind, stole her. I was sitting on a wooden bench in an old dilapidated classroom with my forehead resting on the desk, crying as if my heart was broken, when I felt a tiny arm crawl around my shoulder. I didn’t know who it was, but I was comforted that I wasn’t alone, that someone must like me to have taken the trouble to find out if I was okay.
My head lifted and I saw a petite girl with twin braids, smiling warmly at me, her cheeks deeply grooved. Her brown eyes held compassion, and I remember the look she gave me as she took my hand in hers and said stoutly “I’ll be your best friend.”
Suzanne had migrated to another school after that and we lost touch. But as they say, memories do linger. And here we are thirty three years later renewing our friendship.
Suzanne and Liv left me to my book-signing, the fragrance of friendship still in the air as I continued with the event, which now took on a different allure.
It was no more a book-signing . . . it was nostalgia all the way. And I was thinking to myself I had one more reason to love The French Encounter, for bringing wonderful people back into my life.
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message 1:
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Suzanne
(new)
May 11, 2016 05:10AM
I was so thrilled when Cecilia told me to come meet her for the book signing. I was just waiting for the actual moment when I would see her face to face after so many years, and I must say it was such a lovely moment. I could not believe that she was the same lovely person. It felt like the good old times at school.
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