But now he straightened and asked in a tone of surprise, his dark eyes narrowing, “Wait … that’s what Chloe told you? That she’s a fan of your books?”
“Yes, of course.” What was wrong with him? “What did you think she said?”
“Nothing.” He set the now empty wineglass down on the nearby table and seemed to exhale—in relief.
“Why?” I demanded sharply. “Are you going to try to tell me it’s not true? Because I was standing right over there when she said it. She and her friend the sheriff’s daughter and their other friend, Sharmaine, all said—”
“Oh, no.” He toed some of the wine-damp sand. “It’s true.”
Then why on earth was he looking so relieved? He should have been looking ashamed—ashamed for being such a judgmental hater of literature for girls (and some boys, and of course non-binary children as well).
“So what happened?” I asked. “Did you think neither of us were going to notice when you decided to talk smack about Kitty Katz to the press? Because I can assure you that I did. My own father wrote to let me know. He has a Google alert on my name. Do you have any idea what it feels like to be called by your dad and told that internationally bestselling author Will Price—who I thought was a friend of mine—was going around saying that Nicole Woods should have had better taste than to copy me? How do you think that made me feel?”
Finally he looked up. And this time when he did, I could see that there was heat in those dark eyes of his. What kind of heat—shame, anger, humiliation, all three—I couldn’t tell. But something was flaring there, deep inside the darkness.
“I’m sorry,” he said in a voice that was so low, I could barely hear it above the excited chatter of the other dinner guests, the squeaking of wooden chairs as they sat, and the clink of silverware as they hungrily attacked their salads. “I’m so sorry that happened to you. It shouldn’t have.”
Wait. What was going on? Was he apologizing?
“I was going through a difficult personal time.” He was still talking, that deep voice so quiet, it was almost a purr. “I wasn’t as selective of my words as I ought to have been. But I realize that’s no excuse.”
“Wait,” I said, confused.
I realized I must have been gaping at him, but none of this was going to plan. He wasn’t supposed to apologize, or make excuses. He was supposed to haughtily ignore me or maybe call for his butler to haul me from his grand tropical estate.
He wasn’t supposed to say he was sorry.
I had no idea how to react except to keep going, saying all the things I’d rehearsed saying to him a thousand times in my head … although of course I’d never imagined him apologizing, so nothing I’d planned made sense anymore … especially since it was getting all garbled in my head with what he’d said.
“You were going through a difficult time? You completely dissed me and basically the entirety of children’s literature because you were going through a difficult time? I’ve gone through difficult times, Will, and I’ve managed to keep my feelings about other people’s books to myself. And believe me, my feelings about your books aren’t particularly positive.”
I wasn’t going to mention that I couldn’t put down The Moment. That was beside the point. Especially now that I’d noticed that Bernadette, over at the Elizabeth Bishop table, was watching my interaction with Will intently, making questioning faces and mouthing something that looked like Are you all right?
Meanwhile Garrett, over at the Tennessee Williams table, was giving me a mock golf clap for finally standing up to the great Will Price. Neither of them were close enough to hear what I was saying, but apparently my body language was giving me away.
I was on a roll. This was my big chance to finally tell Will Price what I thought of him.
Except none of it felt as good as I’d imagined it would feel.
Still, I kept going. I had to. For all of womankind and children’s literature and my mother and Sicily and, of course, cats.
“Were you on drugs or something?” I demanded. “Are you trying to tell me that sleeping pills made you do it, like Nicole? Because I’ve taken sleeping pills and they’ve never made me say really mean things about other writers’ work to journalists before.”
“No, I was not on drugs.”
Now Will’s deep voice really was a growl. And it wasn’t hard at all to tell what he was feeling. The heat in his eyes had disappeared. His gaze had turned as cold as the steel and concrete his house was made of.
He didn’t resemble a penitent saint anymore, either. He looked a lot more like the coal-eyed devil I’d always known him to be. His lean jaw was set so firmly that there was a muscle leaping beneath it, like a spring that was about to come flying loose.
“Look,” he whispered. He had to whisper because Kellyjean was coming over, tripping barefoot across the sand toward us with a questioning look on her face. Knowing Kellyjean, she was probably going to ask Will if there were water sprites living in his pool or something because she’d just seen one. “I really am sorry about what I said. I ought to have apologized a lot sooner, but I—well, I’ve never been very good with words—”
“Hold up. Never been very good with words? Will, you’re one of the bestselling writers in the world.”
“Even so.” The muscle in his jaw was jumping all over the place. His eyes were like twin embers. “Sometimes I find it difficult to express myself. And I—”
“Sorry to interrupt.” Kellyjean floated up to us in her bare feet and shimmery maxi dress. “But aren’t you Will Price?”
Of course Will was one of the few people not wearing his name badge. Why would he? He was Will Price, easily recognizable from having his books in every spinner rack in every bookstore in every airport and grocery store in the world. Sometimes there were even life-sized cardboard cutouts of him standing beside the displays of his books—cutouts that I longed to punch, but never had the guts to.
Kitty Katz, of course, would have.
“I just wanted to introduce myself,” Kellyjean went on, apparently oblivious to the animosity crackling in the air between Will and me, even though Kellyjean insisted she was very much in touch with people’s auras. “You probably recognize me as Victoria Maynard, the author of the Salem Prairie series, but my real name is Kellyjean Murphy. I’m sure you’ve heard of my books—there’s a Netflix show based on them.”
“Hello, Kellyjean.” Will’s voice sounded strained, though he smiled as warmly as someone who might actually have heard of and enjoyed the Salem Prairie series, which I highly doubted he had, since it performed best with female readers/ viewers ages 18–54 and heavily featured CGI shape-shifting wolf sex. I’d never missed an episode. “Pleasure to meet you.”
“Oh, likewise! Thank you so much for hosting us tonight, and for inviting me. Your home is so lovely. I just can’t get over the pool. It’s all I can do not to rip off my dress and jump in right now.”
“Well, feel free.” He kept up the fake smile while I watched the muscle in his jaw continue to leap around like Miss Kitty on catnip. “I want all of my guests to enjoy themselves.”