Rifiuto: Non Miriena
Thanks to Reader for reviewing 2, 3 and 4; Sazzita, JonnyP86 and Reader for reviewing 4.
"Timothy McGee?" He nodded. "But... but why write under that name?" They headed back towards the front of the store, taking a seat on the sofa near the fireplace. "How did you even come up with it?" She asked, incredulous. He chuckled, handing her the second cup of coffee.
"I'd tried thinking of a name to write under, from the time I was a child. But every name I came up with... they just didn't work. And then I started to think of some of the classic authors. Samuel Clemens wrote under Mark Twain; the Bronte sisters originally wrote under Currer, Ellis and Acton Bell; C. S. Forester was actually a man named Cecil Smith; George Eliot was a woman writing under a male name in the nineteenth century; Orwell's real name was Eric Arthur Blair; Sylvia Plath's The Bell Jar was originally published under the name Victoria Lucas- you get the idea. So, I thought about it, and after some major thought, I figured, the easiest way to pick a pen name would be out of my own name."
She raised an eyebrow. "Ah... I... I am sorry?" He waved it away.
"I rearranged the letters in my name to create Timothy McGee." He glanced around before getting up. When he returned, he uncapped the pen and wrote his name out on the sheet of paper he'd asked for. She leaned close, watching as he then took each letter, and below his name, spelled out his pseudonym. And just like that, in the matter of rearranging a few of the letters of his name, he went from being Thom E. Gemcity to Timothy McGee.
"Oh." She sat back, letting it sink in. Then, she turned to him. "I think I like Thom E. Gemcity better." He chuckled softly. "How... how did you get the name Gemcity anyway. It is... a very unusual last name."
She watched him bite his lip, as though he were thinking over what he was going to tell her. "It's complicated, but from what I've been able to discern from my family's history, one of our ancestors on my mom's side was of French descent and she was taken in a raid on the prairie by Native Americans. She later married a tribe warrior- in the eighteen-seventies, I believe- and her father's last name was Cote, possibly meaning 'edge' in French. Well, her Native American name, from what we've been able to gather, was Moema, meaning 'sweet'. Legend has it she called herself Moema Cote, to keep her lost family with her always, but when they placed the Indians on the reservations, the white teachers couldn't pronounce her name; the closest they came was 'Gemcity', so they called her Elizabeth Gemcity. How they got Gemcity out of Moema Cote is a mystery. Her sons legally changed their names to Gemcity when they reached adulthood, and we've been Gemcity's ever since."
"That is..."
"Convoluted?" He volunteered. She thought a moment, before nodding.
"Yes." He laughed, and she found herself wanting to hear that sound again. They sat in silence for several minutes, before she set the book down. He watched her, before grabbing the pen and the book and heading up to the counter. She pulled out her phone, finding six texts and four messages from Bishop, and rolled her eyes. No doubt the blonde was frantic, but considering some of the things she often put Ziva through, she could go ahead and worry. It would do her happy-go-lucky ass good for once. She looked up when he returned, the book in hand, a receipt sticking out of the top. "What is this?"
"It's that book of mine. For you. So you can read it." She was touched, as she slowly took the book.
"It... you bought it for me?" He nodded. "But... but..." She glanced behind them, searching for the owners, but she hadn't seen anyone at the desk, nor among the shelves save for a few regulars come to browse.
"Who are you looking for?" She turned back to him, hearing the chuckle in his voice.
"The owner. This shop is... perfect, and I want to tell them."
"You already have." She furrowed a brow.
"What?"
"I'm the owner." The shock on her face caused him to laugh softly, and he took a deep breath. "After I moved to Paris, I came across this small shop. Turns out, the original owner was a Vietnam veteran, who had lost his wife back in the eighties, and moved to Paris, to be near his daughter. We got to be good friends; he gave me my start, gave me a job, helped me get onto my feet after I first moved here. When he died, I found out that he left the store to me." He shrugged.
"And so you will keep it until you make it big?" He thought a moment, wrinkling his nose.
"No, even if I make it big, I'll still keep it. This is the store that gave me my start, I can't abandon it. And I wouldn't put it in anyone else's hands unless they were someone I absolutely trusted."
She looked around, drinking everything in. "Well, it is beautiful. And wonderful, and perfect. Thank you, for bringing me here." He nodded.
"Welcome." They sat in the bookstore for the next two hours, reading and talking about writing and their favorite authors. When they finally left- after he locked up- they walked back to his apartment in silence. By then, it was nearly nine, and, she found that she didn't want to go back to the hotel, to the case they were working, to Bishop. By the time they returned to his apartment, she was anxious to ask, but didn't know how to bring it up.
"Would you like to come in for tea or... coffee?" She met his gaze, a small smile tugging at her lips.
"I thought you would never ask."