by Wendy Wax
“But . . .”
I put my fingers to his lips. “Promise me, Jake.” I stare into his eyes, willing him to understand and agree. “If I don’t get the chance, please make sure and tell her how sorry I am and how very much I love her.”
* * *
Bree
In transit
It feels crazy odd to be sitting in the Norfolk airport all by myself waiting to fly to New York City. I’ve always been a homebody. No doubt because of my toddler years spent traveling from one archaeological site to another with my parents and the fact that they chose to travel all over creation without me after I turned five.
I’ve barely left the state of North Carolina since I graduated from college and didn’t go to New York with Lauren. I’ve attended the occasional Southern Independent Booksellers Alliance meeting. A family trip to Williamsburg and DC. Another to Walt Disney World. Clay and I went to Charleston once. But the majority of our “vacations” have been spent at one of the Williams Realty beach rentals.
I feel a swell of excitement as I board the plane and take my seat. I’m going to the very heart of publishing, where I’ll attend writing workshops, meet editors, get to know other writers, talk to literary agents. I’ve attended plenty of bookseller conferences but have never gone to a writers’ conference. I’ve spent so long on this one novel that I’ve never really considered myself a true writer; certainly not in the way Lauren is.
I know Lauren’s afraid of flying, but barreling down the runway makes me smile. My heart flutters with excitement as we lift off. The weight of my marriage problems and my daughter’s unhappiness grow lighter and increasingly distant as the ground falls away.
I treat myself to a glass of wine and keep my eyes pinned to the blue sky and puffy white clouds through which we slice until the pilot announces our initial descent into LaGuardia. We come in over the water and I drink in my first sight of the Statue of Liberty, the ships in the harbor, the bridges that connect the island of Manhattan to its outlying boroughs.
From the moment we land I feel as if I’ve arrived on another planet. A universe so different from the one I normally inhabit that I don’t even have the words to describe it.
Everywhere I look there are people. People who move and talk faster than any Outer Banker I’ve ever known.
From the backseat of a taxi I watch the crush of cars and people. I gape openmouthed all the way over the Queensboro Bridge, across the streets, and down the avenues. Everywhere I look there are tall buildings, vehicles inching along, horns blaring. My driver is a kamikaze whose hand stays on the horn and who zigs and zags through ridiculously small openings and sometimes no openings at all. He shouts at those he passes in a language I can’t identify.
It’s the first time I’ve ever seen Times Square in person. When we arrive at the Hilton, where the conference is being held, the driver sets my suitcase on the sidewalk and waits impatiently for me to fumble my way through the steps on the payment screen.
By the time I’m out on the pavement with people streaming all around me, I feel like I’ve fought a battle. The hotel lobby is packed. Check-in takes thirty-five minutes. I lug my suitcase up to my room then go downstairs to conference registration, where I get my packet and buy a turkey sandwich that costs more than a really nice meal in Manteo. I consider and reject the idea of wandering around Times Square by myself then retire to my room, where I leave a voice mail for Lily and pore over the workshop schedule like Eisenhower planning D-day. Then I hang tomorrow’s outfit in the bathroom while I take a hot shower in hopes the steam will eliminate the wrinkles.
Wednesday flies by in an eyeblink. Each workshop is more inspiring than the last. I scribble notes on character development. Dialogue. Point of view. Conflict. Newly published authors’ journeys that are filled with things they wish they’d known. Why didn’t I ever do this before?
I join a table at lunch and discover that some of the attendees have been coming to conferences like this for years. A few of them have been submitting even longer. We compare notes. Tonight the publishers have cocktail parties for their authors. Dinners for the most promising or successful.
“Wow,” I say as one of my tablemates describes a publisher party and dinner one of her critique partners was invited to before she sold her first book. “How do you get to go to those?”
“It’s invitation only. Because they publish you or they want to. Sometimes if you hang out in the bar you’ll see big-name writers having drinks with their editors or agents. But you have to be careful how you approach them,” a writer named Karen says.
“Last year I saw someone dragged out of the women’s bathroom by security,” her friend Pam adds. “She’d been pitching her novel through the bathroom stall door and the editor inside called security on her cell phone.”
I laugh until tea comes out of my nose. Then I realize they’re serious.
By the time I’m supposed to meet Lauren, I’m exhausted and exhilarated. I try Lily again then find my way to the hotel bar and peek around the wall of people attempting to get in. Some of them have already gone up and changed for the evening, but I didn’t want to miss a word of the last workshop on plotting, which I now know is one of my greatest weaknesses.
I’m standing behind the human wall, trying to figure out what to do when the wall begins to part. I’m way too short to see over the people in front of me, but I can sense their excitement. There’s a buzz of conversation as people in front of me step aside. Suddenly Lauren steps forward in full-blown bestselling-author mode.
“There you are!” She hugs me then kisses me on both cheeks as the crowd looks on in silent awe and I can’t help wondering if the affection is for show. The successful author being nice to one of the newbies.
“I wasn’t sure what was keeping you.” She takes my arm. “I’ve got a table inside. It turns out my publisher is having a party in their hospitality suite. I thought we could go up and say hi before we go to dinner.”
The people around us are hanging on her every word. A couple of them take pictures.
“Oh no,” I say quickly, remembering what I heard at lunch. “You’ve got to be invited. I don’t have an invitation.”
Lauren smiles and shoots me a wink. “I promise we won’t have any trouble getting in. I can introduce you to my editor. And I wouldn’t be at all surprised if my agent, Chris Wolfe, is there.”
“Oh no. I can’t possibly.” I feel like a child who wants nothing more than to run and hide.
“Oh yes you can,” Lauren replies. “I’m not about to let you pass up this opportunity.” She leans forward and says very quietly, “Any one of these writers would jump at the chance to go with me to be introduced to editors and agents. It’s one of the main reasons they’re here. I’ll help you work on your pitch before we go upstairs if you like.”
As she pulls back I study her face, looking for some hint of an ulterior motive. I see nothing suspicious. Even her apparent sincerity doesn’t allay my nerves.
“But I’m not dressed for a party.” I don’t add that I’m scared to death. That I don’t have enough brain cells left to work on a pitch let alone give one. And that it’s entirely possible that I’m going to hyperventilate.
“Then go upstairs and change. I’ll have a drink waiting for you. What do you want?”
“I have no idea. My brain seems to have shut down.” I say this quietly and with a frozen smile on my face. I do have some pride. “Maybe we should just skip the drinks and the party and go right to dinner.”
“Absolutely not.” She straightens and I notice that her makeup and hair are absolutely perfect. As if she’s just stepped out of a salon or something. Her black cocktail dress has to be by some designer I’ve probably never heard of. “I’ll figure out the drinks.” She gives me another smile and a relatively gentle push. “Now, go on and hurry up.”
* * *
Lauren
&n
bsp; I’m slumped against Spencer in the backseat of a black car early Thursday evening. We’ve just spent another solid day on wedding details, including tours of smaller more unique venues that would allow for a more intimate gathering. Dinner was a quick slice of artichoke pizza in the East Village.
“What did you think of the Hornblower cruise?” I lift my head to ask. “It could be kind of cool to sail down the river and idle in front of the Statue of Liberty while we say our vows.”
“The bigger boats might work, but the small one you liked wouldn’t even hold my family, let alone friends.”
“Haven’s Kitchen Cooking School was interesting,” I say. “We could do a seated dinner for eighty in that loft area. The garden at the Merchant’s House Museum was nice, too. And the Ramscale Studio in the West Village is basically a blank canvas.”
“I appreciate all the time you’ve been putting into finding the right venue, but I think we both know that who is at the wedding is even more important than where it’s held.” He sighs. “You need to make peace with your past, Lauren. And that means talking this through with your mother.”
“But . . .”
His palm goes up to halt my, by now, automatic protest. This is not the first time he’s urged me to speak to her. “I know how close you’ve always been. How much you mean to each other. And I have some experience with all the ways emotional turmoil can shut down creativity.”
I force myself to meet Spencer’s eyes. Clearly taking whole days off and not mentioning the novel I’m supposed to be writing speaks volumes to someone who listens as carefully as Spencer does.
“I’m just not ready to speak to her. I can’t even listen to her voice mails. I . . . I don’t know when I will be.”
For a few moments we travel in silence. I’m watching the play of light and shadow on Spencer’s face when he asks, “What time is Bree coming over Saturday morning?”
“As soon as she checks out of the hotel,” I say, grateful for the change in topic. “I wish you could have seen her face at the publisher party last night. She was so excited and so scared at the same time. She has absolutely zero experience trying to sell herself in any way. I had to make sure she had just the right number of drinks, which, by the way, is one-point-five. It was a stroke of luck that Chris and Melissa were there. I was a little worried that she might faint when I introduced her to my agent and my editor.”
“I’m glad you’re trying to help,” Spencer says. “Of course, if you’d read her manuscript you could have pitched it for her.”
I feel a faint flush of shame. Bree and I spent our entire time together focused on the conference and her appointments, our talk skimming across the surface. I cringe when I realize that even in helping her I was showing off the fact that I could.
Spencer drops a kiss on the top of my head and gives my hand a reassuring squeeze as the car stops in front of my building. We exchange private smiles as Tom the doorman opens the front door and wishes us a good evening in his pronounced Long Island accent.
Spencer slips his arm around my shoulders as we enter the lobby. He pulls me close as we step into the elevator. I inhale his heady scent on the way up. It comforts and arouses. Our hands touch as I fit the key into my door.
I automatically avert my eyes when we walk by the cocktail table that holds Bree’s manuscript. I know that if I sincerely want to help Bree I’m going to have to read it, but in this moment all my attention, all of my senses, are focused on this man.
“You do know how much I love you, right?” I say as Spencer and I reach for each other.
“Mmm-hhhm.” He lowers his mouth to mine and pulls me tighter against him. I’m already unbuttoning his shirt and shrugging out of mine as we stumble up the stairs to my bedroom. We’re still pulling off clothes when we land on the bed. His skin is smooth and heated. His body is strong and supple. His mouth is warm and clever. When he kneels between my legs, pulls off my panties, and spreads my thighs all I want is to have him inside of me.
Our bodies join. We move against each other, our breathing harsh and eager as we climb together. An urgent rhythm claims us and takes us higher. Until we dangle dangerously, deliciously before shooting over the edge of reason into a glorious, breathless freefall.
* * *
When I wake it’s not yet dawn. The apartment is still dark. Spencer’s breathing is deep and even.
I stare up into the ceiling, but I can’t go back to sleep. No matter how many times I haven’t looked at that damn manuscript I’ve never been able to forget that it’s there. It’s been a constant reminder of how much Bree once meant to me. How much I’ve missed her.
I invited her to come over on Saturday, so that I can show her around and to spend the night. How can I not read what she’s spent fifteen years working on?
I pull on a robe and pad downstairs into the living room, not bothering with coffee. I barely think as I pick up Bree’s manuscript and carry it to the sofa, where I turn on the lamp, stretch out with a pillow under my head and an afghan over me. I tell myself to keep an open mind. That it will be what it will be. That if it’s just not ready I’ll let her down easy. Or maybe find a good book doctor who can help her fix it. But I can’t completely ignore the shiver of fear I feel. What I don’t know is whether I’m more afraid that it will be really awful. Or that it will be really good.
Thirty-four
Lauren
I’m still lying on the couch reading Heart of Gold on Friday morning when Spencer leaves with a parting kiss and an approving smile. I rouse sometime later and notice a cold cup of coffee and a bagel smeared with cream cheese on the end table. Knew you’d do the right thing. Remember she’s a beginner. Be gentle is scribbled on a napkin.
I heat up the coffee and take a bathroom break. The bagel could double as a doorstop and it’s with some regret that I drop it in the garbage.
I read the entire day, a luxury I rarely allow myself. Which is kind of crazy since, like pretty much every writer I’ve ever met, I began as a voracious reader, an inhaler of words and impressions. Escaping into another world is addictive. Every writer’s journey begins with that first book that could not be put down.
It’s late afternoon when I reach the point in the story where Whitney begins to see Heath for the man he really is without courtesy of rose-colored glasses. Did Bree even realize who and what she was writing about? Does she have any idea that it’s no coincidence that she had had enough of Clay’s bad behavior at the same time Whitney chose herself over her blind adoration of Heath? There are few things more self-revelatory than writing a novel. (It’s just that sometimes we try not to see it and hope no one else does, either.)
I stand up and stretch. Do a few neck rolls.
Maybe Bree should have forced Clay to read this. Not that he would have recognized himself in the dark hair and even darker eyes that Bree camouflaged him in. My agent once assured me that you could write about virtually anyone if you changed their name and a few physical details since people so rarely recognize themselves or their behaviors.
When I get up to stretch and forage for food it’s after four P.M. and I’ve got just over a hundred pages to go. I had imagined I’d jot down ideas and point out areas that needed work, but although there’ve been a few rookie mistakes and missed opportunities, I’ve been so caught up in the story (and being a fly on the wall to Bree’s life) that I haven’t made a single note or scribbled the smallest suggestion.
I’m almost numb when I finally finish. And not just because my body is stiff and my neck hurts.
I’m stunned by how good Heart of Gold is. It needs work, of course. No first draft is completely ready for consumption. First drafts of first books should never be flung out into the world.
This manuscript was written by someone who loves words and their nuances every bit as much as I do. But it’s infused with the kind of truths one pours into a journal kept hidden u
nder the bed, an honesty that comes from believing no one else will ever see what you’ve written.
I’m painfully jealous of the honesty and innocence it reflects. It’s a book of the heart written by someone who has not yet encountered the harsh realities of publishing. Who has never had to think about reviewers or print runs or publisher support.
I look down and realize that I’m hugging the manuscript to my chest. The feel of the paper is almost as shocking as the threat it poses to Bree’s and my status quo. For the past fifteen years I’ve been the bestselling author who achieved our once-shared dream. Bree’s been the homemaker/bookseller who’s played at being a writer.
Only it turns out Bree hasn’t been “playing” at all. And I’m not as big a bestseller as I was.
This truth is staggering. So is what my conflicted reaction to that truth says about me. I know that Bree wants to be published. I know that she wants to prove that she could have come to New York and been every bit as successful as me, if only she’d wanted to.
What I don’t know is how honest I’m willing to be. Or whether I’m even capable of being completely honest about what she’s created.
We’re going to be together for only twenty-four hours. Which means I’m going to find out all too soon whether I’m the person I’ve always thought I was. Or someone far smaller and stingier.
* * *
Bree
I’m floating on a cloud of postconference euphoria Saturday morning when I climb into the Uber that will take me to Lauren’s. During the ride I check my phone for messages. There’s still no response from Lily and only a brief text from Clay saying that everything’s fine. I don’t know how Kendra has survived Lauren’s silence because my family’s lack of communication for just three days has left me worried, angry, and no longer sure why I felt I had to rush home.
