Page 26

Chapter Twenty-Six

“I have some news.”

VV’s voice sounds strangely subdued.

I tiptoe out of the living room where my family is gathered reading in silence before we head out to dinner.

“Are you okay?” I whisper as I walk. “You’ve been so quiet lately.”

“I had a chance to read your manuscript,” she says with a sigh. “We need to talk.”

This is not good.

She takes a deep breath and continues.

“You know how difficult publishing is these days. I’m afraid I didn’t accomplish what I’d hoped.”

She hates my book.

Not only that, I’m a naive narcissist, the worst combination. Who am I to think my novel was any good? Who I am to think a twenty-two-year-old child could save her parents with a little trickery? I believed I was Superwoman. I wasn’t even Batgirl.

I am standing in the hallway clutching my cell so hard I think it might disintegrate in my hands. My knuckles are white.

Moreover, what if—it finally dawns on me, the haze of illusion dissipating—that Marcus has been playing me? What if he’s been recording our conversations, tells my parents I want to work for him, it crushes them, and they just give up, and the company is his before we even get a chance to finish our plot? He’s been so excited for the Le Pompeux dinner Jess arranged that I wonder if he’s going to turn the French table on us?

“Let me cut to the chase,” VV says. “I loved your manuscript, Emma. It was lyrical and heartbreaking, an ode to sisterhood, family, first love and first loss, a tribute to all the ways family shatters us and yet protects us. You obviously have GiGi’s genes.”

It is the news I wanted to hear my entire life. These are the words I dreamed an agent would say to me one day. I always believed if I ever heard these words, I would fall to the floor, screaming, weeping, in joy, and then pop a bottle of champagne although there would be no need to drink it because I would already be drunk from the news.

VV continues.

“I sent your manuscript to ten editors I believed would love it and see it as the big book I do. I received a number of passes.”

Um, these are not all the words I dreamed an agent would say to me one day. VV loves it, but no one else does? That’s like being runner-up to Miss America. Being nominated but not winning the Oscar. I feel like a debutante who ends the social season in a beautiful gown but no husband.

The world around me begins to fall away.

This is over. It’s all over.

“Oh,” is the only word I can finally manage to choke out.

“I also received a number of offers,” VV says. “It was only three offers from three huge editors at three huge imprints. I wanted to go ten for ten, but batting .333 will always get you in the Hall of Fame. You are going to auction, Emma! Congratulations!”

In an instant, my dream is no longer some ethereal flash that comes to me before I fall asleep. No, it is now reality. And that reality is suddenly completely overwhelming.

I now feel as if I’m falling from the sky.

I am a published author.

I say it again in my head.

I! AM! A! PUBLISHED! AUTHOR!

“Hello?” VV asks. “Did I lose you?”

“No,” I stammer. “I just don’t know what to say.”

“Ah, a dream coming to life. That first deal for an author is as shocking as that first slap on a baby’s butt.”

“I actually thought you were going to say my book was a disaster.”

“What?” she cries. “No. I’m sorry. I’m a little distracted. I’m getting a manicure, and some young thing is trying to talk me into having flowers painted on my nails. Does VV look like she would ever put flowers on her nails much less wear a floral print? I’m not an ingénue. I’ve never been an ingénue. And the only flowers I prefer are Four Roses bourbon.”

“Thank you,” I say. “I can never thank you enough.”

“You’re the one who worked her ass off writing a book while going to college,” she says. “By the way, I sent the novel without any name attached. The manuscript was so good I didn’t need to play any games. I said it was penned by a young writer honoring her late grandmother and who wished to remain anonymous for the moment. That captivated them even more. But we will have to reveal your identity at auction. I told everyone we’re still waiting for one more response.”

“From whom?” I ask.

“The Mighty Pages.”

Falling again.

“What did they say about the book?”

“Phillip and Piper have not changed a bit,” VV says. “They’re playing it all very close to their vests. Still reading. Still taking their sweet time.”

I peek my head around the corner and look at my parents.

Are they reading my manuscript right now ? Have they been reading it right in front of my eyes? Is that why my father was laughing and my mother was tearing up?

“This is all starting to feel very real,” I whisper to VV.

“You got yourself into this. Enjoy the ride. Albeit your ride is a bit more Six Flags roller coaster than most,” she replies.

“ You’ve been to Six Flags?”

She laughs. “Do I look like I eat funnel cakes? I’m more a Four Seasons gal. It was just a damn good analogy.” Her voice suddenly raises. “And do I look like Hannah Montana? If I see a flower come close to a finger, you are dead, and I will be acquitted by a jury of my peers when I show them my nails.”

“You have no peers,” I say. She cackles.

“I told your parents that we have offers on the table and that they will need to let me know by Thursday.”

“This week?”

“That’s how a calendar works, Emma.”

“What if they hate it? What if they say no?”

“Then l have to go to another publisher and hope you find a plan B to drum up lots of income for The Mighty Pages to take down Marcus Flare,” VV says. “If so, I will try to get you as big an offer as I can so maybe you can help them that way. And—I can’t believe I’m going to say this—but I won’t take a commission either.”

VV continues.

“But I know it’s more than that, my dear. I know this is personal. I know how much you want your parents to love your novel, and I know how much you also want a touch of familial vindication. You want the type of novel they couldn’t write and do not publish to be the savior of their elitist publishing house. You want your grandmother to posthumously receive the attention and accolades she never did in life. You want to prove to Marcus that you are writing a book he never could and honoring a genre that doesn’t need ‘inventing,’ because stories of love and family will always resonate. But sometimes life and the best books don’t give us an easy, happy ending. Sometimes you can be healed but still carry around a scar forever.”

I look back out at my mom.

Fire scar.

“I’ll let you know as soon as I hear anything from them,” VV says.

“I will, too,” I add.

The last thing I hear her say before hanging up is, “A daisy ?”

I lean around the wall and watch my parents. I study every nuance of their faces, trying to calibrate their reactions to what they are reading. My life—their lives—hang in the balance.

“You’re like a Roomba, Emma,” my mother says, eyes up, catching me spying. “Come into the living room and settle down before we go to dinner.”

I reenter the room trying to act casual. I take a seat in a sleek, modern chair that was made to be admired but not used. The low chair consumes me.

“Forget how to sit?” Jess asks me.

My family stares at me.

Jess is wearing a multicolor striped cutout dress that looks as if it was papier-machéd onto her torso. My father is wearing dark jeans, Gucci loafers with no socks and a crisp white shirt with a sweater around his shoulders. My mother is wearing a short, knit dress in buttercream that fits her body like a glove, and pink heels.

“You all look so nice,” I say as innocently as I can.

“Thank you,” my mother says.

Why are you acting so weird? Jess texts from across the room.

I think they’re reading my manuscript!!! I reply.

I catch her eyes. They are wide.

“What are you guys reading?” Jess asks casually.

My parents lift their heads.

“I’m reading Marcus Flare’s newest manuscript,” my sister offers, giving me a look as if to say, This is how you act cool .

“And what do you think?” my mother asks.

“Vintage Marcus,” Jess says.

“That’s very nonspecific,” my mother says.

“You know what you’re getting,” Jess replies.

“I’m actually reading a new submission,” my father says. “Actually, we both are.”

“What do you think?” I blurt. Subtle .

“I never like to comment until I’ve completed a book,” my father says.

“Who’s the author?” I press.

“We don’t know,” my mother says. “Part of the mystery. It’s a fascinating backstory.”

“VV sent us the manuscript,” my father adds.

“And it wasn’t laced with anthrax, if you can believe it,” my mother says wryly. “I actually have no idea why she would send us this to be honest. We have our first Flare book. This is already going to auction. We need to watch our budget. Not to mention, it’s nothing we typically read or publish. But—”

My father grabs his cell.

“Our Uber is here,” he says, interrupting her.

“But what?” I press my mom. “But what?”

“We have to go,” my mother says. “No more work talk. Tonight’s a celebration! Off we go!”