La Costa missed the arid desert climate of Nevada that she had come to love, not unlike the endless summers of California. South Carolina embraced the slight change of seasons as it calmed her moods in new and mystical ways. She often found herself from time to time, drifting into tranquil thoughts; calm and peacefulness washed over her for the first time ever in her life of thirty-one years. The sea air and sunshine . . . life . . . honest work . . . the home she and Louis had made there with Georgia, was a bliss as near to perfect as La Costa had ever known.
Throughout the previous fall and winter months, La Costa had worked diligently editing Georgia’s manuscript, conducting phone interviews, diving into research archives—past press releases, photographs, and memorabilia; rewriting and proofing countless drafts, all of which ultimately withstood the rigorous scrutiny of the subject of the biography herself. Now, when she was not busy preparing for the arrival of an overnight guest, or designing or sending out scads of marketing collateral, Georgia worked over La Costa’s shoulder to coach her on the project.
By Christmas, the final draft was completed. It was entitled, Southern Peach—The Story of Fashion and Business Maven Georgia Byrne. La Costa insisted that her name not appear anywhere—on the cover or in the acknowledgments. It was her gift to Georgia, and she had preferred to leave the matter at that.
The milestone, along with the completion of the guest rooms for the B&B, was celebrated with grand jubilation. Georgia made an event out of everything. She had purchased a bottle of French champagne months before, and she had been saving it for just the perfect occasion to open it.
She was particularly known for her lavish extravagances when it came to birthdays. Louis, who was turning five, received from Georgia, an imported train set from Germany, a five-foot stuffed panda, and a healthy savings bond for college.
Georgia also gifted La Costa with her own personal computer, saying, “You’ve more than earned it. My publisher loved the manuscript and is already talking about book number two—a quick guide on the lost art of ‘etiquette revisited’ in a modern world. And it’s all thanks to you, my dear. You did it!”
“We did it!” La Costa said, knowing that she could never have hoped to accomplish such a task without the encouragement and guidance of such a savvy mentor and subject as Georgia. It had been a joyful task for La Costa to write about Georgia’s life. It was a story easy to tell. In the process, La Costa had discovered that she enjoyed telling stories as much as she loved reading them. Writing was a newfound passion. Later, she would recount in her memoir, I knew then that more than anything, save from being Louis’s mother, I finally knew what I wanted to do—to be a writer.
And unbeknownst to her, Southern Peach was just the beginning of sweet things to come.
* * *
Just when La Costa thought that things could not get any better, a wonderful thing happened. A referral came in the form of a phone call from New York City. Georgia’s agent, Leo Monk, had pitched La Costa as a hip, young, debut writer with edgy urban themes and streetwise moxie.
Apparently, Georgia had copied several rough drafts of a piece La Costa had been working on in her journal, tentatively titled Invisible Girl, and presented it to Monk and several publishing contacts with the expectation that someone might be interested.
Bold, truthful, and uncensored, La Costa wrote with raw human emotion, as if she herself had experienced the very realities of her heroine. Little did anyone know that the material was the very fabric of her soul, and that the streetwise character, Vivian Dunn, was really Mayella Jackson. Or, if Georgia did know, she never let on.
Leo Monk was impressed enough to pitch it to his colleague, Tess Kardamakis, a very high-spirited and hungry new agent who was overflowing with gumption and tenacity. And, who, at eight months pregnant, spent her weekend in Vail glued to a chair in the resort’s lodge, riveted by the compelling unabashed saga of fifteen-year-old Vivian Dunn and her poignant search for rescue and survival on the tumultuous streets of East LA.
Within three months, La Costa had an agent and a signed contract with Gaylord Publishing for a projected completion date for the story, and a deal regarding the delivery of two future manuscripts, on spec. She was given a small advance and instructions for re-working the plot to involve a chance meeting with the story’s heroine and an integral secondary character. The publisher was pushing for the manuscript to have a fairy tale-esque ending, turning her gritty exposé into a genre-lucrative modern romance that would change everything for the vivacious character of Vivian Dunn—and not least of all—for La Costa herself.
Chapter Twenty-three
Newport Beach, CA – 2014
“That is when everything really just turned around for me,” La Costa said, gathering the loose photos and scrapbooks back into neat little piles. “I was about to be a published author—a romance author—as long as I turned up the heat a bit. I said, ‘I can do that!’ It was then that I settled on my new pen name, La Costa Reed.”
“Can you tell me, is there anything behind your having chosen Reed as your pen name?” Felicia asked, flipping through her notebook for a page that wasn’t already covered with notes.
“I picked Reed because I simply loved the sound of it. It seemed strong; like a name you would continuously have to earn. My agent, Tess, said that it was a durable author name. It was going to appear on the cover of a book—many books—so I knew that I had better like it. And so, I’ve been going by Reed ever since.”
“And what does your son, Louis, think about all this?” Felicia asked gingerly.
It had been agreed early on that mention of Louis Jackson, La Costa’s son, would be limited in the exposé, and that no pertinent details about him be divulged. La Costa remained guarded and tight-lipped when it came to the subject. She was extremely careful in relaying to her interviewer details of her life in the past few hours that she chose to relay. Louis, for the most part, was strictly off-limits to the press and public. Certain details concerning the truth remained an omission in her own memoir as well, out of respect for Louis’s privacy and safety. Felicia and the magazine had agreed to work around the subject, as they were litigiously buried in a mountain of binding non-disclosure agreements that forbade them from divulging any details about La Costa’s son—except for what she agreed to share.
“Oh, you know, he is your typical sixteen-year-old high school kid, I guess. He plays varsity basketball and is a whiz at math. He loves video games and is allergic to doing chores. Let’s see, have I forgotten anything?”
“I’d say that you are pretty proud of your son,” Felicia said.
“I am,” La Costa agreed, smiling. “I’d add that he is my best work yet.”
No longer would Reed have any connection to her past self, Felicia would later write about the acquiring of La Costa’s pen name. She was, by then, indeed a long way from little Mayella Jackson from West Memphis, Arkansas. La Costa Reed had shed her old name and earned a new one, by choice. Bought with pain, struggle, and much sacrifice, it was a tribute of sorts to her newfound self-worth.
“I could hardly believe my eyes when, a year after I had submitted the finished manuscript, I saw the galleys, and then the cover for my first book,” La Costa said, grinning at the memory. “Large letters spelling out my name on a glossy book cover. It was so surreal. It was really something.”
“I’ll bet it was,” Felicia said.
“Would you like to see it?”
Felicia nodded. “Can I?”
La Costa ushered her down a short hall, past a teenage boy’s room, into a small but brightly lit room just off the master bedroom. It was La Costa’s writing den, and it, too, faced the ocean. The east wall was covered with chrome-framed book covers encased in glass, proudly on display, along with a desk full of family photos.
A feeling of reverence washed over Felicia as she stepped in to get a closer look.
“That’s it, there,” La Costa said a bit coyly. “My first bestseller with the original co
ver design—it really was awful, actually!”
The cover graphic looked like the blurred colors of speeding cars on an endless highway of city lights, and a young girl’s silhouette loomed in the distance. The well-preserved cover featured the title: City Vixen, the first book in the four-book, Vivian Dunn, “Vixen” series, with the typesetting appearing larger than La Costa’s name. Later, it would be changed to feature her name front and center in large, bold font across the cover and spine, once LACOSTA REED became synonymous with bestselling romance.
“Wow,” Felicia said. “I had not seen this original version. It’s really something.”
“I bawled when I held the printed copy in my hands for the first time,” La Costa said, shaking her head at the incredulous reality that had become her life. It never ceased to amaze her and fill her with gratitude. “I could only hope back then that at least one person in the world would want to read it.”
Felicia laughed at the understatement. “Do you mind if I take some photos of you in your workspace here?” She had her digital camera at the ready.
“Sure,” La Costa said, removing two framed photos of Louis and safely placing them into a drawer. “Ready!” She was glad that she had her hair and makeup girl by earlier that morning. The formal photo session for the magazine would be days away, but she knew that her readers preferred the candid, real-life shots. “Let’s put these new hair extensions to good use!”
La Costa smiled, directing her poses toward the wall of her honored backlist.
“Just great!” Felicia said as she snapped a few gems. “Perfect!”
“Okay, but afterwards, I am going to see about slicing up some of that pie for us,” La Costa said. “What do you say?”
“Deal!” Felicia said, clicking away.
Twenty minutes later they were back on the patio, the afternoon sun was high in the sky, and the beach was filled with tourists and locals frolicking in the sand along the shoreline. The cool breeze off of the ocean and rolling waves tossed the paddle boarders about like little tub toys. La Costa brought two china-patterned plates from the kitchen, each with a perfect triangle slice of latticework pie. “The plates are from a collection that belonged to Georgia,” La Costa said, placing them on the patio table, along with two sterling forks, each wrapped in a linen napkin. “And so is this recipe. It’s old-fashioned—two-crust peach pie, made with fresh peaches, of course. The secret is to use a cast iron skillet and dark brown sugar, as opposed to the light. That way, you can really taste the molasses.”
Felicia’s eyes widened when she got a whiff of the still-warm blend of nutmeg and cinnamon.
“I never knew that I could bake until I met Georgia,” La Costa said. “She taught me how. I swear, every time I make this pie, I think of her—every time.”
La Costa disappeared back into the kitchen, laughing, and then returned with two mugs of steaming coffee.
Felicia was already two bites into the heavenly pie crust and warm, gooey delights dancing on her tongue. She lingered over every forkful. “You are quite the baker, I would say. This is amazing.”
“How do you think I got these curves? Girl, I do love to eat what I bake! That was a rule of Georgia’s too,” La Costa said, folding herself into the deck chair. “And let me tell you, what Georgia gave to me in sugar, my crazy agent, Tess, gave to me in spice! Got your recorder ready?”
Chapter Twenty-four
January 2003
Leo Monk had been working with Georgia Byrne for the previous four years in persuading her to write the book, which was finally slated for launch that spring. He was more than happy back in December to help champion her protégé, La Costa Jackson, with a swift referral to an agent more “suited” to novice fiction writers seeking representation. Leo had known Tess Kardamakis from previous days in 1988, when the two worked at the same real estate firm, and co-listed a home in Virginia Beach, where they each were living at the time. Both shared a love of books. Monk had jumped ship from the real estate circus soon after that to join on with a boutique publishing house in Central New York named Starlight Publishing. Five years later, he broke out on his own to become an independent agent on the Upper East Side of Manhattan, representing high-profile authors in the non-fiction market. Namely, the influx of self-help books, memoirs, and tell-all tomes reminiscent of the mid-nineties’ appetite for quick-fix remedies and inside gossip. Georgia’s biography was soon to become one of the many jewels in his crown, and to which, he would owe her plenteously.
Monk had arranged for La Costa to meet with Tess Kardamakis, who had become a literary agent for her own start-up agency in early two thousand, and was always on the hunt for new clients. The meeting was set for the first Friday in January, at a busy deli in Millburn, New Jersey, where La Costa would be arriving straight from the airport for the one-day round-trip interview. Tess was seated at a table near the entrance of the bustling neighborhood landmark. La Costa could smell the pastrami wafting in the air as soon as she walked through the venerable threshold to behold a cacophony of sights, sounds, and colors. Tess waved at her from a nearby table enthusiastically. “La Costa! Hello—you made it!”
La Costa wriggled out of her coat and gloves and placed them onto the back of the chair, freeing her hand to extend to Tess. The woman was like a ray of sunshine with a wide grin, impish auburn eyes, and a riot of ginger curls run amuck, parted and gelled in a face-framing blunt bob around her cherub face. She looked like a dead ringer for Bette Midler. Her Jersey accent matched the woman. “How was the flight? Short, but brutal, right? I, myself, hate to fly.”
“It was fine, Ms. Kardamakis, thank you. I have never flown to another city for a lunch, though, I’d have to say. I feel like I’m missing something not having a single piece of luggage. Nice to meet you.”
“Oh, call me Tess, please.” She chortled.
The two shook hands, and Tess gave La Costa a slow, earnest stare. Her cheeks were ruddy and puffed like a chipmunk. It was obvious at first pass that the woman was pregnant. Very pregnant.
Tess missed nothing, quickly acknowledging the elephant that was her abdomen in the room. “Eight and a quarter months, God help me—this one’s huge. And I gave birth to twins once already. I’m thirty-seven, for Christssakes. I told my Demitri, no more after this—I’m closing shop. I haven’t seen anything below my boobs in a zillion weeks. I’m lucky if my shoes match. And can you get a bikini wax at thirty-seven weeks? It’s crazy.”
La Costa smiled, trying to take it all in. She did not really know how to respond. Her stomach was rumbling now, less from nerves and more from the incredible mélange of aromas dancing in the air. She had been up since dawn preparing for the trip and could definitely eat.
“Oh, and do believe the hype. They have the best grinders in town. Maybe in all of the East Coast. You’re going to love this place! I’ll bet you’re starved. Of course you are! I always am.”
La Costa relaxed a bit as the moments passed, and she felt like she and Tess had begun to click, settling into a fast and easy conversation about Leo Monk, and Georgia, the new year, and life living on the coast.
It was well after their order was placed and their iced tea glasses were filled a second time that Tess got down to business, although everything that came from her buoyant persona seemed to float like champagne bubbles in air. “I am just so delighted to have had the chance to read your manuscript. Leo said that I was going to love it.”
“Oh, thank you,” La Costa said, feeling a bit relieved.
“Well, I don’t love it, yet. But I do see its potential, and that’s why you’re here. Two words for you, my dear—DEVELOPMENTAL EDIT.”
La Costa stopped cold. “What? I’m not sure . . .”
“No matter. It can be fixed. The format, the grammar, the structure. What you can’t fix are the intangibles, and you have those, for sure. You check all the boxes. Tell me, is the character of Vivian Dunn based on yourself?”
“She is,” La Costa demurred. “I mean, is that ok
ay?”
“Sweetie, it’s okay if it sells books.”
The food arrived, and Tess switched gears. “No shop talk for now. I want to get to know you better, and, of course, you need to know who I am and what I can offer. Do you have any questions for me?”
“Only a million,” La Costa said. “Starting with, how do I eat this sandwich? It’s huge!”
Within two and a half hours and a pitcher of iced tea later, La Costa had learned more about Tess Kardamakis than she knew about herself. Namely, that Tess and her husband, Demitri, fifteen years her senior, met in 1994 in Virginia Beach, after she sold his home in a real estate transaction. They fell in love, and she followed him to New Jersey, where the two were married in 1995, and she continued to work selling real estate up until the birth of the twins, Reyce and Sienna, who were now seven. Tess drove a Volvo station wagon, had a nanny, a housekeeper, and a chocolate Lab named Hershey. Her husband, Demitri, was a Greek businessman, who owned a restaurant service equipment business. He was sweet and kind and was the love of her life.
Tess loved knitting and reading, hated hospitals, Pilates class, and pompous query letters. She drank five-dollar lattes, had a quick, musical laugh, and looked at herself with a self-deprecating humor. She was of Jewish and Greek heritage, her mother hailing from a small town in Western Greece and her father, from Tel Aviv. She often joked about her prominent nose, compliments of her father’s Israeli heritage, saying, “At least these days it’s not the first part of me to enter a room!”
Sexy Ink! Page 11
