Chapter 23
As it turns out, everyone—me included—in the publishing industry is evil.
I open yet another automated rejection email from the twelfth literary agent this week, and with everything I have left resist banging my head on the table.
Do these people realize how much work goes into a proposal? Much less a manuscript? Honestly, I think of all the times I’ve flippantly written rejection letters to hopeful writers and their respective agents, and I cringe.
I’m horrible. A horrible, horrible person, and I never even knew it.
Forget about the manuscript. Just the amount of time it takes to figure out how to make a website, get a website host, find and buy a domain name, create a newsletter mailing list, create a newsletter mailing-list template, and figure out how to “create a brand” when you don’t yet have anything to sell . . . It’s enough to make your brain explode. I’m halfway into the “Become an Influencer in Thirty Days!” class led by some peppy seventeen-year-old girl who wears a lot of shiny pink lipstick and talks excessively with her hands, and I’m still lost.
And the question running through my mind in all of this is, How on earth am I supposed to be able to manage a website, run a bimonthly newsletter, talk daily on Instagram, Facebook, TikTok, YouTube, and Twitter, and still have time to actually write books? What are these insane expectations?
I blame it on those rejection letters.
Now, mind you, 99 percent of the rejections are just automated emails. But the rare ones, the ones where the agent has actually taken the time to leave a sentence or two as to why you are being rejected . . . Well, those say the same thing. Nice story here but need to have a more stable social platform for consideration.
So, I took the advice and tried a few things.
But for goodness’ sake, it’s like getting a college degree just to figure out how to get anyone to follow you on social media. For two weeks I’ve given it all I’ve got, and so far I have one homemade-looking website with broken links, one Twitter account with zero posts because I always get lost on the home page, and thirty-two followers on my Instagram page. And for the record, before all of this I had thirty-four. I have actually lost two family members in the process.
And worse, it’s been radio silence in the ARC room. That brief spot of brightness from his presence—gone.
So, I’ve forged on alone. Working late into the evenings, taking breaks during lunch to try to figure out some other mind-numbing technological skill for which I’m ill equipped but that I’m apparently supposed to have to be an author in the current industry.
I don’t see Will much. As is usual now, he’s gone half the time, and when he’s back he always seems busy, mysterious conversations going on behind his closed door. Sometimes on the phone. Sometimes when the accountant steps in. Sometimes—and that’s when things get loud—with his mother.
I yearn to see him, to talk to him, but whatever glimpse of hope I had back on the staircase was a blip, and he’s no more interested in making something happen with me than Sam is in patching things up.
Seems I was quite off with both of my interpretations of the situation that day.
Still, I have Olivia back, in a new way I haven’t felt since we were girls. She even went out of her way to drag me to our parents’ house the previous week, all but holding the antithetical version of an intervention to declare she was very, very sorry for all the ways she hurt me the past few years—particularly with Ferris—and all but insisting Mom and Dad apologize too. It was domineering, in her usual way. But also . . . touching. Sweet.
So I have her and a positive lifestyle shift with my family. And Lyla.
And they all have been a balm to my soul these days.
I have much to be thankful for.
I see the time and click out of my in-box.
“Ready to go?” I say, standing from my chair.
Lyla, deep inside that genius mind of hers, is drawing a line on a new design she’s working on. She’s working so intently she doesn’t seem to hear me.
I step toward her. Tap her on the shoulder.
She jolts. Lifts her head. Pulls the earbud out of her ear.
“Time for the meeting,” I say.
“Can’t,” she chirps. “I’m still on probation.”
Evidently after Lyla had it out with Dr. Shaw, Will put her on “probation” for the foreseeable future from all meetings, all phone calls, and all emails with any human being at all. She’s basically in work jail, spending her nine-to-five time designing with zero communication with human beings (aside from myself and Will, who is evidently acting as her email liaison), and I’ve never seen her happier.
“Oh, right. Okay . . . then. I’m off,” I say and move for the door.
“Have fun,” she replies vaguely, her eyes back on her computer.
I move down the stairs. This isn’t an ordinary meeting. Ms. Pennington’s assistant, Brittney, sent out the memo just yesterday, informing everyone of an all-staff meeting the following morning. All appointments were expected to be canceled. Any traveling plans for the day to be put on hold. Whatever announcement to come must be important, and everyone (barring probation-Lyla happily sketching away upstairs) is expected to be there.
I walk into the Magnolia Room and faintly recall, as I take my place in the back, how I stood here the day Will was first introduced to the company. How I tripped on this very carpet, and Will picked up my manuscript page. Handed it back without a word.
I thought he was terribly intimidating that day, the first time I stood up and discovered myself staring into the chest of the man who was to be my boss. Daunting with his intense, icicle-blue eyes. His perfectly tailored suit.
But now . . .
Will Pennington takes the podium, looking exactly as he did that first day. Tailored suit. Intense expression. All hints of cheerfulness far, far away.
The room stills as he looks around at the staff members gathered within.
“Thank you, everyone, for meeting on such short notice. My mother”—he gives the briefest nod to Ms. Pennington, who sits upright in the front row, her legs tightly crossed at the ankles and a begrudgingly approving smile on her lips—“and I have called you here today to discuss the situation with Pennington Publishing and its future.”
A ripple of murmurs passes through the room, no doubt led by fear.
“It is no secret that the publishing industry everywhere has been impacted by the recent economic struggle, and smaller houses like ours have been hit even more so. But while Pennington has tightened its budget and even its staff over the course of the last year, it still hasn’t been enough.” Will looks down at his paper and continues reading. “By my forecasts, along with those of both our in-house accountants and legal expertise on the outside, Pennington Publishing, if continuing in the manner it has been this past year, will go under within three months.”
This time the murmuring grows into a wave of worried conversation, so much so that Will puts his hands out to try to calm everybody down. “Please.”
He looks around the room, waiting until it’s so quiet a single droplet of rain could land on the roof and still be heard.
“When I left Sterling a few months ago, I didn’t come on a fool’s errand. I came because I believe in this company. I believe in its goals. I believe in its people. And I came with a plan.”
Will left?
Will wasn’t let go?
“A plan, and a new venture for the company, that will not only allow Pennington to keep its roots as the place to look to for quality literary fiction and nonfiction but allow every single employee here today to not only stay but hopefully thrive. As of April 1, Pennington Publishing will be sold to Archer.”
“Archer?” Even I can’t help muttering in shock. But Archer is . . .
“Yes,” he says, nodding as the volume in the room goes up once again. “Archer is a company specializing in commercial fiction. And there will certainly be some adjustments. Some of you will be afforded the opportunity to turn your specialties to more commercial works, like westerns, cozy mysteries, and romance. Others—particularly those of you who are passionate about your chosen fields and possess the greatest experience—will stick to your current expertise. For many of you, though, this will mean a genre shift.”
He lets that settle in, and a bit to my surprise, not too many people are scowling at the idea. In fact . . . quite a few faces are brightening up. There’s even some elbow rubbing with neighbors. Is even Yossi grinning?
“So . . . we’ll have to build a whole new directory of places to push our press releases?” Marge raises her voice and asks.
Will nods. “For those of you in publicity who are switching fields, yes. You’ll have to build a whole new set of relationships.”
“And if we move over,” Tawnya chimes in, “we’ll be editing completely new fiction. Works from people like Debbie Macomber. Francine Rivers.”
“Yes. If you are called to move over, yes.”
And to my surprise, Tawnya breaks out into a huge grin, almost as if she’s won the lottery.
Will observes her. “Does this make you . . . happy, Tawnya?”
“Does it?” she says and pulls three small, thick paperbacks from her bag, lovestruck couples on each cover of peppy blues and pinks and greens.
And for the first time—in a long time, really—I see Will crack a smile. For the first time, his shoulders start to ease. “I’m glad to hear that. And I’d like to thank you for that nice segue into my next point. In addition to these changes, the ArcherPennington division here will be starting a second brand-new line of commercial fiction. A line devoted to publishing sweet, uplifting romances. It’s going to be called Archer Heart.”
My heart almost stops.
A new line. A . . . romance line.
“I’ve been working with your CEO and my mother for some time regarding its development. And while my mother, as many of you know, may have some quibbles with entertainment fiction as a whole, she has come to see the value in stories that are enjoyable for the masses to read but also offer some of the fundamental messages our literary greats have shared in their own time. Messages of unity. Of overcoming evil with good. Of love conquering all. And I can think of no one better to represent this line as an example of what the world at large can expect from Archer Heart . . . than an author I’ve been privileged to know for some time. Holly Ray.”
Now my heart really does stop.
I grab the chair in front of me for support.
“Holly Ray? Have you heard of her?” I hear from someone across the room.
“Oh yes, I read her for a book club. Quite good,” says another.
“Ohhhh. Holly Rayyyy,” whispers another, as though she just mentioned someone who’s been a favorite of hers for decades.
Will catches my eye then. There’s an unmistakable upturn of his lips peeking from his professional posture as he continues, holding the paper, shifting his gaze back to the audience.
“I have read and vetted this manuscript personally, and after multiple discussions with friends and colleagues in the mass markets, I sent the novel to Maggie Samson”—he pauses to give a nod her way—“who will be heading up the Archer Heart imprint. In short, she loved it.” He pauses again, and his grin grows. “And I am pleased to announce on her behalf that she and her team intend to pull together a competitive contract offer for a three-book deal. Now all we need to hope is that Holly takes it.”
An appreciative chuckle moves around the room.
Meanwhile I can’t breathe. Can’t move.
Will at last sets down the paper in his hand. Puts his speech aside as he addresses the room. “So, expect things to start shuffling around pretty soon. It’ll be a bear working out our new positions. And I have no doubt there will be tensions at times. But overall, my mother and I are very pleased with this decision and hope you are as well.” And then, with an unsolicited smile my way, he raises his green coffee mug in the air. “To ArcherPennington and a promising future.”
And while the meeting moves on to other, more logistical matters, I can’t hear any of it. Because the world around me has quaked so heavily whole columns that were holding up my previous beliefs have crumbled, leaving me unable to do anything but stare at the crushed pieces at my feet. My mystery editor wasn’t Sam. It was never Sam.
It was Will. All those notes, all those messages, were for him. From him.
It’s been him all along.
The energy in the air crackles as the meeting comes to an end. People all around are talking excitedly to one another, a buzz of questions including, “Who is going to take over each division, then?” And “Does that mean we get to pick which genre we’d like to specialize in?” And even “He’s not going to make me read thrillers, is he? Because I won’t, Gertrude. I won’t.”
As for me, I may as well have my shoes nailed to the carpet, because I don’t think I can walk.
Nearly everyone has trickled out by the time Will reaches me.
My head is whirring, my brain still trying to compute everything that has just happened and been confirmed, and failing.
As he walks up to me, his steps are wary. He’s grinning, but despite that, there’s some uncertainty in his eyes.
“Let me get this straight,” I say as he stops in front of me. “You’re offering me a contract.”
He shakes his head. “I am not offering you a contract. Maggie is offering you a contract.”
“Yes, right. Maggie.” I nod, then give about six extra nods to myself while glancing Maggie’s way. “Does she know it’s me?”
Again he shakes his head. “I’ll leave that up to your discretion.”
“Sure.” I nod again, letting this settle in. So Maggie chose my manuscript. Not because we shared a yogurt in the breakroom one time. Not because I purposefully went with pumpkin syrup in my coffee once because I knew she wanted the last of the vanilla. Not out of workplace-sister solidarity. But because she liked my book. She liked my book.
And then, because I am apparently incapable of letting a good thing lie, a little rain-cloud thought forms, and I narrow my eyes. “So basically you handed her the manuscript, and she liked it because she had to. You’re her boss.”
At this he chuckles, almost as though he expected as much from me. “Actually, Savannah, I purposefully sent her a dozen proposals. Particularly for that reason. She chose yours.”
I can’t help it. The idea that she actually chose mine over others is elating, and I can’t help grinning. “And where, exactly, did you get a dozen proposals?”
“Why, from Claire Donovan,” he replies. “An old friend. Of course.”
When I stare at him, he continues. “I wasn’t making it up when I said in that meeting that Claire is a friend, and one whom I intended to meet with before her retirement. I did get that meeting to discuss a potential project—which, as you know, was this one—and she happily offered up several rejected proposals she thought had promise but that she’d been unable, for one reason or another, to take on.”
“And of the stack of proposals . . .”
“Maggie decided to pursue three, yours being the most promising.”
And here his temples crinkle with his smile as he watches my bewildered face, and his voice softens. “Which isn’t surprising. Because I meant it when I said your story is a good one. And that it deserves to be heard.”
“Even though . . .” I can’t help pressing the point. I can’t help wanting to be absolutely sure he realizes what he’s saying. “It was turned down by Baird Books.”
“Their loss,” he parries, undeterred in the slightest. “Savannah, I have had a decade at Sterling in the book business. Beyond that, I was quite literally born into this book business. I know the industry. And I know that if you let us give your book a chance, we can sell it to the world.”
If I let him. If. He has to know there’s no question. Doesn’t he?
“I must tell you, I’m really awful at TikTok,” I say after a lengthy pause. “I’ve been at it two weeks and have five followers. And I’m not sure any of them are real people.”
He’s pressing his lips together, trying to smother his smile. “I think we will be able to succeed despite that setback.”
“And I created a newsletter. But right now the only subscribers are my sister and parents.”
“I’m sure you have terrific open-and-click rates, then,” he responds. “And for that matter, I’ll let you go ahead and subscribe me to that list.”
He’s serious.
He truly believes in my book, despite all those other things. There is truly a contract on the table.
And for a long second I can’t think of anything else to say. All I can do is try my best to gather up the threads of this conversation in a big heap in my arms and hold tight to them as the tangle they are until I can slip away and take the time to unravel it all. And take a snapshot in my mind of this moment. So I can remember everything about the way he’s looking at me now.
His crinkly smile lessens, and his expression shifts as the banter falls away. “I want you to know that none of this is because of my feelings for you. You truly have written a wonderful book, and despite how things have shaped up for us personally, on a professional level I have nothing but respect and admiration for your teachable spirit and creative ideas. I really do believe that under Maggie’s expertise you can succeed here, and—”
I lift a hand. “I’m sorry. I think we need to back up to a critical piece of this puzzle.”
And just then I see Brittney come up behind Will and tap his shoulder. Sam is standing by her side, looking anxious and uncomfortable.
Will turns.
“May I have that back, please?” she says, looking pointedly at the mug in Will’s hand. “It has sentimental value.”
“It’s fine, Brittney,” Sam says, chuckling uncertainly. “They just want to borrow them.”
“Sam. For the fifteenth time, it isn’t borrowing if someone takes it without asking and keeps it for weeks on end.” She turns her gaze back on us with a sweet smile.
I’ll admit, I don’t think I’ve ever heard Brittney talk out loud since she joined the company as Ms. Pennington’s personal assistant. All I’ve seen her do is run after Ms. Pennington, scribbling furiously with her pen and pad. It’s funny. Her voice doesn’t sound anything like I would’ve imagined. Much less . . . delicate.
Will and I drop our eyes to the mug in his hands.
“So . . . this isn’t yours?” he says, looking at me. “You didn’t add this to the room?”
“I didn’t,” I say immediately, putting my hand on my chest. “I thought it was you.” I laugh. “I mean, I did think it was pretty cheesy of you to add them, now that I think of it, but—”
“Hey, now,” Brittney says, frowning as she holds out her hand.
Will promptly hands her the mug.
Slowly, new questions form. If the mugs are theirs . . .
“So . . . what about the lights?” I say.
“Me,” Brittney says.
My eyes widen. “Candle?”
“Also me,” Brittney says, starting to sound proud. “I thought the place needed a little glow.”
“I liked it,” I say quickly. “It was a very nice touch.”
Brittney gives a little-girlish smile and raises her eyebrows at Sam as if to say, “See? I told you it was better.”
My eyes flicker over to Sam. “So . . . the two of you are a couple, then. Who found the ARC room too.”
Brittney grins and says as loudly as ever, “Yes, we did. I found it last June when running an errand for Ms. P. The door was open—”
I can’t help but wince, vaguely remembering second-guessing myself one day last summer with the question of if I had actually shut it or not.
“—and I was just about bowled over when I discovered what was inside. But I never really had a reason to use it—”
A reason? What does she mean, “never really had a reason”? It’s a hidden room!
“—until Sam and I started dating,” she continues. “And yes, we are dating. Didn’t want to announce it until Giselle was gone. But now that she’s moved on to . . .”
“Hostessing at the Painted Pony Saloon,” I say, filling in the blanks for her.
“Right.” She nods. “Now that she’s at the Painted Pony, we are happy to make the news official.” She reaches for Sam’s hand and holds tight for good measure. “Going to that little room every once in a while was just our way to have some nice little meet-and-greets in secret until we could share.”
“Not that our work has suffered,” Sam adds suddenly, looking directly at Will. “We made very sure of that. Just like you all did, too, I’m sure.”
At that point Will and I glance at each other.
“Of course,” we both say at once.
“Right,” Will adds.
“And for that matter, you were obviously doing work in there, as I now understand,” Sam says, loosening up a bit now that he’s been openly cleared. He looks at me. “Isn’t that right . . . Holly?”
His eyes twinkle oh so slightly with the name.
“Don’t worry,” he continues, no doubt seeing my cheeks flush. “I’m a lawyer by trade. I’m used to confidentiality. The secret’s safe with us.”
“We could be like ARC buddies,” Brittney adds, her cheeks glowing with the sudden inspiration. “It could be like our own secret fraternity.”
I nod on and on as the conversation turns enthusiastically toward homemade T-shirts with our secret club logo stamped on the front, group handshakes, and double dates. It stops on the question of double dates, and my eyes shift to Will.
His, too, look uncertainly back at me.
“Brittney, how about we go get that coffee mug from Savannah’s room and have a go at them?” Sam says, clearly seeing the situation at hand.
And as they move out of the room, it’s just Will and me.
“I thought it was Sam,” I confess immediately and rub both hands up my temples. “Oh, this is all so confusing. I thought my editor was Sam.”
“Sam?” Will says incredulously. He looks like he’s been slapped in the face. “How could you think I was Sam?”
“Well, I kept running into him up there, just as he was coming and looking so guilty every time I saw him, and—oh,” I say, closing my eyes. “It all makes sense now. So . . . let me just run this through out loud. You’re him.”
“I’m him.”
“And he’s you.” I open my eyes.
Will tilts his head, as though clearly finding me amusing. “He’s me.”
“So . . . what,” I say, venturing toward a new thought. “You knew about the secret room because you’re the son. You probably know every square inch of this house. Of course you knew.”
“I know about the room because I made it my first summer in middle school,” he says. “It was originally just an offshoot of the ARC room. Dad spent a lot of time with me over the years, teaching carpentry skills, how to use my hands. One day when I was cleaning out the room for some odd jobs, I realized that if I covered up the old door with that cabinet and did some basic maneuvering, I could just about erase the room from existence. Turn it into my own getaway.”
“Did many people know about it?”
“A few. Most of them gone now. But my mother is one.”
I raise a brow. “Your mother? Your mother knows about the room?”
“Who do you think supplied the rug and furniture?” Will grins and lowers his voice as he leans down. “Mother’s a bit of a Narnia fan.”
Well, I’ll be. Ms. Pennington likes happy fiction. Playful, whimsical fiction without any despairing ending or anything.
As he steps back, he frowns. “So you really didn’t think it was me. All this time. I admit, I’m having a hard time processing that right now.”
“I wanted it to be you. But no. And then I found myself fighting with myself, because I found myself so . . .” I hesitate.
His forehead creases. “So?”
I exhale. Confess. “So attracted to the person on the page, and yet whenever I was with you face-to-face I felt the same way, and it was all so confusing, believing I had feelings for two totally different people and having to choose. And yet . . .” I break off.
“Yet?”
“Yet here you are. And it turns out . . . I don’t have to choose at all.”
“Hold on.” He seems to recall something and puts up a finger. “Does that mean . . . when you told me on paper you cared for someone else—”
“That I was rejecting you because I liked you? Yes,” I supply.
He is quiet for a moment and then laughs. A hearty, rich laugh that makes the carpet shake. “You know, you should write a book about that. That’s a pretty good plot twist.”
I grin and tilt my head. “Meet Me in the Margins. It has a nice ring to it.”
And as we stand there, smiling at one another, his eyes transition from holding mirth to something more. As though he remembers something. Something . . . inviting. He considers me. “So. Did you ever get that kiss scene sorted out?”
Biting my bottom lip to keep a feeling of hopeful trepidation from rising, I shake my head. “I guess that means Maggie can’t publish the story after all, doesn’t it?”
“I’m afraid so. Can’t publish a romance without a proper kiss scene.”
And then I realize he’s touching my elbow.
He’s taking a step toward me.
I can smell the old scent of cedar and grease around me now. Can almost feel the warmth of his old truck and the morning routine of choosing from one of his four coffeepots as he watches the flakes fall past his window. I want to be a part of that life. I want to be in it.
“But . . . ,” he continues softly, gazing down into my eyes now, mere inches between us, “if you’re open to it, I’d be happy to give you some suggestions.”
I have an intake of breath as his finger grazes my chin and gently lifts it. My eyes rise and, with them, my hope.
“Well, for the sake of the manuscript . . . ,” I manage to all but whisper and lift oh so slightly on my toes.
And then, as though he’s been waiting all his life for those final, acquiescent words, his hands cup my jawline, and he draws me in.
I feel his breath mingling with my own as his lips meet mine.
If there was any doubt before, any room for wondering, I feel with certainty now the answer in his kiss. He wants me. Has wanted me all along, perhaps. Savannah Cade. The girl with the fungal-feet stories from the gym. The girl who throws small temper tantrums when her characters’ names are put into question. The girl who shows up at bars impersonating booking agents on behalf of her best friend and can’t fit into size 2 warrior-blue dresses and likes to rewatch painfully corny movies even though they always make her cry.
The way his hands move to cradle my neck, holding on to me, now says he knows all of these things about me, has known these things for a long time, and they only make him want me more.
Which is convenient, as I feel the same.
At last his lips turn playful as his mouth turns into an almost bashful smile. As we part, his hands slip down to hold both of mine. And while his smile is timid, his eyes are on fire, as though apologizing for demonstrating such surprising and uncaged desire, but at the same time gazing at me now like he would do it again in a second.
“Well,” he says. And leaves it there.
My cheeks tingle. The nape of my neck, freshly released from his strong hand, is hot.
For a long moment we just look at each other. Until . . .
“Yeah . . . that was okay,” I say nonchalantly, although highly aware of the fact I’m grinning ear to ear.
And that does it. That breaks the spell.
“Just okay?” he says incredulously. “Just . . .” There’s a question in his tone. This time he’s really asking. “ . . . okay?”
“Well, I mean . . .” I take on an instructional tone. “Where were your hands? I’m pretty sure they just stayed there, clipped to your sides”—my eyes twinkle—“like you were made of cardboard.”
“They were holding you!” he retorts. “What do you mean, where were my hands? They were holding you!”
“Were they?” I say innocently, as though I can’t remember—quite clearly, in fact—exactly where his hands skimmed the back of my arms, tugged me close, cupped my cheeks and then my neck the past three minutes. I shrug. “You know, the important thing here, I think, is practice. I can tell we’re going to have to practice a lot. Indoors. Outdoors. We’ll just have to keep practicing as much as we can until we get it right.”
There’s a long pause as Will surveys my words.
A long pause followed, at last, by a short nod. “Seems fair.”
And as he drops me off at my office door a few minutes later, surrounded by the incoming and outgoing traffic of people walking around us in the hall, I can’t help but smile as he leans against the doorway and asks, “So. Meet you in the ARC room at two?”