Secret Shores

by Ella Carey

  James caught her arm.

  She swung around to face him.

  “This is intriguing me,” he went on, his eyes latching on to hers. “Why are you so upset? It’s business. I was simply given the author. He wanted to move. I had nothing to do with it.”

  “And you spared no second thought for the person who’d done all the background work for Alec for years. Why should I expect you to? Due to your sense of entitlement and privilege, you think you can step all over others without a backward glance.”

  He seemed to jolt back a little, his dark eyes looking hurt suddenly.

  Tess raised her glass to him.

  But he still held her elbow.

  “I don’t know why you’re taking this so seriously,” he murmured. “It’s not personal.”

  “Excuse me?” Tess’s voice rose with the words. “The last time I checked, I was a person, James. It’s just that you consider some people—people who will get you up the ladder which you worship over everything else—to be more important than others.”

  He let go of her elbow.

  “But you know what, James?” Tess liked the galvanization of her voice. “You know something? There’s no challenge in what you’ve done. Everyone realizes it’s going to be easy to ensure Alec’s book sells big, but making Edward Russell a bestselling author, that’s going to be hard. If I can pull that off, then I’ve won this. And you know what? Nothing is going to stop me from turning Russell into a great success. In fact, I’d like to thank you. I’ll rise to the occasion, you’ll see.”

  He blew out a breath and shook his head. Glanced across at the crowd at the table. “I’m going back to meet our colleagues. All I can say is that I never wanted to harm your career.”

  And he turned.

  “Spoiled rich boys who’ve never known a challenge or hardship aren’t interesting in any way, James,” Tess murmured loud enough so he could hear. “It’s clear you fall into that category. No matter how hard you try to convince everyone here that you’re something different, your veneer will never convince me.”

  She took a swig of her champagne and glared at his retreating back.

  Round one.

  Tess swooped into her office on Monday morning, picked up the phone, and dialed Rome. She’d spent the weekend working up a plan for Russell’s book. And she’d come up with the perfect answer.

  “Pronto,” Edward Russell said.

  Tess smiled at the charming Italian way he answered the phone. She’d heard Nico do the same thing in the café.

  “Mr. Russell. Tess Miller from Campbell and Black.” Tess swiveled her chair around to face the window. She had this in the bag.

  “Please call me Edward.”

  “I’m looking forward to working with you, Edward. And I have to say that I’m loving your manuscript so far. It’s very moving. I can’t wait for the next installment. And I have so many ideas for marketing this book. But first, I have three things I want to discuss with you—deadlines, pre-release promotions, and finally, I want to make an editorial suggestion that I think is crucial at this stage.”

  There was a silence.

  Tess twirled her gold pen around in her fingers. Visions of James Cooper kept appearing in her head. He may have won everyone over on Friday night at the pub—half the female staff had announced they had crushes the size of watermelons on him. But a few party tricks and some underhand dealings in order to get himself a job here did not mean he’d take her spot as the most successful editor at Campbell and Black. The fact was that she was intrigued by Edward Russell’s book. It had beguiled her; she was fascinated by the Reeds and the world that the characters were about to enter. She wanted more and that was good . . .

  Edward was still quiet.

  Tess leaned forward in her seat. She loved doing this, exciting her authors, getting them enthused. Loved the way they responded to her well-tested routine. Alec had responded the best. She just had to groom Edward to replace him.

  “Edward,” she said. “First, I want to talk about the setting. I know that you’re Australian, I know that writers like to write about their own country. But I want to suggest that we make some changes to the locations in Secret Shores. I’m thinking Boston. The themes will fit right in there; there are no problems with that. And as for Rebecca’s death scene, there are plenty of places along the East Coast that would work well. You don’t want to alienate US readers. I promise you, it will make all the difference. I’m excited about it. That’s point number one.”

  She smiled at the gasp down the line. She’d prepared for this.

  “I know you have the historical context in . . . Australia, and that’s fascinating, but you can make it up and set it here. Your characters are profoundly interesting. I’m so taken with Rebecca. And Edward. Just change the setting. You know what to do.”

  “I’m sorry, I’m not sure that I heard you correctly. You want me to transfer the Angry Penguins and our modernist heritage to the US?”

  “Change the names and set it in the US, Edward. You can still write about the same theme—you are onto something so strong that it will transcend setting. But it needs to be the US.” Tess stared out at the tops of the skyscrapers. She’d bring him to New York. Start with some talk shows on the radio. Even his voice was charming, and so deep—it would resonate like a dream on the radio. Now that she’d . . . lost Alec, she’d accompany Edward on his book tours. She visualized the pair of them . . . He’d be a huge hit on the East Coast, and even in California, they’d like his messages. This was going to be great . . .

  “No. That’s not authentic,” he said. “Have you realized what the book is about? It’s all about a way of life that is real. It is the whole point.”

  “Exactly,” Tess said. “The themes are fascinating. But you need to set them somewhere that readers can relate to. I’m sorry, but I’ll have real trouble marketing a book set in Australia. And you’re not well known in the US, Edward. It’s a tough market right now.”

  “The setting stays as it is.”

  Tess startled in her seat. “Edward,” she said, “you are a talented writer. But you’ve spent your whole career largely undiscovered. I can change all that for you. I can bring you the success that you, quite frankly, deserve. Your work is touching. I’m moved by it and I’m your most hardened reader ever. But you need to trust me. You must work with me, or the book won’t sell and then I won’t be able to take on anything more from you. Please, let’s do this. We need to work together. I want to complement you, not drag you down. I know you haven’t worked with a big publishing house before. And you see, we do things differently from the independent houses you’ve experienced with your poems and biographies in the past. I want to make this a huge success. Build your career. This is exciting. I’m excited. I haven’t read anything like this for a long time . . .”

  Tess made a face at her reflection in the window. How old was he? Sixty-five? Thanks, Leon. Darn you, James. She forced the fact that Alec Burgess was only in his late thirties right out of her mind.

  Although, in any case, Edward still could build a career, even at sixty-five. He could write another ten books. Tess was certain that if they worked hard together, Edward could have a wonderful future ahead of him. It was just what they both needed. Perhaps Nico was right. Maybe this was meant to be. It wasn’t what Tess had wanted, but maybe it was just what she needed right now. Edward would give Tess experience editing something more literary that would also sell. She would be able to use all those years of studying the classics to good end, sink her teeth into something with real depth and give Edward the career he had always wanted. It was a win-win.

  Tess spun her seat back to her desk and reached for his file. She’d get him moving.

  “Tess, what you don’t understand is that my work has always been based on truthfulness.” Edward spoke in a well-modulated voice. “If you haven’t gathered that about me from reading the manuscript, then I suggest you’re not the best editor for my work.”

  T
ess sat bolt upright in her seat. No, no, no. She was exactly what he needed! Her plans were terrific!

  She rubbed her forefinger on the top of her nose. She couldn’t afford to lose him now. “Okay. All right. Let’s talk about the setting later.”

  Strategy number two. She had to keep him in her sights. Couldn’t afford to lose him . . . softly softly and all that . . .

  “The setting stays in Australia, where it’s meant to be,” he said. “I couldn’t give a darn about the money. I’m perfectly fine as I am,” Edward said.

  I don’t think so . . . Tess did not retort. You could be doing better . . .

  “Next, I’d like to sort out a timeline,” she said. She was used to running her author meetings. Not the other way around.

  “Pardon?”

  “We’d like to release your book as soon as possible. So, I’d like to work out some deadlines. Here’s the schedule: I’d like the whole manuscript as soon as possible. I take it you’re writing it in stages, but I’d like to see the entire book in six months.”

  “No, no, no.”

  Tess placed her pen back on the desk.

  “Tess. Let’s get one thing straight. I don’t work to deadlines.”

  You don’t work to deadlines. What? The idea of a voodoo doll seemed appealing right now. Or perhaps two? One with an enormous . . . bow tie. The other one with a great toothpaste grin and dark hair made of ribbons. Lots of black ribbons. Tess’s fingers itched to hold some pins.

  “Tess. I’m sorry, but I suggest you go back and read my work again. Did you read it properly the first time?” His voice was soft as silk.

  “I did, Edward.” Tess muttered the words.

  “Well. You seem to entirely miss the point. In fact, you seem to refuse, obstinately, to understand the truth about it. I don’t even use a typewriter. I need an editor who understands what we were about.”

  Tess threw her hands up in the air. “You don’t type?” She picked up the first couple of chapters of his book. Ah. Someone here had typed it up for her, knowing that she’d have a fit if she was handed a manuscript written with a pen. Tess leaned her head in her hand and propped her elbows on the desk.

  “I can’t tell you when each installment will arrive. I don’t work that way.”

  Kill me now. Tess swallowed her groan.

  “I write when the muse strikes—”

  “Edward!” she said, gritting her teeth and staring at the wood grain patterns on her desk. Antique again, like everything else in this firm that needed shaking up. “I am sorry, but we need to sort out a timeline, or this won’t work. I can’t wait months for the next installment. We need to work out marketing strategies for your book. And please, would you think about the setting carefully? My editorial opinion is that we should change it, because if we don’t we risk the book not selling, and that will stall your career.”

  “Miss Miller.” Edward’s voice rang into the room. “I am not happy with your complete disrespect for the nature of my work, with your disregard for the manner in which I have always carried it out, and with your blatant desire to water down the very essence of what the entire novel is about by setting it in your own bloody country!”

  Tess placed her entire head on the desk.

  “Are we clear?”

  All her ideas for his success down the sinkhole, then.

  “Fine,” she said. “Fine.” She’d have to pull this together somehow, but she needed to think. “Please consider my thoughts. And we will talk soon.”

  “I suggest you seriously consider your approach if you want to continue editing my work,” Edward said. “I wasn’t going to go to large publishing houses for this very reason. I’m beginning to think that I’ve made a dreadful mistake.”

  Tess stared intently at her desk, the wood grain patterns seeming to jump about and move of their own accord now. “You haven’t made a mistake. I’ll work with you. And together, we’ll work this out.” Because I believe in your talent, she thought. But she wasn’t going to tell him that. Clearly, he already seemed to know.

  Silence.

  “I’ll look forward to speaking with you soon,” she said, and hung up.

  Tess straightened herself, sitting back up in her seat.

  Only to come eye to eye with James Cooper standing at her office door. He folded his arms and leaned against the frame. Tess shot him a look that would stop a firing squad.

  “That didn’t sound too good.”

  “Eavesdropping. You have the right to do that, too, do you?” Tess stood up, moved to the table under her window, and poured herself a glass of water.

  “I heard you were working with Edward Russell.”

  Tess stared out the window at the buildings that seemed to sway in the haze.

  James strolled into her office.

  She saw his reflection in the window, watching in disbelief while he stopped and perched on her desk.

  “I have things to do,” she said. “At what point did I invite you in?” Her voice was calm enough.

  James said, “I want to clear the air between us. There’s nothing to be gained by us being in conflict.”

  Tess stifled a laugh. Her career was everything to her. Alec had been everything to her career.

  “At least this way the author is staying with Campbell and Black,” he said.

  “Don’t you dare suggest he was going to leave. He wasn’t.” She felt anger coil in her like some dark serpent. She wanted to kick him out of her office. But she wouldn’t do that.

  James was watching her.

  She stood perfectly straight, arms wrapped around her body, tight as clamps.

  James didn’t move. And then, slowly, he placed something on her desk. He must have had it in his hand the whole time.

  “I thought you might like this,” he said, his voice suddenly soft. “It’s from my father’s collection.”

  Tess felt her eyes narrowing into slits.

  James simply nodded at her before walking out.

  After a while, Tess glanced down. It was a book. She picked it up, in spite of her fury. A first-edition, leather-bound copy of Edward Russell’s poems. His name and the date were embossed on the front in gold.

  1946.

  CHAPTER EIGHT

  Melbourne, 1946

  Edward picked up the notes he’d taken during the first lecture the morning after the party and wandered out of the lecture hall into the bright Melbourne sun. It still startled him sometimes, the clear Australian light, even though he had been back in the country for well over eighteen months. Edward chose not to dwell on the fact that if his accident had not sent him home, he would probably have been killed in the D-day landings.

  He stopped in the shade of a Moreton Bay fig tree on the path that led away from the university’s oldest college, pulling out the slip of paper on which he had written Rebecca Swift’s phone number. He was still surprised he had managed to ask her for it before leaving the party last night. He had never seen himself as a smooth talker. He felt that he lacked the skill that so many of his war compatriots had with girls. His air force mates effortlessly chatted up women when they had been stationed in Tasmania, training as pilots just out of Launceston in the early years of the war. Taking advantage of the local girls had seemed wrong to him. Now, at twenty-four, he smiled at the seriousness of his youth.

  Trips to Cataract Gorge at midnight with female company had become de rigueur for his friends, but Edward chose to stay back at camp and write. He laughed alongside the others about their antics. He would never judge them, but he knew he wanted something different for himself, something with more depth and honest feeling than a fumble in a park. It had always been that way.

  His next lecture started in ten minutes. He wanted to call Rebecca now.

  But Edward needed a telephone. And the only place in the university that had a students’ phone was the office in the union building. This was furnished with a cedar desk where a woman in a soft butter-yellow cardigan sat reading the paper. She peered a
t Edward over her glasses as if he were interrupting her from some important task.

  “Could I use the telephone to make a call?” he asked, then cursed his own stupidity. As his sister, Vicky, would point out, why else was he going to use the telephone?

  “Two pence,” the woman said. “A two-minute time limit for all calls.”

  Edward handed the money over and felt his cheeks reddening as he walked to the small wooden cubicle that afforded only a small vestige of privacy.

  What he was going to do if Rebecca did not answer, he had no idea. But she had said that her classes started at eleven on a Wednesday—it was her late morning. So all he could do was hope.

  When she answered, she sounded confident, the Rebecca whom he had spotted first. The fact that he now thought of two Rebeccas made him smile a little as he held the phone to his mouth.

  “Hello?”

  “Rebecca.” He swallowed. “It’s Edward Russell, from last night . . . how are you?”

  Her laugh lilted down the line. “I’m just fine, thank you, Edward. Where are you?”

  Edward smiled. The confident Rebecca for certain. “University,” he said. He would have liked to elaborate, but he was acutely aware of butter-yellow cardigan. “Listen, Rebecca.” A breath. “I wanted to get in touch to see if you might be free . . . tonight.”

  “I’m supposed to be studying!” She rushed out the words.

  Even her voice was delicious.

  “What are you doing now?” she asked, after a brief silence.

  Now? He grinned. A lecture on Milton . . .

  “Nothing,” he said.

  “Perfect.” She gave him her address—Elwood, not far from the beach. As Edward hung up and slipped out into the hot day, his head was full of plans. Where could he take her?

  His step was light as he strolled to Grattan Street. Until he stopped dead on the sidewalk. His Aston Martin sparkled in the sun. He hadn’t even thought about that little problem until he encountered it now, sitting there as if nothing were amiss. Edward hesitated, his hand raking over his chin. Normally its gleaming pale blue trim and the chrome grille polished to a high sheen—by the chauffeur whom his mother insisted that they still employ—would not even register with him before he climbed inside and wove his way back to Toorak. But now it was almost painful to look at the little car.