Page 30

Chapter Thirty

One Year Later

Marcus Flare grabs my hand and squeezes it tightly.

“Emma Page is the real deal,” he announces. “To bring her voice to life and to shine a light on the legacy of her grandmother, Pauline Page, aka S. I. Quaeris, a true literary trailblazer, is probably the greatest honor of my career.”

He beams at me, and I smile beatifically.

Beyond the camera lights, I see my parents and Jess smiling. VV rolls her eyes.

“I cannot tell you how proud I am that The Summer of Seagulls is not only the first book from The Mighty Pages’ new imprint, Pauline Page Books, but also the July Read With Jenna selection,” Jenna Bush Hager says. “It heralds not only the voice of a new generation but also a voice deserving of widespread recognition. To you and your GiGi!”

“Thank you so much,” I say. “I’m humbled and honored.”

“What was it like to write this book at such a young age?” Hota Kotb asks. “This book has such an old soul to it, if you will. Were you channeling your grandmother when you wrote this?”

“I could hear GiGi’s voice in every word I wrote,” I say. “She not only was a great writer, she was a great woman, but a woman who was overlooked like so many of her generation. She sacrificed everything for our family. She gave us our love of books and taught us what was most important in life. Each other.”

I continue.

“I want people to say her name forever. That’s a reason we are also reissuing her books—whose rights have reverted back to The Mighty Pages—under her own name. When I am long gone, I know that readers will walk into a library or bookstore and say Pauline Page . I hope that reconnects them not only to their family history but also the simple things in life. I also want readers to realize that there should be no limits placed on women, there should be no genres placed on books. Women should be who they dream. Women should read what they want. Women should live without having to hide any part of their true selves.”

“Do you believe your grandmother was judged for who she was in her life?” Jenna asks.

“Oh, every single day,” I answer, “and we continue to be. I’m sure you are judged every day on TV, probably more for the clothes you wear or your hairstyle than the good you do in the world. My sister is judged for the exact same things. My mother is judged for being smart and driven. I am judged for my honesty, optimism and youth. Women are universally judged for the things we say, the things we don’t, the volume at which we say them. We are judged for being happily married, we are judged for being gleefully single. We are judged for having children, or not. We are judged for how we raise them. We are judged for having faith, we are judged for questioning. We are judged, day in and day out, for every single thing that we do and don’t do. If you have been able to live your life free of the judgment of others, if you can say what is on your mind without fear of judgment, if you can live your life without fear of retribution, then you do not know what it is like to be a woman.”

“Go on, Emma,” Jenna urges.

“That’s why I’m so honored you chose my debut novel, because even the books that women write and women read face judgment. We call novels like mine ‘beach reads,’ ‘rom-coms,’ ‘chick lit,’ ‘women’s fiction,’ which diminishes their value. As a result, people, believe such books are merely fizzy and frivolous.”

My eyes suddenly mist.

“Are you okay?” Jenna asks.

I nod and clear my throat.

“I want to say something, but I want to make sure I get it just right because it’s important to say.”

“Take your time.”

I nod, take another breath and continue.

“My grandmother had a safe filled with…” I pause again, this time solely to make Marcus squirm ever so in his seat “…letters from readers around the world, women who had lost parents, husbands or children. Women in the midst of divorce. Women undergoing chemotherapy. And they all reached for her books as a way to escape and to heal. When they needed a friend. When they needed hope. When they needed a reason to go on in this world. They sought out her words as a way to make sense of an often senseless world. If I can do that, even with one reader, then I will have fulfilled my purpose—just as my grandmother did—in this world. That is the power of books, no matter what you may call them.”

Jenna’s eyes mist, too. She reaches over, grabs my hands and smiles.

“Beautifully said, Emma,” Jenna says. “I know your grandmother is looking down at you from heaven and beaming.” She turns to Marcus. “And I’m beaming at you, Marcus Flare. You are not only a magnificent writer, Marcus, but also a magnificent human. A role model for publishing.”

Inside, I laugh. Before the cameras, I nod.

“Thank you,” Marcus says. He turns to me and smiles.

Jenna looks at me. “Well, I could not put your book down, Emma. You heard it here first, The Summer of Seagulls is the Read With Jenna selection for July.”

The cover of my novel— my novel!—flashes on a big screen behind me.

It is beyond beautiful, a watercolor of two girls floating in the lake, holding hands, the perspective from that of a gull soaring high above them. In the distance, a red lighthouse watches like a sentinel.

“That’s a stunner, Emma,” Hota says. “So pretty.”

“There’s an old saying you probably know that my grandmother changed to suit Michigan,” I say. “She used to tell me, ‘Be a lamp, a lighthouse or a ladder.’ That is what I hope my books will be for readers.”

“Folks, go out and grab a copy or ten, and make sure to read a Pauline Page novel as well this summer,” Jenna says. “Marcus Flare. Emma Page. I know we’ll be hearing more from you both for years to come.”

Jenna and Hota turn toward the camera.

“We’ll be right back.”

The lights dim.

“And we’re clear,” a producer calls.

We take countless photos before emerging onto the street.

“It must gall you to know you’re making me even richer, Avery ,” VV says to Marcus before he jumps into a waiting car.

I watch his car disappear into city traffic.

“He still came out smelling like a rose,” I say to VV, shaking my head as my family joins me on the sidewalk. “People believe he’s a saint.”

“Men always do, my dear,” VV says. “Let him be the hero. He knows deep down that you are. He knows that there’s an asterisk by his name, and he must live with that every day. And he’s not in charge of your future. You run the show. You own him. You have all the power, and that resides right here.”

She places her hand on my heart.

“That’s winning, Emma. That’s a secret worth keeping. Now go write that next book that will change someone’s life like your grandmother’s work did.”

She hugs me.

“And the next one’s not going to be free!” she yells at my parents. “Now let’s see if I can go nail down a movie deal for you! Lots of interest! Lots of calls! See you at five at Liber for a celebration! You’re buying, Phillip! I can’t afford to after all this! Kisses!”

VV begins to blow down the sidewalk like a cyclone. She turns and points.

My face and book cover is streaming across the front of the TODAY Plaza directly before Studio 1A.

“You did it, kid. You’re a writer!”

VV lifts her arm into the air, bangles jangling, and punches the blue New York sky.

And then it hits me: I did do it.

All those years of doubt. All those times I told myself I was a fraud and kept going.

“So?” my father asks, taking a photo of me with my book—as big as the city—behind me. “What do you want to do next, Emma?”

I smile at my father.

“I think I just want to go home and work on my next novel.”