Chapter 7
The music inside the Painted Pony Saloon crackles so loudly over the speakers I’m going to need aspirin for days. Between the noise, the swirling kaleidoscopic lights on the dance floor the past three hours, and the calluses currently forming on my inner thighs from their consistent rubbing beneath my jeans, I would gladly dive into one of those sensory deprivation tanks over this.
“Whooooeeeee!” Tom hollers. My ears quake with the thunder of his clap by my head as he follows the line dancer demonstrating onstage.
He grabs me by the hand and throws me into another twirl.
I could have taken an editor position at another publishing house two years ago. A nice, sane house, with sane bosses and sane editors and sane authors who, when they come to town, want to do things like eat asparagus wrapped in bacon while discussing possible endorsements.
But noooo.
Instead, I get Tom. And a publishing house that wants me to tour Tom around like I’m some kind of line-dancing hostess at—I check my watch—eleven o’clock on a Saturday night. When I’m already exhausted. And overwhelmed. And have to deal with a full day tomorrow as well.
The song ends and transitions into a new one, and as a single note slowly rakes across a violin, the man onstage holds the microphone to his lips and tips his cowboy hat down. His voice lowers as though he’s got an intimate secret to share. “Ladies and gents, we’re gonna take this one easy. So slow ’er down, hold your sweetheart close, and sway to an old country favorite, ‘Just Another Woman in Love.’”
Tom spins on me, his thin lips lifting in a wiry smile as if to say, “Welp, I guess we have no choice but to do what we’re ordered to,” and I immediately put up two hands.
“Oh no, Tom. I think I’m going to sit this one out.”
But even as I speak, I feel him tug on both of my elbows. “Aw, c’mon. Listen to this song.” His eyes are brimming with elation as he tugs me an inch toward him. “This song is a classic.”
“Yes, it’s very nice,” I say, struggling to unwrap his fingers from my elbows. “All the same, it’s getting late.”
“Late?” His forehead wrinkles at such an insinuation, and I realize as the lights fall upon his glassy eyes that he may have snuck yet another pint of beer down somewhere in the last half hour. “No such thing as late when you’re accompanied by such fine music and fine women.”
“No, really—” I begin but, despite my protest, feel his hands grab onto my wrists and pull them firmly toward him.
As he does so my face grows hot—as hot as it can be on this packed dance floor surrounded by beer and cheap leather. I feel myself finally losing my last, shaky grip on the self-control I’ve been warring to keep hold of all evening, and all thoughts of Tom’s New York Times bestseller rankings and Pennington’s profits and the world’s tough economic times fly from my mind. I’m like a two-liter of soda that’s been shaken one too many times, and cap or no cap, I’m going to explode.
I’m just about to make my stand, no matter what he might say to Giselle (who’d slay me) or William or even Ms. Pennington herself tomorrow, when I feel somebody step in and grab Tom by the arm.
“I think that’s enough,” William says, and my mouth practically falls open as I see him.
He’s still clad in his blue suit and tan oxfords from earlier in the day. But he looks different now, less polished than the poised professional I saw this morning. His tie is crooked, the perfect creases in his perfect blue trousers gone. There’s even what appears to be a bit of gum and torn-off paper stuck to the bottom side of one shoe. By clothing alone, he looks weary. But in his frank blue eyes there is an icy steeliness that says he can go all night.
Tom takes a step back, clearly seeing the same thing I’m seeing. “We were just having a bit of fun,” he says, then adds an overripe laugh. He turns his head toward me. “Weren’t we, Savannah? Just some good fun.”
My eyes widen as I turn from Tom to William, unsure of how to respond. I’m about to open my mouth to give the best noncommittal yet professional reply I can come up with when I find I don’t need to.
William takes a step in and faces him, completely blocking me out. And then I’m standing there, staring into a sea of blue on the back of my boss’s suit as colorful lights from above pan slowly by.
“Even so, there’s an Uber waiting outside for you,” I hear William say coolly. “It will take you wherever you need to go.”
“But . . . Savannah was going to drive me back to the hotel. And we had some things to talk about for my next book.”
“Good news, Tom. You will be pleased to know you have been promoted. I am now personally taking responsibility for you as editor, and unfortunately, I don’t have time to dance with you. Good night.”
For several seconds I stand there, hidden behind William’s stoic hold on the dance floor, barely able to breathe from what I just heard. Did he just say that? Did he just do that? On my account?
When William does turn around at last, there is no sign of Tom anywhere.
I look around, but all I can see around us is a sea of slow-dancing couples.
Couples and slow-moving strobe lights and, most important, no more Tom.
I look up into William’s face and for the first time all night feel my shoulders begin to droop. My pent-up breath exhales. When I do, a bubble of laughter wells up inside me. A bubbling of anxiety, of release from anxiety, of disbelief at what just happened. Just remembering the shocked look on Tom’s face is almost too much.
William’s face, for his part, is still steely as he keeps his eyes on the doors. Drawn. And frankly, exhausted.
I can’t help it. My shoulders shake a little as I let out a quiet chuckle.
He turns as if noticing me for the first time. His expression shifts.
The single line on his forehead creases deeper.
Gone is his concern at watching the uncivilized, handsy man exit. Here is the concern at watching his petite, bizarre employee in the center of the dance floor, laughing.
“I can’t believe you did that,” I say, fighting a new round of laughter building up in the pit of my stomach. Boss or no boss, I can’t help myself.
For a moment he just looks at me, frowning slightly, as if he’s come across some small, odd creature and he’s trying to figure it out. “I can’t believe you danced with him at all.”
The threat of laughter stops.
Surely he’s not going to put any of the blame for tonight on me. “You said to entertain our authors,” I reply. “You said it was vital to let them know how important they are.”
“Yes, but not that vital,” he says, raking a hand through his brown hair as he darts his eyes toward the doors. He throws an arm out. “For heaven’s sake, Savannah. Surely you know it’s never, ever that vital.”
For a moment I’m stunned by the realization that he’s criticizing me, as though I should’ve known it was obvious not to subject myself to Tom for the sake of performing well in my job. As if he’s frustrated by the reality that he is clearly going to have to babysit the new editors under his wing, unlike the big, brassy, self-sufficient ones at the elaborate publishing house in New York City.
And I would be offended, except for the new question that suddenly crowds my thoughts. “How did you find us, anyway?”
“I did what every other bachelorette party in town does,” he says. “I followed the strip.”
A rush of emotion surges through me, and for a moment I forget his previous criticism and find myself surveying this man who moves his gaze back toward the doors. I’m finding it hard to believe the situation before me. So this guy, my new boss, battled his way through the crowded streets of Nashville, overflowing with drunk tourists moving from one noisy honky-tonk to another, to find me.
To . . . what exactly?
To make sure I was okay?
“Mind if we take this conversation . . . ,” he says, nodding to the area off the dance floor.
“Oh. Yes.” I all too readily start toward the bar. My feet ache in my boots, not worn so much for the sake of looking the part tonight but to protect my toes, given how much Tom stepped on them last time. “Please.”
I try to hobble as little as possible as we weave our way around couples and find two barstools. Both of us exhale as we sit on the cracked red leather. A bartender comes over, and I glance at the rows of bottles on the shelves behind him. My brain, however, is too amped up to delegate time to the task of making a choice, so I throw out the name of the first drink that comes to mind.
“Gin and tonic for me,” I say to the man on the other side, brandishing the ID out of my back pocket.
William seems to feel the same way, because without hesitation he adds, “Make that two.”
And for a long moment after the bartender leaves we sit in silence. Both trying to find peace and our bearings, it seems, in the current environment.
“Why didn’t you just call me?” I say with a sudden thought. I can’t help feeling a bit rueful about everything as I glance over to the man who looks like he’s just run a marathon. “Surely you have access to my number.”
“I did,” William responds. “Several times.”
I reach instinctively for my phone in my other pocket and blanch when I see the missed calls from the unknown number line up on my screen. “Sorry,” I say at last. “I didn’t realize it was on silent.”
He waves a hand as if done with the conversation. “It’s fine. I just need to make a memo for the next company pep talk: Do Everything within One’s Power to Please Authors, Except Line Dancing with Scurrilous Men.”
“‘Scurrilous.’” I grin as my hand itches to type that one into my phone’s notes app. “That’s a good word. People should use it more often.”
He pauses, and I see him smile lightly. “Or not.” I raise my brows, a question forming, and he continues as he pulls his drink toward him. “Not when ‘complete idiot’ will do.”
I smile, pulling my own glass toward me. “If you were so opposed, why didn’t you just say something this afternoon? Save yourself all this trouble.”
“Because I wasn’t so opposed this afternoon,” he says mildly. “Until I saw the way he looked at you as he followed you out the door.”
I’m just starting to feel a little creeped out imagining what he witnessed from his point of view when William takes a thoughtful sip, then smiles a little darkly. “I am going to thoroughly enjoy being his editor.”
The previous picture in my head slips away as I give an all-out laugh. “You do realize you sound terrifying.”
“As an editor, I can be terrifying,” he replies, and he says it so automatically and with such authority, I believe it.
Well.
If he wants to enjoy giving Tom a hard time via email in the coming months, by all means. And I have a feeling that those thirty emails Tom sends a week of cat memes and selfies will unexpectedly have a hard time finding the Pennington in-box.
“Well, for what it’s worth, thank you. I was about to hold my own—”
“I saw the flash in your eyes. I don’t doubt it.”
“But I’m glad I didn’t have to,” I finish. I pause, then raise my glass. “To good bosses. Thank you, William Pennington. You’re doing pretty good for your second day.”
For a moment he almost looks like he won’t play, but at last he clinks glasses with me. I can’t be sure as we both face the wall of bottles and take our sips, but out of the corner of my eye I think I see a small smile on his lips just before he tips his glass. Good. He should feel good for what he did. Not many bosses would go to such lengths. Unless . . .
I feel the silent question rising with the beat of the next song, and with it a little flurry of activity in my stomach.
But no.
Surely he’s not. Surely he wouldn’t be . . . interested . . .
“Call me Will. And a good publishing house doesn’t just take care of their authors,” he says. “They take care of their employees too. I hope you know that.”
I feel a momentary rise of disappointment but just as quickly whisk it away. Of course. Of course this was all about work. Or liability, even. Maybe he just wanted to make sure he wasn’t going to step Pennington into a lawsuit. Enabling harassment. All of that. Of course.
As we drink in silence, I feel the need to turn the conversation. To say anything. Anything at all.
“So, I’m sure it was a big move coming all the way from the City,” I venture. “Do you miss it?”
The second I ask the question I regret it. The man was fired from his bigger, better job in New York City. The only reason he has returned, most likely, is a lack of other opportunities. Great, Sav. Just throw salt on his wounds.
He raises his hand for the bill, the expression in his eyes unreadable. “Sometimes.”
“I’ve been there a few times,” I say, trying to keep the tone upbeat. “Once when my father ended up on the TODAY show to make some baklava and talk about his new cookbook, and once when my sister was marching in the Macy’s Day Parade.”
“Your father is a chef?”
“No. Dentist,” I say, then catch myself. “A dentist with a penchant for pastries and a thriving YouTube cooking account with a Saturday baking class for underprivileged youths downtown.”
“A dentist with a sweet tooth,” Will muses, smiling slightly. “How ironic.”
“Good job security,” I say, grinning back.
“And your sister?” he asks. “What instrument did she play?”
“All of them.”
He smiles politely as though waiting for my real answer.
“No, really, all of them. I mean, in the parade itself she only juggled between flute solo and trumpet. But yes, all of them.”
His brows raise, and I see the same look I see in everyone’s eyes when I talk about my family. “A real go-getter family you got there.”
“You have no idea.”
“Well, I can see why Pennington Publishing must be glad to have you, then.”
“Oh no.” I almost choke on my gin. “No. I’m nothing like the rest of them.”
Will’s eyes widen, and a smirk slowly rises on one side of his face. “Ah. So you aren’t a high achiever. Too bad.”
“Wait, no,” I amend quickly, setting my glass down to focus on correcting myself. “I don’t underwork. I do just . . . enough.”
“A very satisfactory level, you might say.”
I see it now, in his eyes. They’re mirthful. He’s teasing me. My lips start to curl. “Pleasantly sufficient.”
“Perfectly adequate,” he says, his eyes crinkling too. “You could highlight that on your CV.”
“How do you think I got this job?”
Our eyes hold, and for a long moment we just smile. A warmth spreads through me. I can’t define it exactly, but if it were a scent, it’d be eggnog sprinkled with nutmeg. If a sound, it’d be the footsteps of a dear friend on your front porch.
“Or at least,” he continues, “you can throw it in your CV when you email Sterling.”
For a moment I’m so thrown by this comment in the midst of our banter I fumble for a response. He seizes the moment in stride. His expression shifts. “For the record, thank you also for what you did today. There aren’t many people who would hand a business card back to Jim Arrowood. For what it’s worth, I appreciated it.”
He appreciated it.
Not Pennington. Not him on behalf of Pennington.
He.
Will.
“Well, your former colleagues are real scurrilous,” I say, inwardly tucking away the compliment while, on the outside, brushing it off. “And besides, you now are subjected to being Tom’s editor. I’d say tonight, your sacrifice was far greater.”
“Ah, yes. Tom. Well, we’ll just see how long Tom lasts with Pennington in the end. I have a feeling he’ll be moving on soon, so I wouldn’t worry too much about me.”
He grins while I raise a brow. “You do know he’s surprisingly successful, don’t you? He sold a hundred thousand copies of his book last year, nearly out of the gate.”
And there he goes again. The smile he’s hanging on to drifting down like an autumn leaf off his face. “Yes, well, for the record, it was an editorial and publishing misstep to allow him to all but plagiarize Camus as his own. He walked a razor-thin line throughout the novel, particularly—”
“—with the quote, I know!” I interrupt. “He all but claimed, ‘To be happy, it is essential not to be too concerned with others.’ That’s what I told everyone!”
Will pauses. Adjusts in his chair and looks at me, really looks at me.
“You told everyone what, exactly?”
His voice is so probing, I feel almost certain now I’ve made a mistake. My voice treads lightly as I respond. “Just that . . . it seemed dangerously close to a copyright issue for him to follow the same storyline and themes, and even title, as those in The Fall. Regardless of what Tom claimed, to even have the appearance of lifting Camus’s quotes by replacing words with a few well-chosen synonyms was—”
“—absolutely reckless to allow,” he interjects. “It was. And nobody agreed with you?”
I shrug. It doesn’t seem wise to give the specific details of how Giselle had all but told me I was like a child in meetings: there to be seen, not heard. “I’m just an assistant acquisitions editor.”
The crease in Will’s forehead deepens. He doesn’t respond right away, but when he does, it sounds as though he’s made up his mind. “I see. Well, where I come from, everyone has a voice. Evidently, those in Pennington may need that reminder.”
We let the silence linger.
What is there to say?
And after several moments pass of twisting my glass on the countertop, thinking of what topic to approach next while watching the condensation bubble up on the heavily polyurethaned wood, I give in. Change the subject to the first reasonable thing that comes to mind. “At any rate, I hope you enjoy the shift from New York. I’m sure there’s a lot to be missed, but hopefully you’ll like the change.”
“Thank you and yes.” He pauses, and I can see thought clouds starting to form in his eyes. “Much to be missed, but at the same time, I hope, much to be gained.”
What does that mean? Is this about more than his job? Does he have some long-lost girlfriend up there, perhaps? Someone he yearns to get back to?
But of course he left his life up there. He probably had a slew of close friends and, even though I don’t find myself liking to admit it, a number of stunning girlfriends over the years. It’s New York. They breed pretty people there.
Besides, it’s none of my business. And more important, he’s my boss. And classy. And sophisticated. And truly a man. Settled into a mature life, no doubt uninterested in someone who can’t even pull together her life enough to move out of her sister’s apartment.
But most pertinent here is the reminder that it doesn’t matter, and I don’t care.
At last the bartender comes over, and Will points at both our glasses. “I’ll get these.”
“Oh no, please,” I say immediately and begin scrabbling in my back pocket. “I couldn’t let you.”
“On the company,” he says, pulling out a flashy silver card. “Our apologies for one heck of a night.”
For a moment I wonder if he’s serious, if he’s really trying to represent Pennington Publishing and make amends for the disastrous author in our house with a twelve-dollar cocktail. But then I see his name on the personal debit card and catch the light in his arctic eyes.
“You’re all forgiven,” I say, grinning as I slide off my seat to stand. “Consider the slate wiped clean.”
A new topic looms over my head, and before I can wimp out, I snatch at the opportune moment. This is the time to find out what he knows. If I say it just right, I can ask without giving anything away. “And . . . about that manuscript I dropped at the meeting.” My finger taps on the counter. “I’m sorry about that and—”
He stops me. “Don’t worry about it, Savannah. It’s an easy thing to happen when working with all that paper. But you might want to consider using the binding machine next time. Or better yet . . . keep it out of sight altogether.”
His smile grows. “After all, not everyone at Pennington shares the same appreciation of the more . . . adventurous fiction as you and me.”
* * *
I slide my key into the lock thirty minutes later and find myself still a little amazed by how everything went down. Replaying the look on Tom’s face as Will tore his hands off me and stepped in. Hearing Will’s authoritative voice declaring he was taking Tom from now on. Hearing him exonerate me for my manuscript slip without any questions raised.
It was priceless.
All of it.
Priceless.
But as I play it all back in my mind, questions jump in here and there. Like what were all those thoughts so clearly occupying him half the time? And who exactly is up in New York that he misses?
But then, as I open the door, comes that other, higher-priority thought that I won’t be rid of for a month. Forty-four days. It’s nearly midnight now, yet again, but I can’t be deterred.
I take a step into the living room and am greeted by the whirring of the Peloton. Olivia, in the middle of flicking a page of her book, pauses as she sees me come in.
“How many are you at?” Olivia says.
No hello.
I drop my laptop bag off my aching shoulder and wearily check my watch. “Nineteen thousand. And hello.”
“Nineteen,” Olivia breathes, looking so proud she might cry. “Excellent work today, Savvy. What did you do today? Whatever it is, just repeat it every day for the month, and you’re gold.”
Right, I think, moving away from her beaming gaze and taking my poor, aching body toward my bedroom, along with the laptop bag I drag across the floor. All I need to do is repeat the chaos of today and—
I stop at the sight of the small bouquet of flowers on the table by my bedside. As I move toward them, for one insane moment I think with a stutter, Did Will Pennington send these to me?
But no, I realize, seeing the scribbled handwriting on the small card sticking out of the bundle. I take the note, flick it open, and read the inscription:
Hope you hit it out of the park today.
Leave it to Ferris to drop by some flowers on behalf of the two of them, just to make sure I cheered up from this morning. They aren’t from Olivia, I know. But they are a team now, just like how Mom always adds Dad’s name to the Christmas cards without his awareness. I’ll have to thank them tomorrow.
I take a couple of moments to stop and smell them, inhaling the scent of the petite yellow roses. Read the card again. Hope you hit it out of the park today. Well, in a way, I did hit it out of the park, didn’t I? I had a brave conversation with Claire; I asserted myself when I could have cowered, and now I have a tremendous opportunity before me. Not to mention I no longer have to deal with Tom. Ever again. It really was a home-run kind of day if you think about it.
Propelled by my momentary burst of self-congratulatory encouragement, I turn toward my closet and, after much yanking and digging, find the tattered manuscript.
As I settle down on my bed, computer beside me, stack of papers in hand, I feel instantly better. I have a plan. It may be hectic. It may be incredibly busy over the course of the next month. I may have to hunker down and set all the other priorities in my life aside for a while, but I have a plan. I will get through this. Just so long as I have the direction found in these—
I halt.
All this time I’ve been flipping pages, reading through to see all the notes my mystery editor left for me, how much work I’ll have to do, how many words fill up the margins. But then suddenly, on page 16, it all stops.
Nothing.
I flip to the next page.
Nothing.
I flip three more and see nothing but the clear, clean white margin.
Nothing.
I flip through the rest of the manuscript, and all the while my heart sinks lower and lower. Why was I so stupid as to think whoever did this had actually read through the whole manuscript? Why would I be so ridiculous as to think they would choose to spend their afternoon jotting a thousand ugly notes in the margins?
I close my eyes. Take a deep breath. Assess the new situation.
So, my mystery editor only went through the first chapter.
Well, then, I have two options. Strike out on my own, trusting my—clearly blind—intuition to guide me. Or—
I gulp, already knowing what I have to do.
Ask for help.
And hope I get an answer back.