Epilogue
Two Years Later
“Yes, we do carry book-club kits for librarians on our website, or you can find it on . . . at . . . at . . .”
“HollyRay.com,” I finish, smiling serenely at Gabriel.
Gabriel is our newest acquisitions editor. She’s twenty-two. She’s lovely. And she’s completely terrified she’s going to screw up.
“I’m fine here, Gabriel. How about you take a break and get some coffee?” I say, watching the girl give an entirely overwhelmed look at the exhausting line of librarians at our booth.
They are all here for my signing. Correction: Holly Ray’s signing.
Of her second book in a series.
Funny how of all people in Nashville, I’m the one who ended up with a stage name.
I write half days these days, and spend the other half as acquisitions editor for the mainstream ArcherPennington line. I’ve considered dropping my editing job a few times, but the perks are too great to ever let that be a real possibility. For one, I still share an office with Lyla (whose probation, barring LOA events, has just become the general rule for her). I still edit books, although my client list has shrunk now to a manageable six, and I am just as passionate about their cozy mysteries, YA, and speculative works as my own.
And I still have my little getaway in the hidden room, although now Will joins me. And sometimes Brittney. And sometimes Sam—who has turned out to be a truly lovely man after all.
And we all really do have a secret group handshake.
I’m listening to a woman talk about her two grown daughters as I finish off my signature on my new book when I hear Lyla’s voice rise above the general hum.
“Protect the castle! Protect the castle at all costs!”
I swivel my head around and see Lyla in a tug-of-war with the same librarian from two years ago who was so bent on stealing Oswald’s foam-board headshot. Lyla still has the same old Dolly Parton hair, which swings violently all around her. She also has a protruding belly showing she’s about five weeks from her due date. Three weeks into her first tour she realized she might not be cut out for the country-star life after all. Now she sings on the weekends here and there, and Will and I, along with Garrett, and even Sam and Brittney, go out to show our support.
“Excuse me,” I say politely to the woman before me and hand her the copy.
I spot Yossi and Marge in the corner, covered up in conversation. Gabriel just left for coffee. Will is off at an appointment. It’s up to me.
I jump up and rush as quickly and professionally as I can over to Lyla. I grab her shoulders and say calmly, “What did we just talk about in the car, sweetie?”
Lyla stiffens without letting go. Her lips purse and her nose wrinkles.
“What was it?” I prompt again. I stare at her, smiling, until she gives.
Lyla, after glowering at the librarian, finally looks at me.
“Remind ourselves,” Lyla chants dully, “that people have feelings. And they are more important than things.”
“What things?”
Lyla raises her eyes to the ceiling. “Books. Pens. And foam boards.”
“And what is Will going to do if he catches you chasing another nice librarian down the aisle?”
Lyla exhales. Lets go of the foam board and folds her arms across her chest. “Make me stand in front of everyone at the next meeting and compliment each person one by one.”
“That’s right,” I say, rubbing her shoulders soothingly for several seconds. I then turn to the librarian and give her a broad, we’re-all-sane-here smile. “I’m so sorry, but that board isn’t part of the merchandise we are giving away today.”
The elderly miscreant, for her part, only wrinkles her brow distastefully at me, with zero regard that it’s my own face she’s currently stealing.
“I’d be happy to give you my book instead. Signed personally,” I add.
She, holding the foam board, takes a step backward.
Beside me, I hear Lyla hiss.
“You know what?” I’m stepping on Lyla’s toes. “How about I just sign that for you and you can take it? I’m happy to.”
But as I turn to grab my Sharpie, the small woman swivels faster than I imagined was possible and makes a squirrely rush for the crowd.
Well. Sometimes that’s how it goes.
I return to my seat, and to meeting with librarians, many of whom I’ve specifically come to know over the past twenty-four months as the sweetest, most encouraging, and most powerful cheerleaders for my books. And by the end of the signing, my aching, smiling cheeks reflect it.
“Thanks, Miss Michelle,” I say, passing her the book. “I’ll be looking forward to it.”
Miss Michelle, a kind librarian out in East Tennessee, takes the book and slips it into her bulging tote, along with all the other ARC reads for the day. “Thanks, Savannah. We’re all really excited for our chat with you.”
“Me too,” I say and smile at her, meaning it. Some authors, like Oswald (whom I ended up retaining despite the company shakeup, simply because he was so overwhelmed at the thought of a new editor), find social gatherings around their books terrifying. Not me. Chatting with book clubs is quite possibly my favorite part of the job.
The librarian drifts into the stream of traffic, and I sit there on my little barstool, snagging a moment to take it all in. The hum of energy. The eager faces.
A few moments later there’s a break in the stream of passing people, and I see Will standing on the other side.
He’s just looking at me, as though he’s been standing there for some time, taking it all in as well. An easy smile plays on his lips.
As he saunters forward, I see two hardcovers in one hand.
Recognizing the bold orange cover, I suck in a breath. “Is that . . . ?”
“Green’s latest? Yes. Got one for you. One for your mom. I had to barter, though. Green was pretty particular about what he wanted.”
He gives a wry smile, and I feel impossible thoughts forming in my head. “He didn’t . . . want . . . mine?” I say incredulously and with growing awe.
“No,” Will says, clearly having no problem dashing my hopes. “Guess again.”
My eyes dance around the tables beside me, covered in our titles. “Jackson’s?”
Will shakes his head.
My eyes dance around again. “Hugh’s?”
Will shakes his head again. “Oswald’s,” he says at last, grinning so much his eyes crinkle. “Evidently, Trace is having some sort of vole problem and thinks Oswald’s the guy for the job.”
I’m momentarily stunned, imagining Green—who is truly on another level—perusing Oswald’s book under lamplight from some massive leather chair in some massive home library. But then another idea lights. “Get a blurb from him. Get a blurb, and we’ll put it on Oswald’s next cover.”
“Already asked,” he says, stepping around the podium to stand beside me. “And while we’re on it, I finished your manuscript last night.”
I raise a hopeful brow. “And?”
“The timeline has some issues. The secondary characters are weak. But, I’ll grant, the hook is strong.”
“Is that so?” I say and give him a playful punch on the arm.
“Gently, Mrs. Pennington.” He rubs his arm with a grin. “You’re wearing diamonds.”
And it’s true. As I pull my hand back, I can’t help admiring the single solitary diamond twinkling beneath the high fluorescent lights of the conference building. A gift from Ms. Pennington—Martha, I amend mentally, although it seems I’ll never get used to calling her that. And the band from my own mother, passed down from her own.
Will leans down, and there, as I’ve come to experience regardless of ambience, regardless of fluorescent lighting or park trees or glowing string lights all around, I experience the perfect kiss.
The perfect kiss, because it’s with the man I love—and will love forevermore, over scrambled eggs and wedding china.