by Wendy Wax
* * *
Bree
Two days to forty
Manteo, North Carolina
“Mary? Are you there?” The voice sounds tinny as if it’s coming from a great distance, which it pretty much always is. The voice belongs to the woman who gave birth to me. She and my father are somewhere in the Middle East. Or possibly in sub-Saharan Africa. Or maybe the Galápagos on some archaeological dig or another.
I was named after Mary Leakey, the famous fossil hunter, whom I’ve always hated because my parents clearly loved fossils and hunting for them more than they ever loved me.
I was five when I stopped answering to Mary and insisted on being called Brianna, which is my middle name. That was when my parents, who’d been dragging me from one archaeological dig to another, brought me to live with my grandmother Brianna in her house in Manteo on Roanoke Island so that they could continue to wander. My grandmother died just after my sixteenth birthday, forcing my parents to come back to bury her. They stayed long enough to decide that I was old enough to live on my own in the house she’d left me while they finished the dig they’d been in the middle of. After that they took turns coming back on occasion though I never sensed any method or thought to their comings and goings. If it hadn’t been for Kendra and Lauren Jameson marching over and packing up my things and insisting I move in with them, I’m not sure what sort of pathetic hermit I might have turned into.
“I’m calling to wish you a happy birthday. Your father’s out of cell phone range but I didn’t want to miss this opportunity.”
“Oh, right. Thanks.” There’s no way of knowing whether she realizes my birthday’s not for two days yet. Or if the time difference where she is somehow makes up the gap. Or maybe she had the chance to call and realized it was close enough to my birthday to count. I really don’t know and every year it matters less. My birth story is a little murky. I’ve heard that she was on an island off the coast of California searching for signs of Late Pleistocene Paleocoastal peoples when she went into labor and simply had me there in the sand before going back to work like Russian peasant women used to do back in the day. But instead of tying me in a sling to her bosom she handed me over to an assistant.
“Do you have special plans?”
“Oh, you know, the usual.” This is a gibe because I can’t remember more than a handful of birthdays my biological parents were around for. Which is undoubtedly why I’ve made a big fuss and party for each and every one of my children’s birthdays, including Lily’s sweet sixteen last year.
“What’s wrong?” she asks, as if we’ve ever had a comfortable conversation since I became aware that I was never even a contender in the competition between my parents’ love of their work and their love of me.
“Nothing. It’s just that I’m at the store. And I can’t really talk right now.” This is a lie, but I can’t bring myself to come out and tell her that her occasional awkward attempts to communicate just make me feel worse.
“Oh, that’s nice.” They’ve seen my bookstore, Title Waves, a handful of times. The same for their grandchildren.
“Thanks for the call.”
I’d pace if the store weren’t so crowded with bookshelves and display tables. I settle for breathing deeply and telling myself that an unsatisfying phone call is better than no call at all. Then I tell myself that turning forty isn’t that big a deal. Ultimately, I do what I always do when I’m unhappy. Or nervous. Or angry. I pull my laptop out of my bag, boot it up, and open the manuscript file. I empty my mind and let go of my hurt and irritation as I read the scene I wrote last night when the house was finally quiet and I could sit down in the attic room I’ve claimed for my office. It’s not as bad as it felt while I was writing it. I read the scene again. Then I begin to cut and paste, which is when I realize what’s missing. I lean forward and begin to type. Everything else disappears as a picture of my characters forms in my mind. Heath would never take Whitney for granted or forget to bring home the paper towels like he promised.
“No, don’t go. I can’t bear for you to go.” His smile was wry, his tone self-deprecating. His blue eyes gleamed with . . .
The bell on the front door jangles. My fingers freeze on the keyboard. It takes a few long seconds to blink myself back to the present.
“Good day, Brianna.” Margaret McKinnon is a lovely woman of about eighty-five, an avid reader who loves books almost as much as I do and cannot bring herself to read in any format that doesn’t involve paper. She’s been a regular since I started working in this very bookstore as a teenager. She’s one of my best customers and will come in to help out or even take a shift when I need to take time off or the student who works part time has a conflict. I make it a point to keep her favorite authors, and any that resemble them, stocked. Which means lots and lots of historical fiction and the occasional erotic novel disguised as a romance. Recently she’s begun to wade into fantasy.
Since her husband died five months ago she’s been coming in more frequently and staying longer. Some people drown their sorrows and losses in drugs and alcohol. Mrs. McKinnon drowns hers in the written word, which is an escape I can relate to.
“It’s lovely out, isn’t it?” she asks with forced enthusiasm. “March can be so unpredictable.”
“That’s for sure, Miz McKinnon,” I say with a smile. Sometimes March brings record snowfalls but it’s hard to argue with today’s pale-blue skies, thin white clouds, and mild breeze. Not to mention a high in the low sixties. We’ll have things mostly to ourselves until the season kicks off on Memorial Day weekend, something I will appreciate as a store owner and complain about as a full-time resident.
She returns the smile even though her eyes are red and swollen, and I imagine her forcing herself out of her cottage and into the stores simply to keep herself from crying.
“How’s the book coming?” She aims a friendly nod toward my laptop. We live in a very small town on a narrow barrier island and it’s no secret that I’ve been working on a novel for a decade and a half and have never let anyone read a word of it.
“It’s coming.” I started this book even before my former best friend stole the idea we’d plotted out together and launched her publishing career with it.
I smile again and am careful not to let it turn into a sigh. You’d think I’d be over Lauren’s theft of “our” novel by now, but it’s not easy to see someone you once loved not only living your dream, but succeeding at it on a level you never imagined. Sometimes I practically reek of jealousy. I mean, I wouldn’t trade Rafe and Lily or my family life for anything—at least not on a good day. But I’ve had plenty of years to wonder if it really had to be either/or.
“I have a hankering for something exotic,” Mrs. McKinnon says. “What have you got for me today?”
We spend a lovely hour together browsing through the shelves. She chooses a Mary Balogh, Deborah Harkness’s A Discovery of Witches, and the fifth in Jim Butcher’s The Dresden Files. Like I said, she’s an equal-opportunity reader.
We talk about the next book club meeting at the store and then she stays to chitchat until I lock up. It’s clear she doesn’t want to go home, and I feel terrible when I finally have to usher her out onto the sidewalk. I’ve got to hit the grocery store and pick up Clay’s shirts at the dry cleaner. Lily’s dress is ready at Myrna’s Alterations. And then maybe I’ll run over to the Sandcastle and visit with Kendra for a bit.
Sometimes I don’t want to go home, either.
Two
Lauren
T-minus 24 hours to forty
New York City
My agent, Chris Wolfe, takes me to The Palm Court at The Plaza for the champagne tea the day before my birthday. Somewhere between forty and fifty, she’s small and stocky with a strong chin, a no-nonsense manner, and no patience whatsoever for anyone who doesn’t bring their A game, which is fine with me. She was a huge step up from my first agent, who
was the only one willing to take me on when I was a struggling waitress/blogger/occasional ghost writer/aspiring novelist. In traditional publishing it’s all about trading up—in the beginning you take virtually any deal you can get at a major publishing house and then do everything humanly possible to convince them to get behind you. The more books you sell, the more valuable you become and the more options you have. The same is true with agents, the gatekeeper’s gatekeeper.
The trellis-patterned carpet is plush beneath our feet as we’re led to our table. There are no windows, but the restored stained glass ceiling and strategically placed palm trees give the elegant space a bright airiness. It’s a bit kitschy, but we toasted my first six-figure deal here and have been toasting milestones and occasions here ever since. Today we’re celebrating my birthday, but even before she air-kisses my cheek I know that she has news to impart and that news is not good. As if turning forty tomorrow doesn’t suck enough.
Normally, Chris’s poker face is world-class. I’ve seen her stare down titans of publishing and threaten to walk when we had nowhere to go, but I’ve been with her long enough to know her tells. She’s smiling when our glasses of champagne arrive, but her eyes are too focused and there’s a tiny crease between her brows that I’ve seen only a handful of times.
“So, how are things?” she asks.
“Good,” I say automatically because I’m determined to be positive about my looming date with old age—at least in public. But I watch her face carefully as I say it because all writers, regardless of their level of success, are appallingly insecure. “They are good, right?”
Chris blinks. Which in anyone else would be a shriek of panic.
“Oh God. What is it?” My jaw tightens to hold back the whimper that threatens. “I knew I shouldn’t have agreed to do that anthology.”
A little voice in my head shouts, Mayday! Mayday! We’re going down!! Without bothering to toast we both finish our champagne.
“No, it isn’t that. Well, not exactly.” She hesitates again. “But they were relying on your name to sell that book. And the numbers weren’t even close to what was anticipated.”
I’m getting older by the minute and it’s possible that new gray hair is sprouting. I’m in no mood to pry news I don’t want to hear out of her. “And?”
“And neither is Rip Tide. In fact, there’s been a decided dip in sales over the last two reporting periods. A cooling, if you will.”
Our eyes meet. Without discussion her hand goes up. The waitress hurries over and refills our champagne glasses. I remain silent as I wait for Chris to finish. It’s not as if I don’t watch my numbers—all writers do. Given online sales rankings and the author portals set up by publishers that supply sales figures on an almost daily basis, it’s almost impossible not to have a decent idea of how things are going. But I’m always on deadline, and I’ve discovered the hard way that nothing shuts down my imagination faster than fear. So I try not to check too often, and I’ve developed an aptitude for denial. I continue my silence and add a raised eyebrow when the waitress departs.
“There’s been a general falloff in women’s fiction over the last eighteen months. You’re not the only one who’s lost readers.”
Lost them? Where did they go? Siberia? And am I really supposed to feel good about not being the only loser?
“What is Trove planning to do about it?” This is, after all, supposed to be my publisher’s issue. I’m supposed to write the books, they’re supposed to market and sell them. Hitting the big lists is something of a self-fulfilling prophecy. Once you’ve done it a time or two in a big-enough way it can become almost automatic. The thrill gives way to expectation. Everyone forgets that it can stop at any time. There are plenty of once-huge names that aren’t anymore. And I’m not anywhere near ready to go quietly into that good night.
“Well,” she says with a sigh. “They don’t think it’s marketing. They think you may have lost some of your focus. That you may be just kind of going through the motions.” She swallows and manages not to drop her eyes.
“So I just have to write a better book and everything will be fine?” I can hear the anger and panic in my voice. When I was first starting out publishers would put almost nothing behind a debut and then blame a lack of sales on the author. I’ve seen what they can accomplish for an author when they want to and I’ve been fortunate enough to be on the receiving end of their largesse for almost long enough to have forgotten what being overlooked feels like. My readership has been growing for so long I’ve let myself forget that anything that can get bigger can also shrink.
I’m not hungry, but I reach for the tea sandwiches anyway. Tears threaten but I refuse to shed them. Not here in The Plaza. And not in front of this woman who has helped make me what I am.
“Don’t worry. Your core fan base is incredibly devoted. True diehards. They’d read the phone book if your name was on the spine.”
Is it just me or does this imply that my books don’t have to be that good because my readers—or at least those who haven’t gotten lost—will read them anyway? I want to put my face in my hands and cry. Actually I’d like to put my head down on the table and close my eyes. But only if I could wake up tomorrow younger, firmer, and with sales numbers that don’t make it so hard to swallow.
“So what are you doing for your fortieth?” she asks brightly.
“I’m sleeping in tomorrow and I don’t plan to write a single word.” Though under the circumstances maybe I should. “Spencer is taking me out to dinner.”
“Oh, where?”
“I don’t know,” I say, matching her smile even though my brain is running around in circles shrieking in distress. “He said it was a surprise.”
“He’s a keeper, that one,” she says with another smile.
There’ve been quite a few men over the last two decades. I mean, I’m not exactly a femme fatale, but I’m not chopped liver yet, either. Though I guess I might be after tomorrow. Happily, Spencer Harrison is smart and funny and he understands the rigors of succeeding in a creative field. Relationship-wise we’re in the perfect place—monogamous and committed without any of the angst that comes from wanting to take things to another level. I mean, it’s not as if either of us is looking to get married. I’ve pretty much stopped thinking about my biological clock and have accepted that I may never be a mother.
Chris raises her glass. “To you, Lauren. To your fortieth. And to your talent and to future success. I know this next book will be your best yet!”
We clink and drink then decimate most of the desserts even though every bite is difficult to swallow and sits in my churning stomach like a lead weight. We talk about the weather and plays and movies we’ve seen. We don’t speak any further about my sagging sales. But then we don’t need to.
* * *
Bree
D-day
Manteo
Someone is in the room. I realize this at the same time I notice that my cheek is pressed against a hard surface and my neck is stiff, as if I’ve been in this position too long.
A hand grasps my shoulder, shakes gently.
“Wha?” My mouth is dry and cottony. My eyes are caked shut.
“Happy birthday.” The voice belongs to my husband, Clay. I can feel him leaning over me.
I yawn and blink my eyes open. I discover that the hard surface underneath my cheek is my desk. I apparently fell asleep with my arms spread across it in supplication. The fingers of my right hand are locked around my computer mouse. The pages I printed out yesterday are damp with drool. I manage to raise my head, swipe at the corner of my mouth, and focus on Clay’s face.
He’s six-two, almost six-three, and I have to crane my aching neck to meet his eyes, which are a bright, changeable blue. His blond hair has darkened. He’s still broad and solid, but not the football star heartthrob he once was. He’s holding a chocolate cupcake with one lit candle i
n it. Our sixteen-year-old daughter, Lily, stands next to him bearing a mug of coffee. She sings “Happy Birthday to You” quickly, on key, and with a minimum of emotion.
“Did you finish?” she asks, and I remember that I told them both I was going to type The End before this morning or die in the attempt. That I refused to turn forty until I’d finally finished what I started all those years ago. I know from experience that it’s not a good sign about the material when you fall asleep while you’re writing it. In my heart I know that if I’d finished Heart of Gold I wouldn’t have still been up here. I would have been downstairs celebrating. Or at least asleep in my own bed. Still, I unclench my hand and rouse the screen and make myself look. “Nope.”
“Here.” She sets the mug on the desk. “You’re close. And it’s not like you have a real deadline or anything.” It’s hard to tell if this is the dig it feels like. If I had a real deadline, as in a contract with a publisher like my former best friend does, it would have been done a decade ago.
Clay sets the cupcake in front of me. It’s a tradition my grandmother started when my parents first left me with her—birthday cake for breakfast—that used to make the day feel extra special. Now it’s just something that he knows I expect and remembers to do. They both look at me expectantly, so I lean over and blow out the candle. “We’re going to have your birthday dinner at Kendra’s, right?” Lily says.
“Yes.” This is another tradition, the joint celebration of Lauren’s and my birthday, that Kendra started when she took me in and made me the third member of their family. I can still remember how she’d cook all day to make Lauren’s and my favorite dishes, the homemade birthday cake with both our names written across the top in interlocking letters, how we’d make our wishes then blow out the candles together.
“Six thirty.” My voice wobbles with memory.
“Okay.” She hugs me then returns downstairs.
