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“But the good news is, they— we —absolutely want to see what you come up with next,” I said to Connie and Gwen.

I was treating the Dove sisters to lunch at Fandango in Pacific Grove, about a ten-minute drive from the hotel.

The Uber had let us out in front of a low, golden-stone building draped in ivy, its windows shaded by striped awnings and baskets of trailing geraniums. Inside, the restaurant smelled faintly of butter and wood smoke—a comforting blend of old money and European charm, which I’d guessed the sisters would appreciate.

Judging by the coos of approval from the ladies as the hostess led us to a table by the fireplace, I’d guessed correctly.

Soft classical music played beneath the genteel chime of crystal and the low murmur of conversation, The room was painted in warm ochres and cream, and linen tablecloths draped over polished wood like pressed napkins over a lap.

Like the sisters, it was the kind of place that hadn’t changed its decor in decades. It had no reason to.

Unlike the sisters.

“But we still had so many more adventures in store for Greta,” Connie protested tearfully.

Gwen pleaded, “Things were just heating up with Mike the Magician!”

Yes, mobile librarian Greta Merriweather’s romantic interest was a professional magician by the name of Michael Cassillas. How the hell Mike earned a living doing magic tricks out in the middle of the Adirondacks was the greatest mystery of the series.

“I know, and gosh, that would have been fun,” I told them. “But maybe what you could do is write a little bonus novella and put it on your website, so that fans of the series can see that Greta and Mike did get their Happy Ever After.”

They looked so absolutely blank, I wondered if they even had a website.

Truthfully, I’d never been a big fan of Greta Merriweather.

I’d inherited Greta and the Dove sisters from Daniel Millbrook, who’d inherited them from his mother, our founder, Ethel Millbrook.

Greta was Daniel’s idea. The sisters were longtime family friends.

They’d been schoolmates of Ethel, and Millbrook had been publishing their brand of cozy mystery for more than fifty years.

They didn’t have an agent to represent their interests, but until the merger with W&W, it hadn’t mattered.

Now it mattered.

Fortunately, our drinks arrived before the tears began to fall. For the ladies, small glasses of chilled Lillet Blanc over ice with a twist of orange. For me, Hochstadter’s Rock and Rye.

The ladies sipped cautiously.

“It’s very nearly a sherry,” Connie said approvingly.

“It’s very nearly a cocktail,” Gwen muttered.

I said, “It’s always hard to say goodbye to old friends, but it’s a little exciting to start a new chapter, right?”

“ No ,” they cried in unison.

I winced.

“Does Millie know about this?” Gwen demanded.

I was saved from answering by the arrival of our smoked salmon rosettes on cucumber rounds.

The Doves dug in to the hors d’oeuvres, debating with each other as to whether the salmon was indeed Scottish or came from Maine, while our server patiently waited to take their lunch requests.

I opted for the Nicoise salad. Eventually, the ladies settled on the quiche of the day—a rich, custardy number with mushrooms and Gruyère—and agreed to share a plate of grilled asparagus with hollandaise.

Oh, and the salmon, in their expert opinion, was in fact from New Zealand.

The server raised her brows at me, and departed.

With these pressing matters attended to, I tried to steer the Doves back to business.

“There must be other stories you’d enjoy writing, don’t you think? Other worlds you’d like to explore through fiction?”

“We’ve put our heart and soul into Greta and the people of Sugarcoat Inlet.”

“Every character is like one of our own dear neighbors. And Greta and Mike are family ,” Connie said.

“And our readers feel the same,” Gwen insisted.

Yes. Their readers did feel the same. The problem was, their readers were dying out faster than the unfortunate visitors to Sugarcoat Inlet. Greta’s demo was a small one and shrinking fast.

The modern cozy was funny and snappy and sharp. The characters were diverse, their challenges more real world. The Bookmobile & Beyond Mysteries were none of these things.

I said cautiously, “You know, if you’re simply not interested in writing anything else, there’s no shame in choosing to retire.”

They’d had a good run, and after all, they had to be in their mid-to-late seventies. At least.

“ Retire !” they chorused in horror.

“We can’t afford to retire !” Gwen exclaimed.

“It isn’t just the money,” Connie put in. “Writing is our…our…purpose. It gives our lives meaning.”

“Exactly,” Gwen said. “It’s our raisin . Our… raisin d’ours .”

“Raison d’être,” I said automatically.

“ Correct! ” they said.

“Okay. If that’s the case, then you’re going to have to get serious about coming up with a new proposal for W&W.”

Gwen said excitedly, “ Oh ! What if Mike the Magici—”

“No,” I said firmly. “Something completely new. New characters. New setting. New premise.”

They looked crestfallen. And a little frightened.

I was shepherding the Dove sisters through the glass doors of the hotel when Lila charged out of the now-packed lobby bar to intercept me.

“What did you say to Finn Scott?” she demanded, ignoring the sisters.

I looked past her to the bar, where I saw a table of W&W editors watching us with open curiosity.

I said calmly, “When?”

“Today. Whenever! What did you tell him?”

“About what? Working with you? I said you’re an excellent editor. I said I hoped you’d both be very happy together.”

Her eyes narrowed. “The hell you did. You either told him he owed you or you played the pity card. Or both. I’m guessing both.”

The pity card?

My heart sped up in a rush of adrenalin. Lila had a reputation for being brusque and abrasive, but that was actually the first time I’d ever known her to be deliberately, offensively rude. In public. Or maybe it was just the first time I’d been on the receiving end of her full outrage.

However, if there was one thing I knew how to do, it was hide my feelings. I gave her my best blank look.

The Doves, though, gasped, their faces flushing pink beneath the powder.

Connie glared at Lila. Gwen put her hand on my arm and said pointedly, “Thank you for a wonderful lunch, Keiran. And your usual kindness and wisdom.”

They treated Lila to their pale and icy stares before departing in their little ladylike beige pumps.

Lila watched them go. She said with scornful amusement. “I guess the Snoop Sisters told me .” She glared. “I don’t know what you think you’re accomplishing, Keiran, by dragging authors into your private war with us.”

I blinked. “As far as I know, I’m one of us . And I’m not sure what you think you’re accomplishing by bringing this up in the middle of a hotel lobby.”

That gave her a moment’s pause. But she drew herself up and said coldly, “Maybe you should inform Mr. Scott that the editorial director at Woodhouse & Woodhouse will have the final say on who he works with moving forward. That is not your decision to make. Nor his .”

Sure. First of all, Finn’s latest was already through copyediting and typesetting.

We were firmly in production now, and barring some last-minute catastrophe, the book would go to press on schedule.

As for his next project? Yes, we’d chatted about it, casually, informally.

He had yet to propose it. Meaning, nothing—including Finn—was under contract.

Did Lila imagine Finn’s agent wasn’t aware that they were free to take that book wherever they liked? Did she imagine that Finn and his agent had no idea how much W&W wanted that book?

I said, “I suggest you bring that up with Mr. Scott’s agent. Scott told me this morning he’d decided you were right about changing things up, getting a fresh perspective.” I shrugged.

Her eyes narrowed. “Oh please! And you’re pretending you were fine with that?”

“No, but I could see it from his viewpoint.”

“You’re forgetting who you’re talking to. I know you, Keiran.”

I couldn’t help laughing. “ Do you?”

“Yes! You weren’t remotely open to the idea of Scott leaving your list. And I think we both know why.”

“For a lot of reasons,” I agreed. “But it’s not my decision, so I’ll let Finn fight that battle. Who’s the new editorial director at W&W?” Not me, obviously.

She smiled. “You’re looking at her.”

“Congratulations.”

“I’ll take that in the spirit I know it was offered.”

I sighed, and didn’t bother to make it sound any less wearied than I felt.

“This is going to get old, don’t you think?”

“It’s already old,” she said. “I know three things about you, Keiran. You never say what you’re really thinking.

You like to think of yourself as an old school gentleman like…

like Rudolph Dunst, but you’re just a thug in nice clothes.

And three, you pretend to be so kind and charming, but you are absolutely ruthless.

” Confusingly, she concluded with Hamlet Act 1, scene 5, “ That one may smile, and smile, and be a villain!”

I quoted back doubtfully, “ At least I am sure it may be so in Denmark ?”

“What the hell are you talking about?”

I said, “Is this because nine years ago I took the senior editor position at Millhouse?”

“ I promoted you. I trained you. And when you were finally of use, you left us and went to the competition . Now you think you can waltz back in and take my job. I don’t think so!”

“Okay, well, that wasn’t my plan. And clearly, it’s not a worry anymore. So perhaps we can just move on from here and deal with things as they are.”

“Do not patronize me.”

“You should have another chat with Mr. Scott,” I said. “I’m pretty sure he’ll have changed his mind again in your favor.”

She eyed me narrowly.

I said, “If we’re done for the moment, I’m going to see if I can catch the last few minutes of the McGregor interview.”