Chapter 3
It’s the Griswold Family Christmas reunion.
Boisterous greetings echo around the vast foyer of the old mansion, bouncing from the polished marble floors to the frames of bestselling Pennington releases lining the walls. Several silhouettes are in view through the windows, framing a crowd chatting on the creaking planks of the wide, wraparound porch outside. Old brass sconces, faithfully keeping their posts, glimmer softly. The chandelier, with its 352 crystals, high above quivers with a booming laugh.
Arms are thrust out and hugs in dripping overcoats passed around as Pennington’s authors escape the freezing rain and step inside. Conversations like “How was your trip?” and “I saw your post about your missed flight, poor thing” and even “I’m sorry, Tabby, but I really don’t think trying to conceive is a permissible excuse for missing your deadline” float all around me. Cheeks are flushed, partly from the excitement, partly because the foyer is so hot and crowded.
And me?
I’m just about quivering with excitement. Or at least my stomach is.
Because today is a free day. And not just any old free day, but a free day with a company card. A free day where I literally get paid to take authors out under the illusion of company grandeur to eat at that new restaurant I’ve been eyeing for months and can’t afford. A free day to prance around the city with whichever author I’m hosting—making sure they have a good time, sure, chatting over their newest ideas, yes, but also eating. And sightseeing, sure. But then eating some more.
I can almost feel the silver company card in the large pocket of my pea coat throbbing like a heartbeat. Ready for action. Chanting, Free. Free. Free.
I haven’t eaten all day in anticipation.
I feel like a kid at Christmas.
“Delilah! Over here!” One shrill voice overshadows the others, and I feel an elbow jutting into my side. I stumble forward as Giselle, completely ignoring me, wiggles her outstretched fingers toward Delilah Ray until she’s hugging her like a beloved sailor returned after a decade.
It’s been two days.
Delilah Ray, posh Instagram influencer with about a million followers watching her every move (and, in turn, buying her book describing her every move), lives in Nashville.
Giselle is my boss. Actually, one of my many, many bosses, but specifically the one directly above me. She is five ten. Her hair is a sheet of platinum blond. And after one semester abroad a decade ago, she still likes to tell everyone to be quiet when she’s on her “mobile” and how “knackered” she is after a night on the town. Oh. And she loathes me.
But honestly, how was I supposed to know, my first week in, that Sam in Contracts was in an on-again, off-again relationship with Giselle when he asked me—also reeling from my own on-again, off-again relationship—out? To borrow Giselle’s words, it bloody well wasn’t a picnic for me either. Nobody likes to be used as bait to lure in a jealous ex-girlfriend who just so happens to be your new and extraordinarily spiteful boss. Anyway, two years later, despite the fact that we are all adults, she still hasn’t forgiven me.
Giselle and Delilah Ray are locked in one of those exhausting, ignore-everyone-else-in-the-place-while-talking-at-top-volume sort of greetings, taking up so much space that it’s hard to see the new figure who has just stepped inside behind them. I perk up, however, at the hint of a red knitted sweater in the distance and step on tiptoe for visual confirmation.
Sure enough, Oswald pops out from behind them, looking around in bewilderment. In fact . . . he looks a bit like a flight risk. Oh dear.
At once, I hurry over to greet him.
“Oswald, so glad you could come,” I say, closing the gap between us. I grab his hand and give it a hearty shake, partly in greeting, partly to keep him from retreat. “And look at you.” I take in the thick red turtleneck curling around his neck. “Is that a new sweater from the missus?”
His huge eyes blink behind his round glasses as he struggles to focus on me. Poor Oswald. Brilliant with words. Incredibly knowledgeable of his craft. Terrific in sales. Terrible with people.
“My turtleneck?” he says at last, looking dubiously down at his sweater. “Well . . . yes.”
I smile patiently. “And did you get all settled in at the hotel?”
Another lengthy pause. At last, a nod.
“Wonderful.” I smile wider. “Wonderful.” The next twenty-four hours are going to be a breeze, clearly. I strike for another topic. “I’m sorry your wife wasn’t able to make the trip. What’s she going to be up to this weekend? Something fun, I hope?”
The pause is excruciating, nearly as long as his page-long descriptions of deciduous trees. “Reading.”
“And?” I nod encouragingly, waiting for more.
Oswald blinks, and I realize that’s the end of his story.
Well, enough chitchat. It’s time to get down to the fun part anyway.
And besides, there’s a real plus here, I remind myself. The bright side of having an Oswald—and not, say, a Delilah Ray—is that Oswald is, above all things, compliant. Passive to the point of me begging for his opinions on marketing strategy and cover designs. I’ve always had to be careful when editing his latest books (covering topics like “Is the variegated liriope really the best way to color the border of your woodland garden?”) because he, master of horticulture, with a surprisingly large social media following that tracks his every garden-loving move, would take even the slightest question in my edit to heart and completely flip his world upside down to agree with me (who, for the record, can’t keep a succulent alive).
Being an editor is a dangerous position of power, really. One snap of my fingers and he’d be making “Concrete gardens: the way of the future” the subject of his next release.
But today?
Today I’m going to use my power to its full advantage.
“Now, for our afternoon,” I say, scrabbling in my bag for my keys, “I found this lovely little bistro downtown and took the liberty of snagging us some reservations. I thought we could start things off with a nice cup of coffee and brunch and go from there. Are you a fan of fish? I hear the flounder with shrimp stuffing is something else—”
“I’m allergic,” puts in Oswald, and he looks so startled at his own interruption that his mouth claps shut.
“Allergic,” I say, fumbling momentarily, then see he’s starting to turn red. Not to worry. I pivot with ease. “That’s fine. Completely fine. There are plenty of other specialties there as well. I’m sure—”
“I can’t eat there,” interrupts Oswald again, and just as before he pops his mouth shut.
“Oh.” Given the man is so passive he once tried to tell me “not to worry about that next book advance” (to which his agent swiftly stepped in, negating everything Oswald said on his behalf), I have to admit his response is a bit surprising. I once saw Oswald interviewed on a morning coffee show where the host mistakenly picked up the script meant for the following week and, for thirty minutes straight, asked him about some book called The Murderer’s Dilemma. Did Oswald correct him? No. He just sat there, ears flaming red, answering to the name Skippy G and giving mumbled responses about what he was going to do now that he was released from prison after thirty years behind bars.
Oh, for goodness’ sake. Sweat’s starting to bead up on Oswald’s receding hairline.
“This is not a problem, Oswald,” I say as soothingly as I can manage while putting a hand on his shoulder. “We can go absolutely anywhere you like. Anywhere at all. The day is yours.”
My stomach rumbles.
Anyplace, Ossie. Before my stomach growls so loud it makes a scene.
But amazingly enough, he shakes his head.
“C’mon, now.” I nod encouragingly. “You just name the place. We’ll go anywhere.”
At last, he speaks. Granted, it’s so quiet that I have to lean in, but he speaks. I frown as I hear a few unclear words.
“What was that?”
With my ear practically pressed to his mouth, and his hot breath tickling my ear, he whispers, “I’m fasting.”
I step back and look him in the eye. “You’re on a . . . fast. Well . . .” My thoughts begin to churn madly. “That’s okay. In fact, that’s great, Oswald. Really great. Good for you.” And I’m about to say something like, “We can just pop in and you can talk about your new release over a glass of water (while I try out the champagne, chicken gumbo, mahi, and tiramisu),” when I feel a presence over my shoulder.
I turn my head.
William Pennington is standing behind me, his hands stiffly at his sides, clearly waiting to step into the conversation. I don’t know how long he’s been standing there, but in the moment’s pause, he steps forward and stretches out his hand.
“Mr. Makers. Such a pleasure to meet you. I’m William Pennington, the new VP and publisher of our Pennington Pen division.”
Oswald blinks up at the tall man and hesitatingly reaches out his hand. “What . . . what happened to Harry?” he asks.
“Are you getting your plans all sorted out for the day?” William says, pressing on as though he hadn’t heard him at all.
Oswald blinks. Looks at me.
“We are,” I jump in enthusiastically. “We’re just planning to . . . to . . .” But all that’s coming to mind is biscotti. And manicotti. And lattes with swirly foam art in the shape of a leaf. In restaurants where the tab is a week’s worth of pay. All free.
I can see William looking at me expectantly. C’mon, Sav. You did plan this out. You had a whole list of things to do outside of food. Think. What was on your list? Brunch at Butcher & Bee. Drop in to scout around Parnassus and the Bookshop (because . . . books). Lunch at Margot. A quick drink at Attaboy before returning to hear Trace Green for LOA commencement.
Now that is one thing I am particularly excited about. I mean, Trace Green. I’ve loved him since college. He was actually what started me on writing in the first place.
I was in the middle of yet another breakup with Ferris when I read one of his books. And became hooked. Hooked. Flew through all twenty-four of his novels in the span of two months and spent the next three wandering around morosely, craving more. Everybody thought my slump was because I missed Ferris. But no, it wasn’t. Not that time. I mean, of course, the breakup was hard, but it wasn’t nearly as heart-wrenching as the fact that there were no more Green books to read. The reality that I was going to have to wait a whole nine months before another of his releases was almost too much to bear.
I mean, what, after all, happened to Clara in The Woman on the Train?
Would she ever get out of that manhole?
The whole experience of stumbling into his books made such an impression on my life that I went down to the registrar’s office, set one of his books on the counter between me and the registrar’s assistant, and declared I wanted to change majors. No more nursing for me. My life was going to revolve around words.
A total stranger had given me solace through the power of words, helped me escape the troubles of my world if just for enough time to get a much-needed breath, and even—through several quietly uplifting messages threaded throughout his fast-paced novels—showed me what it was like to pursue my dreams. Try new adventures. Dare.
The written word became my passion. And from that moment on all I knew was what an incredible honor it would be to bring that adventure, that life, that joy, that hope, that world to somebody else.
To pen novels—to play any role in bringing fiction to life, for that matter—is to wield a superpower.
“Le Écureuil Volant!” squeals Giselle from across the room, her bony fingers jubilantly clasping Delilah’s. I haven’t seen her this happy since Trina from Accounts got fired and freed up that parking spot. “And after we go there, Parnassus wants to talk about your Sunday signing. Then, if you’re game, I booked a fantastic package at the Paintbox for a mani-pedi.”
“Mr. Makers.” My attention is drawn back to William, and although he’s smiling at Oswald, I can see a steely flash in his eyes as they dart momentarily my way. “You flew in from Nevada, is that right?”
Oswald gazes up at him like this is a trick question. “Yes,” he says uncertainly.
“And you plan to leave tomorrow?”
Oswald’s slight double chin wobbles while his eyes dart from William to me, hesitating as though trying to make out where the trap lies.
At last he gives the slightest of nods.
“Well, we at Pennington would love to make the most of your efforts in traveling here,” William continues. “So please tell us, what is it that you would like to do before tonight’s welcoming banquet?”
The previous long pause seems like a snap in comparison to the one that follows, and for what feels like an eternity we stand there, watching the man think. As his teary blue eyes swivel round the room as if this is the deepest question he’s been asked all day, I feel an odd sense of trepidation rising. What will he say? With anyone else, I could predict an answer. But with Oswald? The man’s a shot in the dark. You never know where he’s going to land.
But . . . this is okay. There is still a win here. The point is I have the company card. I have the day off from my desk to tour Oswald around. And I do look pretty sharp in my outfit, if I say so myself: a deep maroon cardigan, white blouse, black tights, and trendy gray skirt with just enough twirl to show I can be fun while professional. My celebratory outfit for the eventual victory in sending in my manuscript tonight and, on top of that, snagging the free day. It took quite a while to squeeze myself into this thing, but even Olivia had to compliment me on it this morning—and that’s really saying something.
“I . . . I believe you have one of those swimming tanks around here.”
My thoughts halt. I see out of the corner of my eye one of the dark locks I painstakingly curled this morning start to fall. What did he say?
William’s brows are pinched. “I’m sorry, I’m not sure I know what you mean. You’ll have to clarify. You want to go swimming?”
“The Float Spot?” Oswald says at last. He blinks at me.
I stare for a moment, letting the words sink in. The Float Spot. Of all the thousands of wonderful things to do today, he wants to go to the. Float. Spot.
The newest sensory-deprivation saltwater tank in town, where you strip down to nothing, squeeze yourself into a tiny capsule, and, worst of all, shut the door. To nothing. Lyla introduced this bizarre hobby to me a few months ago on a holiday. She asked me if I wanted to go with her, and I went along, thinking the whole time we were going to a spa full of ordinary things like, oh, I don’t know, relaxing music and pink nail polish and foot massages. Instead, where did I find myself? Sitting in an itchy robe in a cold room, waiting for my turn in the alien birthing pod. I distinctly remember this terrifying sign on the opposite wall in bold red letters:
EXTENDED SENSORY DEPRIVATION CAN RESULT IN EXTREME ANXIETY, HALLUCINATIONS, BIZARRE THOUGHTS, TEMPORARY SENSELESSNESS, AND DEPRESSION.
For the record, they forgot to add NAUSEA to the list.
I cannot possibly think of a worse idea.
“What a terrific idea.” I snap my head to see William Pennington smiling brightly. “I can imagine few things more relaxing after a long flight. I’m sure Ms. Cade would love to join you. Wouldn’t you, Savannah?”
He’s looking at me expectantly. He’s waiting for me to reply. He’s waiting for me to say, “Oh, what a dream!” while Giselle is off in the corner with Delilah Ray somehow justifying the need to purchase matching Tory Burch bags to hold all their bookmarks.
Well, I’m just not going to. That’s all there is to it. I’ll drive Oswald to the crazy station if he wants, and then I’ll sit in the lobby with a gas-station hot dog for three hours while he enjoys his silence. Oh! I could possibly even sneak back into the office, grab the manuscript, and work on it while I’m waiting. With any luck I could have it sent off to Claire Donovan even before the welcoming banquet tonight.
But as William’s cold blue eyes peer into mine, I hear my plans sputter until they die out. I feel exposed, as though every thought is streaming across my eyes for him to read. Somehow, he knows what I’m thinking. From the frown tilted ever so slightly upon his lips to the crease between his brow, he knows, and he, the boss, cares. I can hear the words replaying in my own head: “And editors, do whatever it takes this weekend to keep your authors happy. Whatever. It. Takes.”
A cold feeling comes over me, the air dropping fifteen degrees within a dark, ominous shadow.
I’m not going to get food.
I’m not going to get biscotti at 8th & Roast.
I’m not even going to get to listen to Trace Green.
No, what I’m going to do is get in that stupid tank.
My voice strangles as I turn to Oswald. “That’s a brilliant idea, Oswald. I can’t wait.”
“Trace Green?” I hear Giselle’s voice ring out, her Botoxed forehead struggling in vain to crease. “Yes, we can hear him, I suppose. But it might cut into our pedi time . . . Is he the one who wrote Amber Waters?”
“Tides,” I mumble bitterly. “Amber Tides.”
Well. It’s settled, then. While my supervisor is off getting her perfectly manicured nails repolished and half listening to one of my favorite authors share powerful, never-heard-before tales while she is also scrolling through the J.Crew website, I’ll be starving. In a lukewarm tank. In the dark. Hallucinating.
I look up and realize William Pennington is gazing at me. This time, however, it’s in a way that isn’t altogether . . . well, terrifying. “So. You are a fan of Green?” he says.
I stiffen. Green isn’t exactly . . . literary. More like read-him-if-you-want-to-go-on-a-stay-up-till-dawn-ignore-all-family-and-friends-call-in-sick-for-two-days-fictional-adventure-of-your-life. That type of fiction.
“Oh,” I say, shrugging. “I may have read him at some point years ago. I’m more of a . . . a Chaucer fan myself nowadays.”
There’s a long pause.
“Chaucer,” he repeats.
His lips twitch. Is he trying not to smile?
“Yes,” I say, lifting my chin a millimeter. “I adore Chaucer. Chaucer’s . . .” I scour the crevices of my brain for that new Word of the Day I learned recently for just such an occasion. “. . . phantasmagorical.” I wave my hand around. “I can read Chaucer’s tales for hours.”
And believe it or not, there it is again. The lip twitch.
“Really. And which tale is your favorite?”
Shoot, Savannah, now you’ve done it. But I know this. I read Chaucer in English Lit my freshman year. Or part of it. Or at least what I could understand through all the “ful ofte tyme he hadde” and “gentil knights.” Now, which tales . . . which tales . . .
At last, like a blessed dove from above, a tale comes to mind, and I snatch for it. “Well, if pressed, I’d have to say ‘The Miller’s Tale.’ Excellent message.”
His work frown has apparently lost the battle against amusement entirely now, because the twitch gives up and finally concedes to a grin. “The drunken miller’s fabliau about a carpenter and the two men who want to sleep with the wife. That message?”
For a moment, our eyes are locked. He’s daring me to answer.
“Yes,” I say, trying hard not to grind my teeth. “Yes, that’s the one. Positively riveting stuff. And, of course, there are my other passions as well, like those books on”—my eyes dart to Oswald—“landscaping.”
“Well, of course.” William’s eyes turn to Oswald as he puts out a hand. “Landscaping. So. Chaucer and . . . landscaping. You must have a sizable yard, then. For all that gardening.”
“Not at the moment,” I hedge. “But I do have a window box that’s very inviting.”
For the birds, who have built a nest on last year’s dead pansies.
“Oh, right. Yes. I have seen some rather elaborate ones. There’s really an art there.” But for all his polite words, William’s temples are crinkling, his eyes looking dangerously close to being outright mirthful. “I commend you for your efforts to educate yourself. Pity, though. I’m a bit of a Green fan myself. Would’ve been nice to meet another.”
I can see the challenge in his gaze. He’s waiting for me. Waiting for me to crack.
Now it’s my turn to pull an Oswald and be wary of the conversational traps.
“What’s the name of the one he put out last year?” He frowns as though talking to himself, trying to remember. “Treacherous Games?”
Lies. The book is Treacherous Lies, and he knows it.
I narrow my eyes.
For all I know, this is a test, and William Pennington is even more insane about the evils of commercial fiction than his mother is. After all, he was brought in to be the hangman. He is here to save Pennington and make the hard choices. I’m one of the newest employees to the company after all the others have been cut. First he sees me smuggling in romance on the job. Now, perhaps, he’s gathering final evidence before the kill. Playing a little good cop before slamming the cell door.
“Anyway,” I say loudly, “we’ve got a big day ahead of us, Oswald. We’d better be off.”
For a moment William surveys me, looking as though he’s working out whether he wants to pursue the conversation some more or let it go. But then he blinks, and with it, his expression vanishes. He turns his attention to Oswald.
“I look forward to hearing about it tonight,” William says and gives Mr. Makers one final shake of the hand.
Oswald and I have just taken our first steps toward the door when William adds, “And Savannah?”
I pause and turn my head.
“I am particularly intrigued to hear how your experience goes in the pod today. Please be sure to update me. Perhaps it’ll be something for the company to consider adding as a benefit in our health plan.”
And there it is again. The merest twinkle in his corporate eyes. If I didn’t know better, I’d even call it a dare.
I plaster my smile firmly in place, partly because I refuse to admit a dare from my boss and the CEO’s son could even exist, partly because the mere thought of adding float tanks to the corporate health plan is so revolting it threatens to make me nauseous. “Of course. I’ll be looking forward to it.”
* * *
Eight long hours later, my hair still clings wet and tangled in a tight bun on the top of my head. Not the cute kind of bun. Not the oh-look-at-me-in-my-slouchy-sweater-and-ballet-flats-while-carrying-a-coffee kind of bun. The other kind. The I-was-locked-into-a-small-wet-hole-and-stared-into-the-abyss-for-an-eternity kind. And for the record, the answer is no. No, I never actually relaxed. Not for one millisecond.
I spent the bulk of the time thinking about my manuscript. And the more I thought about the manuscript, the more I itched to retrieve it. And the more I itched to retrieve it, the more anxious I felt about turning it in.
What if the banquet this evening takes so long it goes past midnight? What if everyone gets really excitable and talks on for ages, and I’m expected to just sit there, playing the good host? What if after the banquet Oswald says he wants to go over some concerns about his newest work-in-progress, and I come to find out I’m trapped with a regular Vladimir Nabokov insomniac, brainstorming with him in his hotel room while he taps feverishly on his computer keys until dawn? And most important of all, What if I never get out of this tank?!
I did get out of the tank.
I did make it back to the banquet with Oswald (where a meal has never tasted so good in my life).
I did drop him off at his hotel and manage some parting encouragement about tomorrow’s signing to a man who looked like he needed another hit in the sensory-deprivation tank just thinking about the chaos of the day to come.
And I have managed to sneak back in before the doors are locked up at Pennington for the night.
China clatters downstairs as I wind around the last of the staircase and stride down the hall. There’s no need for pretense this time. The only people in the building are the caterers packing up what’s left of the welcome banquet hours prior and Robby, Pennington’s long-serving janitor, vacuuming somewhere on the second floor. I take solace in the humming below and push open the door to the ARC room, my steps determined. It’s darker than usual as I pull on each lightbulb chain, blazing the path with light until I reach the metal filing cabinet on the other side. Once I’ve ducked inside, I push the door open.
A crescent moon shines through the stained-glass window, the sparrow looking as though it’s balancing the moon on its pointed yellow beak. I smile to myself and feel myself exhale, as if for the first time that day. My stomach is pleasantly stuffed. Oswald is safely tucked into his hotel room. And here, at 10:30 p.m., I still have a full hour and a half to turn my manuscript in. I’m exhausted but finally ready to release it.
My fingers tighten around the string connecting to the lightbulb as I droopily look down at the floor.
I pause.
Squint.
And just as my heart starts to punch at my rib cage, I pull the cord.
Light floods the small room, and with it confirmation.
Because there, in the middle of the old Persian rug, is my manuscript, the papers no longer scattered and disarrayed, the corners of each page no longer folded in wonky discordancy.
No.
My manuscript. Sitting in a crisp, neat pile. A rubber band snapped around the middle. And worst of all—in bold black ink—are words. Dozens of fresh handwritten words, scribbled down the margins.
Words that are not mine.