by Anne Riley
“Of course.” I toe a stray piece of earth, flinging it to the side with my shoe. “Where have you been accepted?”
“So far, Michigan, NYU, and the University of Chicago.”
“Wow. Those are great schools.” I sigh. “And they are all really far away from Nashville.”
“Yeah, I know.” A grin starts in the corner of his mouth. “But I hear Vanderbilt has extended their deadline for foreign applications.”
I narrow my eyes at him. “You hear?”
“Yes,” he says. “Google told me, just last night. It costs a little more to apply so late, but it can be done.”
I shift my weight, hardly daring to believe that Albert Shaw could end up in Nashville. If he did—well, it would change everything. “Are you thinking about applying?”
He looks at the ground, then back up at me. “Filled out the application last night. Those other schools are in miserably cold places, and I’d like to get out of Britain for a while. Casey could come, too.”
“But what about the legal issues? Breaking out of jail? Surely Roberts can’t get you— us —totally off the hook.”
“I know,” he says, somewhat deflated. “But there is someone who can.”
I give him a blank stare.
“Money talks,” he says with a shrug.
It takes me another moment to grasp what he’s getting at. “Your dad,” I say quietly. “You told him?”
Albert nods at the ground. “Had quite a chat with dear old Dad this morning. I might have convinced him to pay off all the right people, as long as none of them suddenly develop a conscience.”
I stare at him. “Oh.”
“Yeah.” He shoves his hands in his pockets. “I feel quite sleazy about the whole thing, to be honest with you. But if Roberts and my dad work together on this, there’s a good chance everything will be dropped.”
I feel sleazy about it, too, but there’s another feeling bouncing around inside of me— hope. If Roberts can pull the right strings and Albert’s dad can work enough financial magic to make all of this go away, then whatever’s been building between Albert and me—it could actually happen. We could actually happen.
“Albert,” I say slowly. “Vanderbilt is, like, three miles from my house.”
His expression turns dark. “Ooh, three miles? Hmm. I’m not sure I can deal with that kind of distance.”
I swat mercilessly at his arms and chest until his laughter turns to silent gasps. “Stop hitting me!” he says. “I’m taking you on a date, remember? If you’ll quit beating me to a pulp, we might go somewhere fancier than Strada.”
I stop. “Why would I want that?”
“You wouldn’t.” He wraps an arm around my waist. “And that’s one reason I like you so much.”
He pulls me in close and drops his forehead against mine. I’m pretty sure I could spend the rest of my life like this—enveloped in his arms, breathing his scent, watching the way his eyes smile even when his mouth doesn’t.
I haven’t reached for my necklace in days. The place it used to hang no longer feels so naked; in fact, those interlocking golden rings seem like a distant memory now. And Stephen…
“Your grandfather is so proud of you right now,” Albert says quietly. “I know he is.”
I squeeze my eyes shut as the memory of Papa’s opus postremum comes back to me. I explained most of the details to Albert last night at the hospital—how Papa used his “last work” to save us. Paul woke up before I could tell him everything, though, so there are some key details he doesn’t know yet.
“He told me he loved me,” I say with a smile.
His eyes fill with wonder. “You’ve inherited something special from Edward, that’s for sure. I wonder how he managed to speak directly into your mind while existing only in spirit form. I’ve never heard of such a thing. Maybe we can find something at the library—”
His words are cut short as I tilt my head back and pull his face down to mine for the kiss that’s been a long time coming. He brings me a sense of comfort, of home. I don’t know what this thing between us is, or if it will turn into anything at all. But I’m more than willing to explore the possibilities.
Too soon, he pulls away. “We’re giving the neighbors quite a show. Come on—let’s get you home before your family starts to worry.”
He puts his arm around my shoulders and steers me back toward Nana’s house. I bend down to hook the handle of my coffee cup on my fingers and then lace my arm around his waist as we walk across the heath.
“I’d like to meet your family,” he says. “Properly, I mean. I didn’t get a chance to say what I wanted to say at the hospital. And with things being the way they are—” he squeezes my shoulder “—I’d say it’s high time they know exactly who their daughter’s been cavorting with.”
“You’ll tell them everything?”
He plants a kiss on my head. “Everything. There’s a lot I need to tell your Nana, especially. I want her to know how amazing her husband was, and what he did for Casey and me.”
I smile, picturing Nana’s face when she learns the secrets Papa kept for so long. I wonder if she ever suspected anything, or if she really believed Papa was just in the right place at the right time.
As I lean into Albert, I swear I feel Papa brush against my mind.
Well done, my sweet Rosemary. Well done.
ACKNOWLEDGMENTS
THE FIRST THING I SHOULD SAY IS THIS: THE MOMENT I tried to make a list of all the people who helped Pull become a real book, my head almost exploded.
So I stepped back, and I took a few days to consider this monumental task, and I ate a lot of fried chicken. Because if growing up in the South has taught me anything, it’s that there is no better thinkin’ food than fried chicken.
After the stepping back and the fried chicken and the thinkin’, I decided to break down my acknowledgments into five categories:
1) People who read Pull when it was but a wee baby manuscript and helped me teach it some manners.
2) People who worked with Pull in its childhood and/or adolescence and helped me teach it to dress well, comb its hair, and smile properly.
3) People who supported me simply by existing.
4) Random things that kept my sanity from dissolving.
5) God (because if anyone should get their own category, it’s Him).
So if you’re still reading this (and if you are, bless you), let’s get this party started.
CATEGORY #1: PEOPLE WHO READ PULL IN ITS INFANCY
I can already tell I’m going to forget someone.
Not because their critique didn’t mean anything to me—ALL the critiques I get mean THE WORLD to me—but because I started writing this story in May 2011, and my memory is comparable to that of a goldfish (Oh look, a castle! Oh look, a castle! Oh look, a castle!).
So as much as I’d like to list ALL the people who read a very early version of the manuscript, I’m just not that confident in the remembering part of my brain. Instead, I’m going to say this:
To everyone who read my manuscript while you worked out, or while you rode the subway, or while your kids napped and you could have been doing a gazillion other things, or while your boss was looking the other way at work—
Because of your encouragement, this book is venturing out into the world like I always hoped it would.
Because of your willingness to sacrifice your valuable time, Rosie and Albert’s story has become accessible to anyone in need of an escape.
Because of your support of me as an author and friend, I can continue to create stories and distribute them into the hands of the world.
Thank you, a million times. You deserve all the kittens in existence. Unless you’re allergic to kittens, in which case you get a turtle. I’m pretty sure those are hypoallergenic.
CATEGORY #2: PEOPLE WHO READ PULL WHILE IT WAS GROWING UP
1. Agent Emma.
First up in this category has GOT to be my incomparable agent, Emma Patterson, wit
h whom I have spent countless hours on the phone and over email, laughing and chatting and occasionally talking shop. She has a way of getting business done without making it feel like business. When an agent can make a six-month negotiation period with a publisher feel like the most exhilarating time of your life, you know you’ve struck gold. And when she brings you out of that six-month negotiation period with more publishing contract perks than you imagined possible, you know you’ve struck platinum.
Also: She makes a mean baked ziti.
So, Agent Emma, please accept this original haiku as a token of my undying love for you and my appreciation for everything you’ve done since we began working together:
You are best agent
I write you more books to sell
You have real* nice hair
(*Sometimes, grammar must suffer for the sake of art. I’m sure you understand.)
I look forward to many more years of manuscripts, scones, wine, face-to-face dinners, and fond memories of that one time you rejected my manuscript, but I didn’t take no for an answer.
2. ALL The Editors.
BIG THANKS to each editor from Spencer Hill who worked on Pull : Anna Masrud, who gets extra sprinkles on her cupcake for being the first one who couldn’t live without this story; Danielle Ellison, who refused to let me tell the story instead of show it; and Britta Gigliotti, who took the manuscript from great to amazing by pointing out all the small, yet very important, things the rest of us missed (OF COURSE THEY NEED WATCHES, HELLOOOO). Richard Storrs, thank you for your superb work as The Closer. Every “LOL” comment made me smile, and I’m so grateful for all the things you caught in the final round of edits. You are truly excellent at your job. DON’T EVER CHANGE, RICH.
3. Last But Not Least…
Jenny Zemanek, your design for this book’s cover is the stuff of legends. There is not a single thing I would change about it. Thank you for giving me exactly what I wanted, even though I didn’t know I wanted it.
CATEGORY #3: PEOPLE WHO SUPPORTED ME BY EXISTING
1. Rob Riley.
Obviously, my husband is the first one to be thanked here. Not only has he given me some adorable children, he’s also given me the space, time, and energy to write books. He’s indulged my creativity since the moment I began to write. He’s never once told me it’s not worth it, or that I’m wasting my (and his) time. In fact, whenever I have a breakdown about writing (LOL I know, authors have breakdowns every five minutes), we basically have this same conversation every time:
HIM: Why are you upset?
ME: BECAUSE WRITING IS HARD AND I’M NEVER GOING TO BE ABLE TO DO THIS
HIM: Well, do you want to do it?
ME: YES OMG HIM: Okay. What do you need me to do so that you can be a writer?
ME: I DON’T KNOW JUST HELP ME NOT GO CRAZY
HIM: How about I do some laundry? And maybe cook dinner?
ME: OKAY
It isn’t out of the ordinary for him to do those things (we are very much partners when it comes to our children and our household), but he has always made my writing feel important, even when I feared I was pouring myself into a pipe dream.
So thanks for that, Handsome Rob. I love you, even when you play your Irish music too loud. Thanks for forcing me out of bed every morning so that I’ll actually do stuff and be a person.
2. Family People.
To my parents, Bruce and Barbara: Thanks for deciding you wanted another child. You guys made arguably the greatest contribution to this book because you gave birth to me. And you read that one ferret book I wrote when I was nine (remember how it was twenty chapters long and WAY more complicated than any nine-year-old’s ferret story should have been?). I love you, and I am so glad you are my parents.
To my sister, Laura: I’m really excited we’re friends now. Love you lots, Lars. (PS: I originally had the lyrics from a musical here, but I had to take them out because of copyright issues. I bet you can guess which lyrics they were, though…)
To my parents-in-law, Bellaire and Caron: If it weren’t for y’all, I might not have survived this whole book thing. Thanks for Thursday afternoons, writing days in the summer, calling me just to see if I wanted a break, taking me shopping for “author outfits,” and giving us all the date nights we could ask for. I love you guys.
To the rest of my family, I’m sorry I can’t list you all by name. Just know you’re awesome, and I love you, always.
3. Friends and Coworkers.
Magic City Literati: Y’all are my literary loves and I am so thankful for the friendships that have come out of our little group!
Sophie Hudson: Remember all those times you said, “Oh, I just don’t have a book in me,” and then TWO BOOKS LATER, you are officially an author? Hahaha. I treasure our lunches together and our many conversations about comfy pants from Old Navy.
David Balik: Remember that time I wrote you a letter that made you cry? I meant every word. Thanks for allowing my first book to be stocked in the school library. You rock.
Jon Carter: Your encouragement at the beginning of my writing adventure was a major part of all this. Thanks for being my English teacher back in the day, and for the camaraderie as we both pursued publication. You are a special kind of awesome.
Nicole Conrad: Remember the time I got my first agent and I danced around outside your classroom window? And all those times you read manuscripts for me and helped me make them better? Thanks for that. Also, thanks for your stories about spaghetti mishaps and tap-dancing shrimp. I’m going to use those in a book if it’s the last thing I do.
Battle Group (hey Nicole, you’re in this one, too!): Alisa Poole, Kristen Williams, Nicole Conrad, and Emily McNearney. Sweet mercy. What would I do without you? So many group therapy sessions in the basement (literally AND metaphorically). I love you girls to the moon and back. PS: DON’T LISTEN TO THE LIES. (I just feel like we should keep saying that randomly to each other.)
Lauren Beck: Thanks for reading this manuscript TWICE and helping me out with the Latin. I’m grateful for your friendship!
Chris Knowles and Ben Burgess: Thanks for letting me talk your ears off about an assortment of random things. Those moments were probably small to you, but they were huge to me.
Kendra Knowles and Cally Burgess: I LOVE YOU LADIES. Thanks for the texts, the coffee, the lunches, and the instantly deep conversations. I think we’ve only had five minutes of small talk since our friendships began, and that makes me so happy. Y’all are jewels of great price, and my life would be considerably emptier without you.
Robbie Hinton: Thank you for supporting me both as a teacher and as an author. You have embraced all facets of who I am, and I am proud to work for you.
Claire Stimson: Thank you for helping me with British-isms, and for that one Facebook chat. You know the one.
All My Students, Ever: Guys, there are over 1,000 of you, so I’m obviously not going to list you by name. Thank you for being excited with me about getting published, for reading my book and not realizing it was written by THAT Anne Riley, for reading my book while I was trying to teach you (those were always weird moments— how do you tell someone to stop reading YOUR book during YOUR class?), for asking me to sign stuff, and for indulging your inner book nerd with me.
Friends whose names I stole for random characters in this story: Thanks, and sorry. If you ever write a book, you can kill me off in it.
Everyone else who has read anything I ever wrote: THANK YOU from the bottom of my heart. You are amazing, and you enable me to do what I do.
CATEGORY #4: RANDOM THINGS THAT KEPT MY SANITY FROM DISSOLVING
Really, this section is just about Gossip Girl. I watched the whole series while editing Pull, and honestly, I think Blair and Serena kept me from going over the edge because I was too busy watching THEM go over the edge.
Thanks for that, Upper East Siders. XOXO.
CATEGORY #5: GOD
I’m a God-following person, and while I realize many of you might not be, I�
��d like to thank Him for the gift of creativity. I believe all art is sacred, and that includes the literary arts. Thank you, Jesus, for everything.
ABOUT THE AUTHOR
Anne Riley is an author of young adult fiction cleverly disguised as a high school Spanish teacher. She lives in Birmingham, Alabama, with her family. When she isn’t teaching or writing, Anne enjoys playing with her kids and reading novels that become part of her soul. She’s also really great at pretending to clean her house and putting off the laundry until it overtakes an entire room. Anne is not good at sports, despite having played volleyball for four years of her life, but she is a very talented coffee-maker. You can connect with her online at annerileybooks.com.
