I’m not thrilled by the prospect of spending even more time within a ten-foot radius of Charlie after last night’s humiliating blip, but if this is what Libby really wants to do, I’m not going to let one kiss—that allegedly “never happened” anyway—scare me off.
Just like I’m not going to let it keep me from getting some work done today. People always talk about compartmentalization like it’s a bad thing, but I love the way that, when I work, everything else seems to get folded away neatly in drawers, the books I’m working on swelling to the forefront, immersing me every bit as wholly as reading my favorite chapter books did when I was a kid. Like there’s nothing to worry over, plan, mourn, or figure out.
I’m so engrossed I don’t even notice Libby’s paused her brainstorming to slip away, until she comes back some time later with a fresh iced coffee from across the street and a three-foot stack of small-town romance novels she’s culled from the Goode Books shelves.
“It’s been months since I read more than five pages in a sitting,” she says giddily. Unlike me, Libby does not read the last page first. She doesn’t even read the jacket copy, preferring to go in without any preconceived notions. Probably why she’s been known to throw books across the room.
“Once I tried to lock myself in the bathroom with a Rebekah Weatherspoon novel,” she says. “Within minutes, Bea wet herself.”
“You need a second bathroom.”
“I need a second me.” She opens her book, and I click over to a new browser, checking for new apartment listings. There’s nothing in Libby and Brendan’s price range that doesn’t look like an SVU crime scene set.
An email comes in from Sharon then, and I tap over to it.
She’s doing well, and so is the baby, though they both plan to be in the hospital for a bit, since he arrived prematurely. She’s sent me some pictures of his tiny pink face in its tiny little knit cap. Honestly, all newborns look more or less the same to me, but knowing he came from someone I like is enough to make my heart swell.
It constricts again when I read on and get to the part of the email dedicated to raving about Frigid. For a second, I’d almost forgotten that, in just over a year, everyone I’ve ever worked with will read about Nadine Winters. It’s that in-school-in-your-underwear nightmare times one hundred.
Even so, I feel a wash of pride when I read Sharon’s confirmation of what I already knew: this is the right book. There’s an unquantifiable spark in these pages, a sense of clarity and purpose.
Some books just have that inevitability from the beginning, an eerie déjà vu. You don’t know what’s going to happen, but you’re sure there’s no avoiding it.
Much like the rest of Sharon’s email:
We’d like to bring in our very talented new editor-at-large Charlie Lastra to get Dusty through the first round of major edits. I’ll send out another email making the introduction between them but wanted to mention to you first so you could prime the pump, so to speak.
Charlie’s fantastic at what he does. Frigid will be in excellent hands.
Flashes of Charlie’s excellent hands sizzle across my mind. I exit the email with the ferocity of a teenager slamming a door and screaming, You’re not my real dad!
If there’s anything more embarrassing than having a thinly veiled novel about you published, it’s probably having that book edited by a man who felt you up in a thunderstorm.
This is why the rules exist. To protect against this exact (okay, approximate) scenario.
There’s only one way to handle this. Be the shark, Nora.
I stand, roll my shoulders back, and approach the register.
“Is she going to buy any of those,” Charlie drawls, tipping his chin toward Libby’s tower of books, “or just get coffee all over them?”
“Has anyone ever told you you’re a natural at customer service?” I ask.
“No,” he says.
“Good. I know how you feel about liars.”
His lips part, but before he can retort, I say, “I’ll get Dusty on board—but I have a stipulation.”
Charlie’s mouth jams shut, his eyes going flinty. “Let’s hear it.”
“Your notes go through me,” I say. “Dusty’s first publisher did a real number on her psyche, and she’s just regaining her confidence. The last thing she needs is you bulldozing her self-esteem.” He opens his mouth to object, and I add, “Trust me. This is the only way it can work. If it can work at all.”
After a long moment of consideration, he stretches his hand across the desk. “Okay, Stephens, you’ve got yourself a deal.”
I shake my head. I won’t be making the mistake of touching Charlie Lastra again. “Nothing’s settled until I talk to her.”
He nods. “I’ll have my cocktail napkin and pen waiting for your signature.”
“Oh, Charlie,” I say. “How adorable that you think I’d sign a contract with anyone else’s pen.”
The corner of his mouth hitches. “You’re right,” he says. “I should’ve guessed.”
11
BUT SHE WASN’T due until next month,” Dusty says.
“Trust me: I tried telling her that.” I pick at a bit of peeling paint on the gazebo as I watch a plump bumblebee drunkenly spiral through the flower beds. The woods are thick with the creaking-door chirp of cicadas, and the sky’s turning a bruised shade of purple, the heat thick as ever. “But Charlie’s really excited about this book, and from what I hear, he’s great at what he does.”
Dusty says, “Didn’t we submit Once to him? And he passed?”
I tuck my phone between my shoulder and ear, moving my frizzy bangs aside. “That’s right, but even then, he was adamant that he would love to see your future projects.”
A long pause. “But you’ve never worked with him. I mean, you don’t know what his editorial tastes are like.”
“Dusty, he’s in love with these pages. I mean that. And looking at his other titles . . . I think Frigid makes sense for him.”
She sighs. “I can’t really say no, can I? I mean, not without seeming difficult.”
“Look,” I say. “We’ve pushed this deadline back before, and if we have to do it again, we will. But I think, timing wise, with the Once movie coming out, your release couldn’t be positioned much better. And I’ll be there every step of the way. I’ll run interference—do whatever I have to do to make sure you’re happy with how this book turns out. That’s what matters most.”