Chapter 5
I wake up just like I do every morning of my life, to the stomp-stomp-stomping of Olivia’s 5:30 a.m. sprint on the treadmill in her bedroom. You’d think I’d be used to the noise a year after moving in. Or better yet, you’d think I’d have had a clue as to what I was in for when I watched Olivia tear the wrapping paper off the treadmill last Christmas morning.
Anyway, here we are, a year later, and the first thought bubble still to form in my mind is, Why the heck couldn’t Ferris have bought her the quiet one? Followed shortly by another mental favorite: And it’s Saturday, Olivia. Can’t you sleep in, just once, on a Saturday?
But today new thoughts greet me, and with a jolt I sit upright, the memories and actions of the previous twenty-four hours lined up for me to reconsider one by one. It’s not a typical Saturday, and I have so many things to prepare for today. So many things to do.
The LOA conference.
Oswald’s signing.
The ARC room.
The manuscript.
Finding out who exactly tampered with my manuscript.
Last night I stayed up watching the movie with Olivia and Ferris. And even while I shed tears into my popcorn (unlike Olivia, who takes a firm stance against crying), my thoughts were also far away. Was it creepy Rem? He does lurk a lot around the building. But doesn’t he have that thing about heights? Wasn’t that why Pam championed moving his office to the first floor? Because he kept looking out the window and passing out?
What about Lyla? No, no, of course not. She’d never write those things. I don’t think she even knows how to spell the word sesquipedalianism.
Which, for the record, my mystery editor declared in one of their handy margin comments is something I do. And which, for the record, I most certainly do not. The insinuation that I would scour dictionaries to find obscure, five-syllable words to throw into my manuscript just to puff myself up is so laughable it’s insane. It’s farcical. It makes me repine for the days readers were erudite and could appreciate a well-chosen word . . .
Okay, it’s a tiny bit true. But nevertheless, it’s a good true, not a bad true. After all, there’s nothing wrong with fine-tuning a paragraph, and frankly, I work in a building full of people who are smarter than me. I need the big words. People prize the people who pull out the big words.
Could it be Giselle? Ha. Who am I kidding? I wouldn’t be surprised if she’s outsourcing her own editing to some unpaid college intern in the back booths of some salty saloon, let alone voluntarily reading someone else’s manuscript.
And the more I thought about it, all the while munching on my popcorn, the more furious I became. What right did this mystery editor have to read my manuscript? Munch. What sort of crazy person would walk into someone else’s room (okay, even I know that’s stretching a bit), plonk down on the rug, and proceed to tear someone else’s manuscript apart? Munch. It’s narcissistic. Munch. Sadistic. Munch. They probably loved seeing my manuscript in disarray, sheets out of order and piled on the floor. Munch.
I mean, it’s not like what I do for a living. I get paid to edit. I get asked to edit. My authors want me to edit. And most important, I’m kind.
These are the thoughts that transfix me two hours later as I sit on a barstool in the kitchen, manuscript in front of me, frowning at a sentence in Oswald’s latest. A bit aggressively I underline a paragraph, then scribble the words in the margins in my untidy handwriting: I’m not understanding the point of this paragraph here. Clarify.
I bring the coffee mug to my lips, then set it down.
Please, I add.
See? I’m kind.
“Still in your jammies?” Olivia hustles to the fridge and opens it up. There’s a stack of twenty meals neatly lining the left-hand side of the refrigerator. She pulls one out. “I thought you had to go to work today.”
“I do. But I don’t have to be there until nine. And . . . seeing as I couldn’t sleep”—I lift my eyes from the manuscript to give an accusing look to the back of her head—“I’m getting some work done before I go.”
“Oh?” Olivia’s damp ponytail swings as she turns her head. She looks at me with fresh eyes, as though there’s hope for me after all. “What a good use of time. Where’s the conference?”
“Music City Center.” I feel a rush of anxiety as I say it.
Claire Donovan will be there. For the first time in a year, we’ll be in the same building. She’ll be busy at her own Baird Books tent, I’m sure, but we could run into each other. Probably will run into each other. I could probably even “happenchance” bump into her. But then what will I say?
Oh, hey, Claire. Have you read my manuscript in the last twelve hours?
I can’t be that author. I can’t.
It takes me typically a full twelve weeks to get to any new manuscripts that aren’t from my authors. And we’re a small house. It’s ridiculous to think it’d take her a mere twelve weeks, positively ludicrous to think it could be done in twelve hours. Between midnight and noon. The evening before conference.
Olivia checks her watch. “You know, if you decide to walk, you could not only get ahead of work but reach your daily step goal too.” Her eyes positively sparkle. “Talk about a win-win before noon, am I right?”
My own expression tightens. Leave it to her to always think I should be doing one more thing. “Gee, Olivia. What a wonderful idea.”
Olivia gives a modest shrug. “You can never be sure how the day will go, so . . .” She snaps opens the container, revealing two perfectly portioned squares of dried fruit and Greek yogurt. “Best to get those steps in early. And then, not only will you have the satisfaction of knowing you are successfully working toward a healthier body, but you’ll find it easier to retrain your mind to—
“Climb the other mountains in your life,” I finish in unison with her and take another sip of coffee.
I am the recipient of one of Olivia’s Steps-4-Life speeches once a week.
“Well?” Olivia says, scowling. “It is scientifically proven. Honestly, Savvy, if you just tried it for a solid month . . .”
But as apathetic as I act, I can’t help watching her figure as she turns toward the silverware drawer. Olivia, in her maroon running tights, calves perfectly sculpted. Her back muscles, exposed by her crisscross tank top, rippling delicately beneath flawless skin as she reaches down for a spoon. Her neck, long and lean.
She hasn’t always been this way. Back in our school days she used to be the shy one. The one with a little bit on her hips. The one with the mouth full of braces for an inordinately long period of time. Following me—with the brighter smile, better grades, smaller pant size—through school. But then I left for college, and at some point in that gap of time, things shifted. Slowly she started taking on extracurriculars. Learning to play new instruments every few months. Taking on internships. Then after-school jobs. Thinning as she took up track. Then cross country.
By the time she graduated from university, top of her class, I hardly recognized her.
While somewhere in there I settled into mediocrity, she burst forth as the next shining Cade star.
Olivia pulls a box of oatmeal squares from the overstuffed cabinet as she turns to me. “Really? Another box? Don’t you have another twelve of these shoved in the pantry?”
“It’s healthy,” I protest and then rub my nose as she makes a face. “Comparatively, anyway. And I like them.”
“We don’t have room for them,” Olivia retorts. “For goodness’ sake. Do you ever look in the pantry anymore? If you just checked the kitchen while you make your grocery list at least every once in a while—”
“It’s just a box of cereal, Olivia,” I reply, bristling. “Just a couple boxes of cereal. I think the pantry can manage.”
“Yes, well, I could line up all your ‘couple boxes of cereal’ and play dominoes across the apartment.” Olivia waves an arm at the living room.
“And what about your precious container meals?” I say, standing with my mug. “You stuff the entire fridge with them and leave me enough space to squeeze in a block of cheese—”
“It’s my fridge,” Olivia replies, her voice louder now. “I think I’ve been pretty generous with my fridge—and my whole apartment, for that matter—these past twelve months.”
My face grows hot. Is she really going to prick at my insecurity like that, here, before I’ve even finished my cup of coffee? Does she really want to try to play this game? Before second-guessing, I blast back with my own trump card—the card I never wanted, the card she, by her own actions with Ferris, handed me. “Oh yes, Olivia. I’m well aware of just how great you are at sharing everything—”
“Ladies!” a voice booms from behind us, and we simultaneously turn to see Ferris stepping into the living room from the front door, a coffee tray carrying three sage-green cups in his hand. His cheeks—ruddy from the wind outside—are nearly as red as the maroon sweater he’s wearing. He smiles broadly, as though he hasn’t heard my subtle remark aimed at him. “Who’d like some coffee?”
While Ferris hands out the usuals—a small nonfat latte with one tablespoon of honey for Olivia, a medium white-chocolate mocha for me—I notice mine is larger than usual. Ferris catches my eye and gives a lopsided smile. “I know we kept you up too late last night,” he says quietly. “Figured you’d appreciate a size up for your big day.”
As tight as my chest is from dealing with Olivia (a condition I experience at least once a week), my lips can’t help curling upward as I set down my mug and accept what he’s brought me from the Raven. Already, I feel my insides defrosting as I hold the toasty cup in my hands.
For all our patchy times, I couldn’t ever deny that Ferris, when he’s wanted to, has always been the one who could walk into a room and calm me down. Whether with a timely proffer of a caffeinated beverage or a willingness to sit down for hours and hash out a whole situation, he has always been there for me. A listening ear. An active participant. And this is exactly why I love him.
Loved him.
And now appropriately appreciate him as much as any mature woman would appreciate her ex-boyfriend-now-sister’s-fiancé.
Was it hard to lose Ferris to my sister after the long history we had together? Sure. Was I full of throw-your-computer-out-the-window blind fury at the discovery that, after he civilly broke it off with me one evening in my bedroom, he declared his undying affection for my sister twenty-four hours later in hers?
Ab-so-flippin’-lutely.
But it’s not quite that easy to block a person like Ferris out of your life, as it turns out. Not when he has been a part of the family on and off the last ten years. Not when he asks your sister to marry him three months after they get together. And not, principally, when you are a Cade.
Because we Cades live by three life words: Generosity. Persistence. Family. You live each day looking for an opportunity to serve another. You persist in achieving the best for your life come drought or high water. And you stick to family. Always and forever, you stick to family. We’re like the mafia. Only . . . nicer.
And while, yes, my sister initially played the black sheep by breaking the Cade code and allowing the man who had broken my heart to capture hers, the moment he dropped down on one knee, the situation changed.
In fact, the situation required an intervention. Precisely twelve hours after the engagement announcement, my parents “dropped” by the apartment. Sat me down (on Olivia’s couch). Insisted they hear out the whole story. My feelings. My claims. My hurts. Then, with half a box of tissues used up, Mom patted me on the hand, gave me the biggest sympathetic eyes she could, and said, “Darling, we’ve got a wedding in four months. We’re going to have to speed things up.”
This was followed with a lengthy, statistics-laden explanation that they had passively watched as bystanders, wanting to give me room to move through the five stages of grief, from the first denial phase (aka a full month of bubbly overenthusiasm and overbright statements to anyone within earshot that we were just “on a break”) all the way toward acceptance. Only apparently, according to my parents, I was stuck on stage two—the anger stage. You know, where you are discovered sitting cross-legged in your closet, cutting old letters to shreds by the light of the old photos of the both of you at prom now in flames on a dinner plate. That stage.
Which was all fine and well, except now he was going to be a Cade, and by golly, Mother had a dress fitting at Harold’s on Monday. They were going to have to help me along.
And so, after many such lengthy discussions, I eventually did come to terms with things.
Even, bizarrely enough, started to see everyone else’s point of view.
After all, for everybody except me it did make sense. It was quite romantic, even.
The boy who had dated the older sister all through high school and never noticed the one three years younger with braces, watching them through the stair rails while they went off to their proms and parties. The younger sister who eventually grew up and went to her own university, gained her independence, blossomed into her own strengths, and then, nearly a decade later, ran into the boy-now-man she’d (apparently, as I was to discover in the glowing how-we-met stories they like to share at parties) had such a crush on before. How, when I moved into Olivia’s apartment last year after my financial crisis, their eyes locked that first evening. And while I—sweat soaked and panting in stained T-shirts—hauled boxes up to my room, they apparently had “hilariously” stumbled into one another in the hallway, where she had “the cutest lock of hair that had fallen out of place” and he had “fallen in love with her at first sight.”
He was, as he says, “captivated against his will. Love had chosen him. Cupid had shot his arrow.”
And there was nothing he, nor I, could do about it.
Like I say, it’s romantic. For everybody but the girl who gets dumped and replaced by her successful, beautiful, younger sister.
But I will say that for his part, Ferris does feel terrible about what it did to me. Even now, he always tries to make up for how things happened. Always tries to include me. Make sure I feel important. Make sure I know I’m loved and not alone. I honestly think that’s why they’ve pushed the wedding out twice now. For me.
I look at the clock. Ferris sees my fingers fidgeting on the counter.
“You’re going to do great, Sav,” he says, giving me a little smile. “You’ve mastered the ropes. Could probably run the whole conference by now.”
I give him a smile back. He’s assuming I’m nervous about the LOA wreck from my first year. The assumption is off base—I’ve double-, triple-, and quadruple-checked that all the books, bookmarks, and bookplates will be safely secured beneath the booth table by the time we get there. Still, it’s thoughtful.
He’s trying.
He just wants us all to get along.
“You know what? I may just walk down there after all,” I say, scraping together as much kindness toward my sister as I can muster. It only, all collected, comes to a pinch worth, but it’s enough. “May help with the jitters.”
Ferris’s smile widens as Olivia turns from the fridge where she’s holding a glass under cold running water while jogging in place. “Yeah?” Her eyes flicker from the clock above the sink to me, then brighten. “Yeah, that’s a great idea. And . . . good luck today.”
I manage a tiny smile. “Thanks.”
There, I think, my grin broadening as I look to Ferris. Olive branch given. Olive branch received.
The Cade name preserved another day.
But the noble gesture looks awfully pale by the time I stride, freezing fingers wrapped tightly around the waist of my coat, through the twentieth stoplight and up the steps of the Music City Center. And thanks to an unforeseen 5K, with the street taped off and a mass of runners sprinting by with country music blaring, I was forced to detour an extra dozen blocks I hadn’t accounted for.
I’m painfully late. I can feel it. I know it so deep in my soul I’m afraid to check my watch.
As I reach the doors, I clench my jaw and dare a glance.
Nine-oh-three a.m.
Shoot.
As I follow the signs, Music City Center is buzzing with activity that, after only two years, still makes me feel a bit like a kid in a candy shop.
Oh! Look at that banner! I didn’t know Sophie Kinsella had a new one coming out.
Oh! That person has an entire suitcase of books! What did they find . . .
Oh! Is that the Fonz?! Here?! SIGNING BOOKS?!
And just as I’m about to veer off to follow the old Happy Days icon into the bathroom for an autograph, I’m funneled into an even smaller hallway and pop out at the top of an expansive exhibit room. Banners cover booths as far as the eye can see. Books spill from every inch of available space. Stacks lie on tables. Beside tables. Beneath tables. It’s only 9:00 a.m., and already the crowds swarm.
Everything as far as the eye can see is the librarian’s dream.
The booklover’s dream.
The dream.
And sure enough, I can see hundreds of librarians racing around like ants from my perch at the top of the stairs overlooking it all. It’s that old TV show Super Toy Run, where one lucky kid races through a toy store in five minutes, throwing anything he can into a shopping cart. Everything free. Except instead of toys, it’s something much, much better.
Books.
Hundreds and hundreds of crisp advance copies of books, free for the taking.
Beside a large HarperCollins banner I spot a smaller one, the sparrow logo next to the neat words PENNINGTON PUBLISHING. Lyla is bouncing from one end of the booth to the other in a pink pantsuit and three-inch heels, trying to stop the woman in the corner who’s currently trying to sneak all the copies of one book title into her bag. Giselle is sitting off to one side, sipping coffee as she scrolls her phone. And William Pennington has his hands on his hips while he stands beside Oswald, looking around impatiently.
Shoot.
Shoot. Shoot. Shoot.
I dart down three steps, one hand holding on to the railing. A woman in a T-shirt that says WILL BRAKE FOR BOOKS takes up the stairway with a rolling suitcase by her side.
“Excuse me,” I say, trying to squeeze by. “I’ve just got to—”
“We’re all here for the same thing,” the woman says gruffly, pushing out her rolling suitcase and blocking me from the potential foot of space between her and the man on the other side.
“No, you don’t understand,” I begin but then spot, over the woman’s shoulder, the booklet detailing the schedule of events. Hour-by-hour events are noted over the course of the next three days on the left-hand side, but it’s the headline covering the right-hand side that grabs my attention. “Green? Green’s got a new one coming out?”
“Only two hundred copies too!” the man beside her says, to which she eyes him, then me, suspiciously. She folds the booklet up.
Two hundred copies? I can’t help thinking. Are they signed? But no. I mentally shake myself. I need to stay focused. I need to remember why I’m here.
I glance toward my tent again and instantly regret it. Oswald’s hands are now gripping the back of the table, and he’s inching his way toward the exit. As for my new supervisor? Well, maybe that face is always the face he makes when he’s doing business. Maybe that murderous-looking frown as his eyes dart around, one hand gripped on Oswald, is just business as usual.
Maybe.
I check my watch. Nine eleven.
I want to wail, Move it, people! but then spot the situation: an elderly woman getting settled into a wheelchair at the bottom of the stairs. Knowing this place, she probably took one look around, spotted from a distance that sporting young man in the neon staff T-shirt now helping her into the wheelchair, and realized he could whip her around three times faster than the competition.
I force a calm breath.
Isn’t that nice that all those people are helping her into her chair? I force myself to think. Isn’t that just so nice that we are all here . . . at this event . . . all together . . . right before I get fired! Get out of the way, everyone, or I’m going to scream!
I grab my phone from my bag and whip out a text to Lyla: Stuck at stairs in a pileup. Can you tell the boss?
Most people wouldn’t hear their phones in the chaos of the room. Most staff, for that matter, wouldn’t even have their phones on their person while they danced around during such an event. But not Lyla. She could hear the single ding of a text across a stadium during the Superbowl.
I watch as she pulls the phone from her pocket, reads the text, and hustles over to William. Good ol’ Lyla.
A moment later he turns his head toward the stairs, and after several moments of scanning, his eyes land on me.
No.
I’ve made it worse.
I shrink under his volcanic glare, wishing in that moment for an escape. Any. Escape. Backward. Forward. I don’t even have to go to this event. After all, I don’t really need this job, do I? Really? I could just squat in my sister’s spare bedroom forever, wallowing in self-loathing while Mom and Dad tell Olivia, “Your sister just can’t cut it in the real world like you, honey. But remember, you do for family.”
The elderly woman in the wheelchair points ahead at last. “Start at the Berkley tent!” she declares, and moments later the staff member in neon races her into the crowd, prodded on as the woman pushes people out of the way with her cane.
Now, where were we? Oh, yes, trying to face Ms. Pennington’s son.
By the time I reach the tent, Lyla has given up on the librarian in the corner and appears to have cornered Oswald, talking avidly while his bifocaled eyes dart around for a means of escape.
I face William.
“That was a madhouse—” I begin to say, but he cuts me off.
“Do you think this is unimportant, Ms. Cade?”
His voice is eerily calm. I don’t think I expected it to sound like that, I realize. I think I was suspecting it to sound more like his mother’s—loud and quasi-hysterical and attention-grabbing. But calm? Somehow, it feels worse.
“Do you think we are in some sort of shopping mall, where you can just float in when you please?” he continues.
I open my mouth, but he lifts a finger.
“Was I not absolutely clear yesterday when I stated just how significant this event was today, and how imperative it would be to go above and beyond?” My eyes dart to Giselle, who has now taken out a file from her purse and is frowning at a nail. “If this was my staff at Sterling, if I gave them a time to be somewhere—”
“Will! There you are!”
William’s eyes dart up, followed by mine, as two men approach. As they saunter toward him, with enough lackadaisical confidence in each step that others slide out of the way, I feel the tension in my chest releasing. I’m saved. Momentarily, at least, I’ve been spared.
Unlike those surrounding the pair of them in colorful cardigans and clever bookish shirts and pins saying things like Never Judge a Book by Its Movie and Abibliophobia: noun. The fear of running out of books, the two men wear gray. Suits that are utterly free of any sort of emotion. As if the very idea of accidentally causing a smile is repugnant.
I’m just trying to inch my way backward and out of the scene when the tallest man claps William on the back, his smile revealing the whitest, straightest teeth I’ve ever seen. “We’ve been all over this place looking for you. I kept saying, ‘Pennington Publishing. I know it’s small, but it has to be somewhere. Surely it isn’t such a small pub they don’t actually get’”—he laughs as he says the word—“‘invited.’”
His companion chimes in with a soft chuckle.
“Anyway,” the man continues, his hand turning from a clap to a grip and shoulder shake, “with a little squinting we found you.”
“Jim. How good of you to come over.” If I’d thought William was intimidating before with his eerily calm behavior, I now see he’s only been using quarter strength. His eyes have all but crystalized into two sharp, piercing icicles—but not the nice kind, no. Not the kind where you touch their dribbly tips as they dangle off tree branches while saying, “Aw, look! Icicles.” No, the kind that are so big and sharp people snap them off and use them as weapons. That kind.
And his back, for that matter, is starting to look like an upright cutting board. His body is so rigid I feel like if this guy shook him hard enough, he wouldn’t bend, he’d tip over.
There’s a painfully silent pause, wherein Jim overtly begins looking at me, no doubt awaiting introduction. Stiffly, William puts out a hand toward me. “Savannah, this is Jim Arrowood and Jenson Forbes, former coworkers at Sterling.” His chin barely moves an inch their way. “This is Savannah Cade. Acquisitions editor for our Pen division.”
I almost put in, “Actually, it’s assistant acquisitions editor,” but hold my tongue. Now’s probably not the time to correct the new boss.
The tall one, Jim, puts out a hand. His smile has grown to full-on used-car-salesman status, and for a blink of an eye, I wonder what exactly would happen if I refuse to shake it. Reluctantly, I give in.
“Nice to meet you, Savannah,” he says, giving my hand a hearty squeeze and shake the moment it grips mine. The next second he’s whipping his other hand into his chest pocket and pulling out a business card. “Editorial director at Sterling House. We’re always on the lookout for the next generation of great editors.”
I look down at the card in my hands. Read his name and title below the classic outline of the dignified old mansion that is Sterling House’s logo.
Unbelievable.
Not only is the man using me to loudly remind my new boss that he took his job, he’s openly discussing poaching me in front of my employer. As though my place of employment is of such little regard it couldn’t possibly be considered offensive.
My lips tighten.
I don’t know this man, and I certainly don’t know William Pennington, but I do know Pennington Publishing. I do know Patricia Pennington, terrifying as she may be, and the long-standing grit, determination, and integrity she has poured into her company. And I do have some self-respect.
Etiquette can take the back seat on this one.
The Cades do for family, and for me, even if it be in a smaller way, Pennington Publishing is family.
Even as my cheeks pink, my grip on the business card tightens. Before I know it I’m holding it out to him, a polite smile on my face. “I’m happy where I am.”
There’s an enormous pause as all three men look down at me, fresh shock in varying degrees on their faces.
I sense the pressure to add to my words, to backpedal quickly in both professional and good southern fashion, but I stand firm, smile stamped in place. In my periphery I see a flicker in William’s eyes.
He doesn’t look like he’s about to brim over with happiness or anything, but there is a spark.
Good, I think. Remember this moment, William, instead of the ire of the last five minutes.
Slowly, Jim reaches out and takes the card.
“So,” he says, stuffing the card quickly back into his chest pocket and shuffling his gaze to the tent behind us, “how have you been these past months? When I heard you left the City . . .” He shakes his head. “I couldn’t imagine. I would kill myself.”
William’s smile tightens. “Yes. Well. It’s not for everyone.”
Jim gives a bark of laughter and tries to give William a loosening-up shake. It doesn’t work. “Oh, come now. Let’s not be like that. Who do you have lined up for the day?”
Jim looks at the foam board in the center of the tent, where a large headshot of Oswald’s face is plastered beside his newest book. Jim’s brows furrow. “The Complete Guide to Pruning Technique,” he murmurs. “That’s quite the change from Green, isn’t it, Will?” he says, his eyes mirthful.
Green.
. . . Greeeeen.
Trace . . . Green?
My eyes swivel back to William.
William Pennington was the editor for the Trace Green? The one I adore wholeheartedly and yet so forcefully refused to admit knowledge of yesterday? And William was demoted to this?
Even I can’t help feeling a little disgusted at our booth as Jim’s eyes slowly rove around it, clearly neither familiar with nor impressed with any title. Then they stop, and a flicker of amusement ignites in his eyes.
“Uh, Will,” he says, pointing toward Oswald. “You might want to do something about that.”
Both William and I turn at the same time and see Oswald, who, with eyes wide and unblinking, is pressing himself against a wall of books. He’s staring at Lyla, transfixed, as though caught in her web.
William starts to turn toward me, but I head him off. “I’m on it. Good morning, Oswald!” my voice rings out as I spring into action.
And for the next ten minutes I stand beside Oswald, alternating between peeling him off the wall of books and jumping in front of any passing librarians who slow their canter to gaze at his poster, shielding him from those who might recognize him and unintentionally cause him to throw himself under the table the rest of the morning. It’s consuming work, but I still catch the conversation going between the three men.
All their words are barbed, each carrying their own insinuation.
Frankly, it’s fascinating.
It’s like they’re playing two games of tennis at once, a racket in each hand. One conversation volleying back and forth across the net is the surface discussion about business and home and New York life, while the other is a stab. And while William does make his fair share of jabs, it’s the ones from the tall guy, Jim, that I feel in my gut.
Jabs that William is not missed.
Jabs that he, William’s replacement, is far superior in every way.
Jabs that, with William gone, headliners are flocking to Sterling in droves.
By the time the announcement goes over the room about Green’s signing at Booth #207 and the two men set out with self-importance toward their “abandoned” (and yet, as stated three times, apparently run by an onslaught of lower staff tripping on themselves to fulfill their every wish) booth, even I have forgotten all about William’s piercing words about me being late.
As the two men fall into the crowd, William turns, and for a moment his expression has fallen. He looks ragged. He looks abused. And even I, in that moment, can’t help feeling for him.
But just then he catches my eye, and I turn and dive headlong into my duties.
Now there are four things I’m going to hope he henceforth forgets about and never brings up: the manuscript page he read yesterday, my response to meeting his former coworker (even if he was ghastly), my tardiness, and the way the entire conversation played out about Green.
I don’t know why I’d just assumed he had headed up some upscale fiction branch back in New York.
I take that back. Of course I know why I assumed: because he is Ms. Pennington’s son. Only son. And for her, taking on commercial fiction would be like being a Montague and jumping the fence to hang out with the Capulets. And look how well that turned out for Romeo.
Truly, I’d be afraid to sit in on the Penningtons’ Thanksgiving dinners.
Oswald’s signing comes up shortly afterward, and with it a lot of heavy lifting on my part—serving both as the bodyguard ensuring people keep a solid two feet from the anthropophobic man and as a sort of translator between his readers with their fandom-speak and Oswald with his mumbling. The intensity of the next two hours saves me from any more conversation with my boss, and by the time I am giving well wishes to the last stragglers in line, William is nowhere to be seen.
“Nice job,” Lyla says, patting down my hair. “You’d think five hundred copies would be enough for this lot.”
“Then you’ve underestimated the power of properly treated hydrangeas,” I reply. I turn my face toward the podium. “Isn’t that right, Oswald?” I frown. “Oswald?”
Oswald is staring bleakly out at the crowd, as if he’s resigned to his life sentence in the chair. “Okey dokey. C’mon.” I move away from Lyla and take him by the hand. I give it a soothing pat and then reach my arm out behind me. “You did so well today. Didn’t he, Lyla?”
Lyla gives a generous nod and promptly slides my purse up my arm.
“Let’s get you to the hotel.”
And with one arm holding lightly to the elbow of his sleeve, I wind through the crowd, guiding Oswald toward the double doors. Once we’re back into the convention hallway with its expansive ceiling, I let go. There are only a few people shuffling about now, most having gone down to the exhibit hall or to the conference rooms to listen to the speakers. Oswald, for his part, is perking up like a water-deprived flower. He’s doing so well, in fact, that I’m about to ask him if he’d like to sit down for one last cup of coffee at the onsite coffee shop when a familiar patch of brown hair with several strands of glinting gray catches my attention. The same small, petite frame. The same short, blocky blue heels.
In that moment, time freezes.
I can’t decide whether I want to grab Oswald by the arm and drag him into the coffee shop or leave him then and there and make a mad dash for her. Or run away myself, for that matter. Maybe I don’t want to face her at all.
But before I can thoroughly think it through, I realize my body has made the decision for me, because it’s taken up Oswald’s elbow once again and is now all but rushing for the door. Claire Donovan has her back to us. She is the last in a small line waiting to place an order. If I hurry, my body—and my mind, as it’s slowly realizing—knows I just might make it to her before she slips away.
“Off we go,” I trill, speeding us up even more as we hurry down the stairs for the double doors. “As I was saying, Oswald, it was so good to see you. You were fabulous today.” I push open the doors, and a gust of wind bites at our eyes. “Please thank your wife for letting us steal you away.”
“My coat,” Oswald says, struggling to take it off his arm to put it on.
“What’s the use when you’re about to get inside this cozy taxi?” I say, already raising my arm and waving at a slowing cab coming toward the curb. As it halts, I pull open the door, then stretch my arms out wide with a large smile. “It was so good to see you.”
Dumbly, he receives my hug. “But we were going to talk over the sales channel report . . .”
“That? Let’s not worry about that today. Not on the heels of such a triumphant signing. I’ll be sure to email you all about it Monday.”
His puzzled expression is somewhat adorable, like a puppy staring at his own tail, dumbfounded as to why it keeps following him around. But as I pat the top of the open door invitingly, he blinks and follows my orders.
“Have a good flight!” I call as I shut the door. I force myself to stay planted and wave while the taxi rumbles off, counting to five with a smile pasted on my face, then turn and race back up the stairs.
My heels clap loudly on the marble floors of the empty hall. I’m a terrible host. I gave a terribly rushed parting. But if there was anyone I could shove off like that who’d respond with a five-star review, it’s him.
And this? This matters.
When I’m close enough, I scan the line at the register. The line has moved on to new faces, and for one dark moment I think Claire has gone.
Then, over by the sugar station, I spot her.
She’s opening a packet of honey and pouring it into her cup, a slight frown on her face as she takes a wooden stick and begins to stir.
My pace slows. Why is she frowning?
This must be a bad time.
This is a bad time. She’s no doubt on her way to some grand and serious lecture, somewhere only fitting for the literary elites of the biggest houses. Like a VIP room. Yes, a VIP room that nobody else knows about, where only the biggest professionals in the business gather under soft lighting and discuss the future of the industry. A circle of plush red couches. Sconces glowing. Waiters serving them food on silver trays because they are too busy determining the future of culture and literature everywhere to deal with the hassle of deciding where to dine—
And then, as if she feels eyes upon her, Claire turns and looks me directly in the eye.
She blinks, and then her eyes crinkle in recognition. Her frown dissolves as she tents up a smile and starts walking toward me.
This is it. I’m bound now.
I follow suit and move toward her.
“Savannah,” she says, her voice warm. “I was actually just thinking about you.” She waves at a nearby table. “Have a minute?”
I hesitate.
And by this I mean I force myself to hesitate.
My immediate, natural reaction is to hop the railing and sprint toward her until I’m hugging her knees. But instead I give a slight nod, hoping I’m communicating something halfway between Oh, what does it matter? and Oh my gosh, yes! Yes! YES!
“Sure, I’ll just . . . get a cup of coffee and join you,” I say in my poshest, most casual demeanor, like we’re old friends who do this all the time. Like I always have coffee with the chief editor of Baird Books. Like we email Pinterest recipes to each other late at night with messages like, “This’ll be perfect for our brunch next week.”
No. Big. Deal.
I’ve only dreamed about this moment every single day since last January.
I get my coffee and slide into the chair across from Claire just as she finishes taking a sip of her tea. As she sets it down, I see the same down-to-earth warmth in her eyes I found last year as we stood in that long line, chatting for the hour we waited for a moment with Margaret Atwood. We were such kindred spirits then, just two editors enthusiastic about the same literature and dogs and movies. When she said she acquired romance authors, I told her about my manuscript. At first I didn’t claim the story, leaving it open as just a manuscript I was looking over. But eventually she probed. And eventually I told her the truth. That it was my own. That I’d been working on it since college. That my dream was to see it out in the world one day, just like I cheered on my authors as their books went out in the world. She liked the hook enough that we exchanged business cards, her telling me to send it over when it was ready. It was only when I looked down at her card that I realized exactly with whom I had been speaking. Not just a nice editor at a nice house. The chief editor at the house. The Baird Books. The house to beat all houses. Even Sterling Publishing walks in Baird’s shadow as far as romance is concerned.
And those same warm eyes are looking into mine now, easing all my fears. What have I been so worried about? I think, taking my first sip of coffee. Why have I built this whole thing up in my head? This isn’t scary. This isn’t intimidating. She simply called out to me.
Asked me to sit for coffee.
She’s smiling.
It’s alllll going to work out—
“I got your email last night.”
My attention snaps at her words. “Oh?”
This is it. The moment of truth. The moment all my dreams come true. Or don’t.
And then, with those warm, down-to-earth eyes, Claire Donovan blinks, and in that moment the corners of her eyes dip ever so slightly down. As though she knows what she’s about to say.
Knows it. And hates it.
But of course she does.
Because we are kindred spirits.
And I, too, hate with every empathetic fiber of my being this part of the job.
Delivering . . . rejection.
“We need to talk.”