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At the book signing yesterday, at Books-A-Million, Emma sat at the small cafe table they'd arranged for her, with a linen tablecloth and cut roses from the manager's garden. She told Emma that one of these roses, a small pink flower with dense petals, was the original inspiration for French perfume. Some of Emma's family members came, and they had a small party, with her brother handing out complimentary bookmarks to everyone who wandered in. Emma felt bright and loved. A man came into the store with his twin sons, both in wheelchairs. They had unusually bright orange hair that made them even more noticeable. The man, who looked like a typical Midwestern dad, wheeled one of his sons up to Emma's table, and introduced him. Harrison. This was no Harry, but Harrison. The man told Emma that his son loved history and was always writing stories. Harrison gazed at Emma. He had light orange eyebrows, blue eyes, and pale skin that made his lips look as pink as the roses on the table. His face and fingers were as thin as an aesthete's. Emma found him as interesting as an Anne Rice vampire. She asked him, "how old are you?" He said, "Fifteen." He was shy, but he could speak. Emma wanted him to talk more to her, she intuitively felt that this was a boy with a fascinating and mysterious brain, that he lived the life of the mind, and so she wrote her email on the corner of a piece of paper. She said, "If you ever want to talk about writing, I would love to hear from you." They bought one of her books. Will he write? Emma hopes he will.
