Love Lettering

by Kate Clayborn

Genres: Contemporary Romance; General Fiction; City Life

Synopsis

In this warm and witty romance from acclaimed author Kate Clayborn, one little word puts a woman's business—and her heart—in jeopardy . . .

Meg Mackworth's hand-lettering skill has made her famous as the Planner of Park Slope, designing custom journals for her New York City clientele. She has another skill too: reading signs that other people miss. Knowing the upcoming marriage of Reid Sutherland and his gorgeous fiancee was doomed to fail is one thing, but weaving a secret word of warning into their wedding program is another. Meg may have thought no one would spot it, but she hadn't counted on sharp-eyed, pattern-obsessed Reid . . .

A year later, Reid has tracked Meg down to find out how she knew that his meticulously planned future was about to implode. But with a looming deadline and a bad case of creative block, Meg doesn't have time for Reid's questions—unless he can help her find her missing inspiration. As they gradually open up to each other, both try to ignore a deepening connection between them. But the signs are there—irresistible, indisputable, urging Meg to heed the messages Reid is sending her, before it's too late . . .

Release date: December 31, 2019

Publisher: Kensington Books

Print pages: 320

Sample

On Sunday I work in sans serif.

Boldface for all the headers, because that’s what the client wants, apexes and vertexes flattened way out into big floors and tables for every letter, each one stretching and counting and demanding to be seen.

All caps, not because she’s into shouting—at least I don’t think, though one time I saw her husband give their toddler a drink of his coffee and the look she gave him probably made all his beard hairs fall out within twelve to twenty-four hours. No, I think it’s because she doesn’t like anything falling below the descender line. She wants it all on the level, no distraction, nothing that’ll disrupt her focus or pull her eye away.

Black and gray ink, that’s all she’ll stand for, and she means it. One time I widened the tracking and added a metallic, a fine-pointed thread of gold to the stems, an almost art deco look I thought for sure she’d tolerate, but when she opened the journal—black, A4, dot grid, nothing fancy—she’d closed it after barely ten seconds and slid it back across the table with two fingers, the sleeve of her black cashmere sweater obviously part of the admonishment.

“Meg,” she’d said, “I don’t pay you to be decorative,” as if being decorative was the same as being a toenail clipping hoarder or a murderer-for-hire.

She’s a sans serif kind of woman.

Me? Well, it’s not really the Mackworth brand, all these big, bold, no-nonsense letters. It’s not my usual—what was it The New York Times had written last year? Whimsical? Buoyant? Frolicsome? Right, not my usual whimsical, buoyant, frolicsome style.

But I can do anything with letters, that’s also what The New York Times said, and that’s what people pay me for, so on Sunday I do this.

I sigh and stare down at the page in front of me, where I’ve used my oldest Staedtler pencil to grid and sketch out the letters


for the upcoming month, big enough that the A crosses the center line. It’s such a . . . such a short word, not a lot of possibility in it, not like my clients who’ve wanted a nice spring motif before their monthly spread, big swashes and swooping terminal curves for cheerful sayings ushering in the new month. Already I’ve done four Bloom Where You’re Planteds, three May Flowers! and one special request for a Lusty Month of May, from the sex therapist who has an office on Prospect Park West and who once told me I should think about whether my vast collection of pens is a “symbol” for something.

“Other than for my work?” I’d asked, and she’d only raised a very judgmental, very expertly threaded eyebrow. The Sex Therapist Eyebrow of Knowing How Rarely You Date. Her planner, it’s a soft pink leather with a gold button closure, and I hope she sees the irony.

Now I pick up my favorite pen, a fine-tipped Micron—not symbolic, I hope, of any future dating prospects—and tap it idly against the weathered wood countertop that’s functioning as my work surface today. It’s quiet in the shop, only thirty minutes to close on a Sunday. The neighborhood regulars don’t come around much on the weekends, knowing the place will be overrun by visitors from across the Bridge, or tourists who’ve read about the cozy Brooklyn paperie that Cecelia’s managed to turn into something of a must-see attraction, at least for those who are looking to shop. But they’re long gone by now, too, bags stuffed full of pretty notecards, slim boxes of custom paper, specialty pens, leather notebooks, maybe even a few of the pricey designer gifts Cecelia stocks at the front of the store.

Back when I worked here more regularly, I relished the quiet moments—the shop empty but for me and my not-symbolic pen and whatever paper I had in front of me, my only job to create. To play with those letters, to experiment with their shapes, to reveal their possibilities.

But today I’m not so welcoming of the quiet. Instead I’m wishing for some of those Sunday shoppers to come back, because I liked it—all the noise, all the people, being face-to-face with brand-new faces. At first I thought it was simply the novelty of having my phone put away for so long—a forced hiatus from those red notification circles that stack up in my social media apps, likes and comments on the videos I post, the ones I used to do for fun but now are mostly for sponsors. Me showing off brush-lettering pens I don’t even use all that regularly, me swooping my hand through a perfect flourish, me thumbing through the thick, foil-edged pages of some luxury journal I’ll probably end up giving away.

Eventually, though, I realized it was more than being away from the phone. It was the break from that master task list I’ve got tacked above the desk in my small bedroom, the one that’s whimsically lettered but weighted with expectation—my biggest, most important deadline ratcheting ever nearer and no closer to being met. It was the relief of being away from the chilly atmosphere in my once-homey, laugh-filled apartment, where these days Sibby’s distant politeness cuts me like a knife, makes me restless with sadness and frustration.

So now the quiet in the shop seems heavy, isolating. A reminder that a rare moment of quiet is full of dread for me lately, my mind utterly blank of inspiration. Right now, it’s just me and this word, and it should be easy. It should be plain and simple and custom-made and low stakes, nothing like the job I’ve been avoiding for weeks and weeks. Nothing that requires my ideas, my creativity, my specialty.

Sans serif, bold, all caps, no frolicking.

But I feel something, staring down at this little word. Feel something familiar, something I’ve been trying to avoid these days.

I feel those letters doing their work on me. Telling me truths I don’t want to hear.

be you’re blocked, the letters say to me, and I try to blink them away. For a few seconds I blur my vision, try to imagine being decorative, try to imagine what I’d do if I didn’t have to keep my promises to the client. Something in those wide vertexes? Play with the negative space, or . . .

be you’re lonely, the letters interrupt, and my vision sharpens again.

be, they seem to say, you can’t do this after all.

I set down the Micron and take a step back.

And that’s when he comes in.

The thing is, the letters don’t always tell me truths about myself.

Sometimes they tell me truths about other people, and Reid Sutherland is—was—one of those people.

I remember him straightaway, even though it’s been over a year since the first and only time I ever saw him, even though I must’ve only spent a grand total of forty-five minutes in his quiet, forbidding presence. That day, he’d come in late—his fiancée already here in the shop, their final appointment to approve the treatment I’d done for their wedding. Save the dates, invitations, place cards, the program—anything that needed letters, I was doing it, and the truth is, by then I’d been almost desperate to finish the job, to get a break. I’d been freelancing for a few years before I came to Brooklyn, but once I started contracting for Cecelia exclusively, handling all the engagement and wedding jobs that came through the shop, word about my work had spread with a speed that was equal parts thrilling and overwhelming. Jobs coming so quickly I’d had to turn more than a few down, which only seemed to increase interest. During the day my head would teem with my clients’ demands and deadlines; at night my hands would ache with tension and fatigue. I’d sit on the couch, my right hand weighted with a heated bag of uncooked rice to ease its cramping, and I’d breathe out the stress from meetings that would sometimes see couples and future in-laws turn brittle with wedding-related tension, my job to smile and smooth ruffled feathers, sketching out soft, romantic things that would please everyone. I’d wonder whether it was time to get out of the wedding business altogether.

The fiancée—Avery, her name was, blond and willowy and almost always dressed in something blush or cream or ice blue or whatever color I’d be just as likely to ruin with ink or coffee or ketchup—had been nice to work with, focused and polite, a good sense of herself and what she wanted, but not resistant to Cecelia’s suggestions about paper or my suggestions about the lettering. A few times, in our initial meetings, I’d asked about her fiancé, whether she’d want me to send scans to his e-mail, too, or whether she’d want to try to find a weekend meeting time if it’d make it easier for him to come. She’d always wave her slim-fingered left hand, the one with the tiny ice rink on it that looked almost identical to the rings of at least three other brides I’d been working with that spring, and she’d say, pleasantly, “Reid will like whatever I like.”

But I’d insisted on it, him being there for the final meeting.

And I’d regretted it later. Meeting him. Meeting them together.

I regret it even more now.

We’d settled on a Sunday afternoon for that final meeting, and now it seems doubly strange to find him here again on another Sunday, my life so different now than it was then, even though I’m in the same store, standing behind the same counter, wearing some version of what’s always, pretty much, been my style aesthetic—a knit dress, a little slouchy in fit, patterned, this particular one with tiny, friendly fox faces. Slightly wrinkled cardigan that, until an hour ago, was shoved into my bag. Navy tights and low-heeled, wine-red booties that Sibby would probably say make my feet look big but that also make me smile at least once a day, even without Sibby willing to tease me anymore.

Last year, he’d been wearing what other people call “business casual” and what I’d privately call “weekend-stick-up-your ass”: tan chinos pressed so sharply they’d looked starched, white collared shirt under a slim cut, expensive-looking navy-blue V-neck sweater. A double-take face, that was for sure—so handsome half of you is wondering if you’ve seen him on your television and the other half of you is wondering why anyone would put a head like that on top of what looked like a debate team uniform.

But now he looks different. Same head, okay—a square, clean-shaven jaw; high cheekbones that seem to carve swooping, shadowed lines down to his chin; a full-lipped mouth with corners turning slightly down; a nose bold enough to match the rest of his strong features; bright, clear blue eyes beneath a set of brows a shade lighter than his dark reddish-blond hair. Neck down, though, not so business casual anymore: olive green T-shirt underneath a hip-length, navy-blue jacket, faded around the zipper. Dark jeans, the edges of the front pockets where he has his hands tucked slightly frayed, and I don’t think it’s the kind of fraying you pay for. Gray sneakers, a bit battered-looking.

be, I think, his life is pretty different now, too.

But then he says, “Good evening,” which I guess means he’s still got the stick up his ass. Who says Good evening? Your grandad, that’s who. When you call him on his land line.

I feel like if I say a casual “Hi” or “Hey,” I’ll open up some crack in the space-time continuum, or at least make him want to straighten the tie he’s not wearing. I shouldn’t be deceived by the clothes. Maybe he got mugged on the way over by a rogue debate team captain in need of a new outfit and that’s why he looks the way he does.

I settle for a “Hello,” but I keep it light and cheerful—buoyant, if you will—and I’m pretty sure he nods. As if he’s saying, “This greeting is acceptable to me.” I have a fleeting image of how it must have been at his wedding. Probably he did that nod when the officiant said “man and wife.” Probably he shook Avery’s hand instead of kissing her. I really don’t think she would’ve minded. Her lipstick always looked so nice.

“Welcome to—” I begin, at the same time he speaks again.

“You still work here,” he says. It’s flat, the same as everything I’ve ever heard him say, but there’s a hint of question, of surprise in it.

So maybe he knows something of what I’ve done since I lettered every single scrap of paper for his wedding.

But surely he can’t know—he absolutely can’t know—why I’d decided his wedding would be my last.

I swallow. “I’m filling in,” I say, and it’s—less buoyant. Cautious. “The owner’s on vacation.”

He’s still standing right inside the door, underneath the bright paper cranes Cecelia has hung from the ceiling near the entrance. Behind him, the window displays feature various sheaths of the new custom wrapping paper she’d told me about two weeks ago, the last time I’d stopped in for supplies. It’s all so colorful, a springtime celebration of pinks and greens and pale yellows, a cheery haven from the mostly gray tones of the city street outside, and now it looks like a human skyscraper has walked in.

It reminds me of one of those truths about Reid Sutherland.

It reminds me of how he’d seemed a little lost that day. A little sad.

I swallow again and take a step forward, pick up my Micron from the crease of my client’s notebook, prepare to close it and set it aside. , it calls, and this time something else occurs to me. It’d be close now to Reid and Avery’s first anniversary. June 2nd, that was the wedding date, and sure he’s planning way ahead, but probably he’s that kind of guy in general. Probably he’s got a reminder on his phone. And he’d be the type to follow the rules, too, all the conventions. Paper, that’s the traditional first anniversary gift, and that’s probably what brought him here. Very sweet, to come all the way to Brooklyn, to the place where they’d chosen their first paper together. Or I guess where she chose it, and he sort of . . . blinked at it in what she’d taken for approval.

I feel a blooming sense of relief. There’s an explanation for this, for him being here. It’s not because he knows.

No one but me could know.

I push the notebook out of the way and fold my hands on top of the counter, look up to offer help. Of course in the face of a human-shaped piece of granite I find myself struggling to muster the cheerful informality that’s always made me such a hit in here, that had lifted my low spirits throughout today’s shift. Ridiculously, I can only think of phrases that seem straight out of Jane Austen. Are you in need of assistance, sir? What do you require this evening? Which of our parchment-like wares appeals most to you?

“I suppose it’s to be expected,” he says, before I can settle on a question. “You wouldn’t need this job, what with all the success you’ve had.”

He’s not looking at me when he says it. He’s turned his head slightly, looking to the wall on his left, where there’s a display of greeting cards that Lachelle, one of Cecelia’s regular calligraphers, has designed. They’re bright, bold colors, too—Lachelle uses mostly jewel tones for her projects, adding tiny beads with a small pair of tweezers that she wields as though she’s doing surgery. I love them, have three of them tacked on the wall above my nightstand, but Reid doesn’t even seem to register them before his eyes shift back to me.

“I saw the Times article,” he says, I guess by way of explanation. “And the piece on . . .” He swallows, gearing up for something. “Buzzfeed.”

LOL, I think, or maybe I see it: sans serif, bold, all caps, a bright yellow background. Reid Sutherland scrolling through Buzzfeed, the twenty gifs they’d embedded of me drawing various letters with pithy captions about how it was almost pornographically satisfying, watching me draw a perfect, brush-lettered cursive E so smoothly.

He probably got an eye twitch from it. Then he probably cleared his browser history.

“Thank you,” I say, even though I don’t think he was complimenting me.

“Avery is very proud. She feels as though she got on the ground floor, hiring you when she did. Before you became . . .”

He trails off, but both of us seem to fill in the blank. The Planner of Park Slope, that’s what I’m called now. That’s what got me out of the wedding business, that’s what the Times wrote about late last year, that’s what’s had me on three conference calls in the last month alone, that’s what’s brought me the deadline I’m avoiding. Custom-designed datebooks and journals and desk calendars, the occasional chalk-drawn wall calendar inside the fully renovated brownstones of my most handcraft-obsessed clients, the ones who have toddlers with names like Agatha and Sebastian, the ones with white subway-tile kitchens and fresh flowers on farmhouse-style tables that never once saw the inside of a farmhouse, let alone the outside of a farm. I don’t so much organize their lives as I do make that organization—work retreats and weekend holidays and playdates and music lessons—look special, beautiful, uncomplicated.

“Are you looking to have me design something for her?”

I haven’t been taking on new clients lately, trying to put this new opportunity first, but it’s clever, I guess, for the one-year paper anniversary. A custom journal, maybe, and it’s not as if I don’t secretly owe him an apology-favor. Of course, if this is what he wants, he’s cutting it close, especially if he wants me to design the full year up front, which some clients prefer. Those here in Brooklyn I’ve mostly got on a monthly schedule, but Reid and Avery, I’m guessing they stay in Manhattan most of the time. Avery had a tony address on East 62nd when she was engaged; she’s got the kind of money I don’t even understand on a theoretical level, much less a practical one.

For the first time something in his face changes, a twitch of those turned-down corners. A . . . smile? It’s possible I forgot what smiles are since he came in here, jeez. But even that brief flash of expression, of emotion—it changes him. Double-take face turns to triple-take face. Take-a-photo-and-show-it-to-your-friends-later face.

He’s very tall. Exceptionally tall. I hate myself for thinking about the symbolism of my pens.

In the context of a married person, no less.

“No,” he says, and the sort-of smile is gone.

“Well,” I say, extra cheerful, “we have other gifts and—”

“I’m not looking for a shopgirl,” he says, cutting me off.

A . . . shopgirl?

Now it’s him that’s made a crack in the space-time continuum, or maybe some kind of crack in my normally frolicsome façade. I wish I could unzip my forehead and release the Valkyries on his person. It’d be worse than the debate team captain mugging, I can tell you that.

I blink across the counter at him, trying to wait out my annoyance. But then, before I can plaster over the crack, I press up on my tiptoes, exaggeratedly looking over his shoulder (one of two excellent shoulders, not that I should care) to the street beyond, the dark green awning of a fancy shave shop flapping gently in the spring breeze.

“Did you come here in a time machine?” I ask sweetly. I lower back down to my heels, meet his eyes so I can catch the expression I’ll see there.

Blank, flat. No anger or amusement. The most sans serif person.

“A time machine,” he repeats.

“Yes, a time machine. Because no one has said ‘shopgirl’ since—” Parchment wares, is all I can think, annoyingly. So I finish with an exceedingly disappointing, “A long time ago.”

I think my shoulders sag. I am truly terrible at confrontation, though this man, with his blank handsome face, seems unusually capable of making me at least want to try getting better.

He clears his throat. He has fair skin, an aesthetic match for the ruddy tone in the dark blond of his hair, and part of me hopes he flushes in shame or embarrassment, some physical reaction that would remind me of what I’d seen in him all those months ago. Something that would remind me he’s not a man-sized thundercloud, come to monsoon on the rainy disposition I already felt taking hold before he walked in here.

But his complexion stays even.

I could’ve been wrong that day, thinking he was lost or sad. It could be that he’s just a smug, stick-up-his-ass drone. Thinking of him this way—I wish it made me feel better about what I did, but it doesn’t, not really. It was so . . .

It was so presumptuous. So unprofessional.

But I’m all out of patience now, no matter the error I made, especially since he doesn’t even know about it. I may not be good with confrontation, but I am exceedingly, expertly good at avoiding it. I can paste on a smile and finish this shift for Cecelia and get him out of here, back to whatever doorman-guarded high-rise he lives in with his fancy wife who never has ketchup stains on her clothing. A shopgirl, for God’s sake.

“Anyway,” I say, clenching my teeth in what I hope is an approximation of a smile. “May I help you with something?”

I think, in the pause he leaves there. Flat, flat, flat.

“Maybe,” he says, and for the first time he removes his hands from his pockets.

And I don’t think I could say, really, what it is that makes me realize that monsoon was an understatement, that this is about to be a tidal wave. I don’t think I could say what I notice first: the fact that there’s no wedding ring on his left hand? The corner of that thick paper he begins to pull from the inside of his jacket? The matte finish, the antique cream color I remember Avery stroking her thumb over, her smile close-lipped and pleased? The flash of color—colors—I used on the final version, the vines and leaves, the iridescence of the wings I’d sketched . . . ?

But I know. I know what he’s come to ask.

be, I think, the word an echo and a premonition.

He doesn’t speak again until he’s set the single sheet in front of me.

His wedding program.

I watch as his eyes trace briefly over the letters, and I know what he’s seeing. I know what I left there; I know the way those letters worked on me.

But I didn’t think anyone else ever would.

Then he looks up and meets my eyes again. Clear blue. A tidal wave when he speaks.

“Maybe you could tell me how you knew my marriage would fail.”

Talk about whimsical.

Not this moment, obviously. This moment is more like: How noticeable would it be if I stress-vomited in the wastebasket underneath this counter?

But the program that Reid’s set down between us? The one that’s sucking all the available air out of the room while reminding me of my recklessness?

That is definitely whimsical.

It’d been Avery’s suggestion, the A Midsummer Night’s Dream theme, inspired by her first date with Reid. “Shakespeare in the Park?” she’d said, as though maybe I hadn’t heard of it, though I definitely had. Sibby and I had gone once, not long after I’d moved here and she was still acting as both my best friend and my expert tour guide/distractor-in-chief. I wouldn’t necessarily have pegged it as a good first date activity, but that’s because when we went it had been ten thousand degrees outside and the play had been Troilus and Cressida, which so far as I could tell was basically about sex trafficking.

But A Midsummer Night’s Dream—that was romantic, I guess, at least in some parts. Forests and fairies and couples coupling, and Avery seemed important enough to control weather patterns, so the date with Reid had probably been perfect.

It’d been easy, really, to develop the treatment. Lots of ornate lettering, illustrative details overlaying or weaved in. I frolicked my face off for this job, and everyone I’d shown it to had loved it.

Except Reid.

Right now his face looks very similar to how it had the first time he’d seen all the preliminaries that day we met. Like he’s taken a professional brow-furrowing class and like his mouth has had a turn-down service. He is laser focused. He would definitely notice if I stress-vomited.

“I don’t know what you’re talking about,” I try, but I am as bad at moderating my voice as Reid is good at moderating pretty much every single thing about his physical presence. It sounds almost cartoonish; I half expect to blurt, I would’ve gotten away with it, too, if it weren’t for you crazy kids! next. My hands are clasped so tightly together, the braided-together fist of them backing off from where the program lies between us, as though it’ll burn my skin if it touches me.

But clearly Reid has no such reluctance. He reaches out a hand—a big hand, broad palm, long fingers, forget about the symbolism—and touches two fingers to the corner of the paper. I don’t look at him, but I’m hoping the pause is him rethinking this. I’m hoping it’s him deciding that what he saw isn’t really there after all. I don’t know what happened with him and Avery, but hey, breakups can be messy. You can start looking for all kinds of reasons things went wrong, right? Two years ago, Sibby developed an elaborate theory that the banjo player she’d been dating couldn’t commit to her because the banjo as an instrument has a “wanderer’s sound.”

It’s not a reasonable hope, though, not judging by the way Reid is staring down at the program. He is not the type—unlike me, I guess—to lie to himself.

“There’s a code in this program,” he says, still looking down. “A pattern.”

Oh, God. A half hour ago I was lamenting the end-of-day quiet in the shop, but now I’m so glad for it. If Cecelia heard this, if any shoppers heard this—God, if this got out on social media—I can’t imagine it’d do anything good for my career. Those conference calls where I’ve been making all sorts of professional promises I’m not even sure I can keep.

I can imagine, in fact, that it’d wreck everything.

“I—”

Before I can even attempt another very unconvincing denial, his hand moves, his index finger tracking to the first line of the program, second word: Marriage. The tip of his finger rests right above the M, the letter over which I drew the first fairy—she’s facing left, the very tip of one of her slim, delicate feet touching down on the second shoulder of the letter, her veiny wings—I’d used the finest tip for those—still fully extended as she descends. I’d made her blond, same as Avery, though she’s tiny enough that nothing about her simple facial features suggests a resemblance.

His finger moves again. Second line, where their names were side by side, joined by a viney ampersand I’d been particularly proud of. Reid, that’s where his finge. . .