Page 17

Chapter Seventeen

“Why did I think this was such a great idea yesterday?” Jess asks.

She is lathered in sweat, her hair plastered to the side of her face and her back.

“Because you weren’t hungover,” I say.

“And why is this garage 700 degrees.”

“Because now you’re hungover,” I say.

She laughs.

“I couldn’t do this without you,” Jess says.

“I wouldn’t do this without you.”

“Because you’d kill yourself,” Jess says. “Why do the tallest members of a family always have to risk their lives?”

Jess is teetering on the top step of a shaky ladder handing me red, white and blue containers filled with festive flags, bunting, banners, streamers, tablecloths, plates and wreaths.

“Remember how Dad and I would always have to be the ones to grab a can of soup from the top shelf in the pantry or perch ourselves on a footstool to reach a book on a top shelf in GiGi’s library,” Jess continues, “and we’d always say…”

“How did it get up here in the first place,” we say in unison, laughing.

Jess stops, wipes her brow and gestures at the endless stacks of color-coordinated bins for Halloween, Thanksgiving, Christmas and Easter.

“I forgot how much she loved a holiday,” she says.

Her face is caught between a smile and a frown, as if she’s sad that she had forgotten but happy she finally remembered.

“I think that’s it.” Jess climbs down the ladder and takes a slug from a bottle of water.

We carry the containers into the front yard. I open up lid after lid, and it’s as if memories are being released like genies into the summer air.

I drape American bunting around my waist.

“She used to wear this as a skirt to the fireworks, remember?” I ask. “Mom and Dad were mortified.”

“She had a knack for embarrassing them,” she chuckles. “Remember the blueberry pie eating contest?” I nod. Jess catches my eye. “You have that knack, too.”

Jess helps me drape the white picket fence with the bunting, and as we do the same off the shingled front porch, I finally tell her what transpired the night before she arrived.

As I recount the story of the grandmother, how she believed GiGi was an author and that she inspired Autumn Harvest , I segue into telling Jess about the same line GiGi used to quote that was in both the S. I. Quaeris and Marcus Flare novels as well as how GiGi’s favorite author never changed a single word in their Author’s Note.

I am talking so quickly that I don’t realize Jess has taken a seat on the front steps and her half of the bunting is draped across the hydrangeas fronting the porch.

I take a seat by her.

“Sorry,” I say. “That is a lot of intel.”

“It is,” Jess says. “Can I say something without you blowing a gasket?”

“No.”

“I will anyway,” she says. “You’re a writer. Yes, I know all about the secret novel you wrote in college. Mom told me. Your friends have talked to her about it. GiGi told Dad.”

I keep my mouth shut.

“It’s not a shock, Emma. You always wanted to be a writer, and GiGi always pressed you to be one as if you were going to finish a chapter she never had the chance to complete,” Jess says. “Are you done with it?”

I nod.

“Is it good?”

“I don’t know.”

“Yes, you do.”

I nod.

“I’m proud of you.”

“Really?”

“It’s sad you have to ask that of me,” she says, knocking me with her knee as she did last night. “Really.”

“Thanks.”

“Is that why you met with VV?”

“Not at first,” I say, “but it led in that direction.”

“She’s a great agent.”

I do a hammy double take and stare at Jess. “Are you still drunk?”

“No, although she usually is. She’s still the best in the business. Mom and Dad have always been in a battle with her. It happens in publishing. Some agents and editors don’t see eye to eye.” Jess looks at me. “And it’s hard to look her in the eye with those Mr. Magoo glasses.”

I laugh.

“So,” Jess continues, “do you think—as a writer with a great imagination—perhaps all of this is just a story you’ve created in your own head to make sense of all the drama that is going on in our lives right now? A way to cope and explain the unexplainable?”

“Maybe,” I admit.

“Right now, we have to deal with Marcus and get to the bottom of why he wants to hurt our family,” Jess says. “I’m still unsure what his motive is. I mean, major publishers are teaming up with famous and celebrity authors and starting imprints like wildfire—Sarah Jessica Parker, Gillian Flynn, Kwame Alexander… . What does he have against us? I mean, I know Mom and Dad can be a lot to deal with, but to want to destroy us? It’s like he’s got his TV shows confused. He’s mistaking Schitt’s Creek for Succession , and I just don’t get it yet.”

Jess hesitates.

“And?” I ask.

“And Marcus is a snake. Is he just a snake in business, or is he truly dangerous? He came out of nowhere and seems ruthless in his approach to people, which is such a shocking juxtaposition to the fiction he writes and the persona he presents to the public. Something just doesn’t add up for me. We need more pieces to solve the puzzle.

“And,” she continues, unprompted. “I feel like I need to shower every time I’m around him. The way he touches me, looks at me, circles me, almost like a predator. I’ve been going along with it because I know the trouble Mom and Dad are in financially and how much this deal means to them. We need him. We need the money. If it works, it could change everything, Emma, and I mean everything . I know Mom and Dad often seem like characters sometimes…”

“You think?” I say, cutting her off. “You just said it! Moira and Johnny Rose from Schitt’s Creek .”

“And you’re Alexis,” I add at the same time Jess yells, “And you’re David!”

We laugh hard like we used to—tears streaming down our faces—when we believed we were sisters whose hearts wouldn’t be complete without the other half.

“I know Mom and Dad seem like characters,” she continues, “and they can drive us crazy, but wouldn’t you do anything for them?”

I narrow my eyes. I consider the awful things Mom said to me.

“Emma,” she continues. “They’re all we have in this world.”

I then think of what else Mom said: The only thing parents and grandparents want is the best for their children and grandchildren. They hope to raise them right—no matter how many mistakes they make along the way—in order to leave the world a better place.

“I would,” I say. “But you have one thing wrong.”

“What?”

“Mom and Dad aren’t all we have in this world,” I say. “We have each other.”

“God, you’re a good writer,” she says.

Jess opens her arms, and we hug for the longest time, rocking back and forth.

“I promise this will all make sense,” Jess says. “I think some time away from the city and the pressure will provide some clarity.”

“And you’ll be able to add holiday decorator to your résumé,” I say, standing. “Ready to finish?”

I extend my hand, and she pops up.

We hang wreaths on the gate and front door, stick sparkly ting ting in window boxes, and plant a big American flag in the bracket off the giant sugar maple in the front yard. I salute when the lake breeze catches it, and the flag flaps in the wind.

I walk over and begin to open container after container.

“Hey, are the Michigan flags in any of your bins over there?” I call to Jess. “There should be two of them—the University of Michigan flag GiGi started hanging when I started college there, and a state flag because she loved Michigan so much. GiGi kept them out during the summer for visitors and then in the fall for football. Remember?”

“Yeah,” Jess says, digging.

“Found the Maize and Blue!” she yells, holding up the university flag. “Isn’t that what you insane Michigan fans call it?”

“Insane means passionate, right?”

I race over and dig under a stack of plastic tablecloths and hold up the state flag. “Found this, too!”

Jess and I head to the porch, where brackets for the flags are adhered to columns on each side of the steps.

I hang my U-M flag and begin to sing “The Victors,” Michigan’s famous fight song that anybody who has ever turned on a TV during the fall will recognize. Jess moves to the other column and hangs the state flag.

“If you seek a pleasant peninsula, look about you.”

Jess stares at me. “Are you sure you’re not the one who’s still drunk?”

“No, I’m impressing you with my state knowledge.” I point at the flag. “You grew up here, too. You should know this.”

I hold out the flag and study it closely. I rarely remember taking the time to look at our state flag even though it’s everywhere in Michigan.

The state coat of arms is a blue shield featuring the sun rising over a lake and peninsula with a man, hand raised, holding a gun. The shield is flanked by an elk and a moose, an eagle on top, with a white banner beneath it.

“I don’t see where it says anything about a peninsula,” Jess says, studying the flag, too.

“They didn’t teach you Latin at the fancy boarding school you attended?” I ask. “It’s just the root of all the romance languages. Nothing important.”

“Ewww, you’re insufferable, David.”

I laugh and continue.

“ Si quaeris peninsulam amoenam, circumspice ,” I say, pointing at the script in the banner. “I’m probably mispronouncing the hell out of that, but I do know it’s a Latin phrase meaning, ‘If you seek a pleasant peninsula, look about you.’”

“How did I never know that?” Jess asks. “It’s so sad that we never really stop to take the time to look at what’s right in front of us.” Her cell trills, and she grabs it quickly and begins to text. When Jess finishes, she looks at me. “Guilty!”

“As punishment, why don’t you start taking a few bins back to the garage?”

Jess glares at me.

“You’re the tallest!” I continue.

She jokingly flips me off, stacks two bins and heads toward the garage.

I go inside, grab a bottle of water, return, and take a seat on the front porch swing and admire the work we’ve done.

“It’s not the Fourth until the world is dressed in red, white and blue,” I can hear GiGi say.

Autumn Harvest waits for me on the striped cushion of the porch swing. It’s good, but the visit yesterday makes it seem like I’m reading someone’s diary. I feel compelled to finish, and this would be the perfect spot to do that this afternoon.

A sudden gust off the lake catches the two flags and stiffens them.

I stare at the white banner set against the dark blue fabric.

I glance down at the novel.

My head pivots back and forth between them.

“Do you need an exorcism, Linda Blair?” Jess asks as she returns, heading up the stairs.

I jump up, sending the porch swing flying.

I grab the flag and read the Latin words.

“ Si quaeris peninsulam amoenam, circumspice !” I whisper.

“What?” Jess asks.

I grab the novel and hold it up in front of Jess’s face.

“ Si quaeris !” I say, pointing at the flag and then the cover of the novel. “S. I. Quaeris.”

“What in the hell are you talking about?” Jess asks.

I don’t answer. I don’t know how I didn’t figure this out. I don’t know how anyone—especially in Michigan—never put two and two together. But who reads Latin in a flag? And this was all in a time before the internet and social media. The secret was hidden in plain sight.

“Hello?” Jess asks again.

I flip to the Acknowledgments.

There, right in front of me, is the answer. It’s been right there in front of me—in front of the world—forever, just waiting to be discovered.

I see the first letters of each paragraph now as if they are in bold and glitter and lit from within:

I first must thank my readers. Without you, I would not be able to live my dream. Writing is what keeps me sane, how I make sense of an often senseless world. Books are the great connector. They bring us closer, bridge the gap, remind us that we have more in common than what divides us. My novels are about family, friends, the wisdom of our elders, the overlooked women in our lives, the overlooked soul within you, and I write them to remind you that you matter, and that it is the little things in life that mean the most: A sunrise. A sunset. Love. Happy endings. Each other. My little novels are meant as threads of hope and beacons of light for those who are drowning in the world. Know there will be a better day. And that can start right now by escaping into a better one.

A big thank-you as well to my team: Harlequin (and now Silhouette), you are the best publisher an author could dream of having. You give a voice to women, their issues and their hearts, and I could not be more proud to call you my home away from home and my literary sister.

“Men know best about everything, except what women know better.” That’s a quote from George Eliot (aka Mary Ann Evans who wrote Middlemarch ) and a favorite of my editor. I keep that in mind with every book I write.

Gratitude. This is the motto by which I live. I am grateful for each sunrise and sunset. I am grateful for each day I get to watch my family grow and laugh. I am grateful, that my simple stories will, hopefully, live forever, something none of us can do.

I am eternally grateful for my friends and family, who inspire me daily and support my dream. I’m also grateful they continue to speak to me even after I’ve written about them (names were changed!).

Grateful for you. Every single one of you. Your letters that the publisher forwards to me are hugs, constant reaffirmation that my novels are touching you, helping you, changing you.

I must also thank my “invisible team,” who helps me write two books a year. They plot while I “pants.” They edit as I write. They are young—and keep me young—but are the foundation of this big, beautiful dream.

Page by page, word by word, sentence by sentence…that is how each and every one of my glorious days are filled (oh, and with some coffee and wine, too!). I race out of bed every morning, excited and humbled to begin my days. I get lost in my stories. I become my characters. And, oh, what a glorious way to live!

A final nod to home, a place I love (and never leave) more than any. This place inspires me, fills my soul, and when I sink my toes in the sand, or dive into the crystal water, I know I am part of this place, and it is a part of me, and we will forever be intertwined.

Go now and read! Anything and everything! Hug your librarian! Support your local bookseller! And go to places you never imagined, be people you never dreamed, walk in shoes you thought you’d never travel, and be changed. It is a privilege to evolve and change. We should never be the same people we were. Books help us on that journey.

Eliot again writes, “It is a narrow mind which cannot look at a subject from various points of view.” Books saved my life. And I believe they just might save the world. XOXO!

“I am GiGi Page!” I yell. “The Acknowledgments never changed because the author was telling us who she was in each and every book.”

Jess looks at me, still confused.

“S. I. Quaeris was our grandmother!”