Chapter Twenty-Two
Twenty-Two
Hunter walked along the bay side of Commercial Street, already late for work.
She just hadn’t felt right since Duke tried to hit her up for a donation. It was disappointing—as it always was when a friend looked at her and saw dollar signs. But with Duke it was also surprising. She knew he didn’t mean any harm, that it was for a good cause. But it hurt because she’d convinced herself that while her friends in Ptown knew her family was extremely wealthy, it never crossed their minds. One of the things she loved best about her summer life was that it made her feel just like everybody else. So when one of her Ptown friends treated her like, well, like she was rich—it was upsetting.
And it was why the character in Shelby’s novel was so triggering. It wasn’t just that she was promiscuous; it was that she was a stereotypical rich girl.
Hunter stopped walking. A man sitting on a bench on the bay side of the street caught her eye. He was reading a newspaper and smoking a cigarette. Not a vape—an actual cigarette. The way he held it drew her attention, the casual elegance. He had a mop of brown hair, long limbs, and was dressed in long pants, canvas shoes, and an all-weather jacket.
It was Anders Fleming, the acclaimed British novelist.
What an incredible turn of luck! She’d been so busy feeling bad about losing her job, exiled from “real” publishing for the summer—and there she was, ten feet away from her fiction-writing idol.
She’d been reading his books since she was in high school, when—bored on vacation with her parents—she borrowed her father’s copy of Nowhere Land . When Hunter was a junior in college, Anders Fleming spoke at Bryn Mawr just after winning the Booker Prize.
Did she dare go over and say hello? Really, why not? She was already late, but Duke wasn’t going into the office today. He was going sailing with a sales rep from Malaprop. He said he could see if there was room for her, but she wasn’t in the mood to hobnob with the publisher of the company that let her go.
But now, Anders Fleming. Of course she had to say hello. She waited for two cyclists to pass and then crossed the street.
“Excuse me, Mr. Fleming?” she said. He glanced up, regarding her with curious gray eyes. “Sorry to bother you, but I’m a huge fan,” she said. He appeared skeptical, and she realized that in her black Paramore T-shirt and her hair pulled back in low pigtails she probably looked like a teenager. “You spoke at my college a few years ago, Bryn Mawr.”
“Well, hello, huge fan,” he said. “What’s your name?”
“Hunter,” she said. “Are you in town doing a reading?”
He stood, and she realized he was remarkably tall. Probably six foot five. He reached out and shook her hand. “Nice to see you. Actually, I’m teaching at the Fine Arts Work Center.”
The Fine Arts Work Center was a famous Ptown institution on Pearl Street, over fifty years old. It was an incubator for artists that provided housing. Every summer it offered courses in everything from visual art to playwriting and literature. If he was teaching, it meant he’d be local for weeks.
“Amazing,” she said.
“Are you a writer?” he asked.
“No, but I work in publishing. I was actually at your publisher for a while, but now I’m working for a small press here in town.”
“Well, good for you. We need our small presses. I don’t think I’d be here today if it weren’t for the indie that first published me.”
She smiled, suddenly feeling like a warrior for the arts instead of a corporate failure.
He checked his phone and stood, folding the newspaper under his arm. “It was lovely to see you, Hunter. I’m afraid I have to go meet up with some friends.” He turned and Hunter watched him stroll away. When he was out of sight, she pulled her phone out of the messenger bag on her shoulder and logged onto the Fine Arts Work Center site to check the class schedule.
The summer was finally looking up.
Shelby forgot how exhilarating it felt to leave land behind—even just on the rocky little water taxi transporting her and Duke to the sailboat waiting on its mooring. She’d also forgotten how much cooler it was out on the water, and was underdressed in a T-shirt and jeans. At least she’d remembered a hair tie, and pulled the rubber band from her wrist to contain her hair from blowing wildly in the breeze.
She inhaled, fighting the dizzying combination of too much coffee and too little sleep. She’d been up all night writing, and then, when she’d finally closed her eyes, her phone rang with a call from Claudia.
“Remember that debut author I told you about over lunch at Balthazar?” Claudia said. “She had an event canceled in Nantucket over the Fourth of July. Can you host her at the bookstore in Provincetown?”
“Sure,” Shelby said groggily, wondering if it was a mistake to schedule an author who might lure Claudia to visit town. Shelby didn’t want to see her again until she had the manuscript finished. Having her in town was the type of thing that could mess with her head at that delicate stage of writing. “Will I get to see you, too?”
“Unfortunately, no. I have plans that weekend. But I’ll be at your August event in Boston.”
That was fine with Shelby. By the date of her scheduled reading at the Boston Arts Club, she should have a first draft finished.
The skiff drew closer to Anders Fleming’s sailboat, an impressive white Beneteau. She admired the towering mast and sleek lines of the hull. The water taxi driver helped her onto the boarding ladder. She used her upper-body strength to climb, and once she reached the deck level, Anders Fleming himself was there with an outstretched hand to help her get her footing.
He looked different in person, older than his book jacket photo, but also more handsome. His brown hair, threaded slightly with gray, poked out from underneath a Cambridge University baseball cap. He wore a navy blue hooded waterproof jacket, trousers, and brown deck shoes.
“Thanks,” she said, making sure she was steady on her feet before shaking his hand. “Shelby Archer. Honored to meet you.”
“The honor is all mine,” he said.
Max Walder helped Duke aboard, and then Anders gave them a tour of the lower cabin with a table, a sink, and a comfortable wraparound couch.
“I’m afraid you might be chilly,” Anders said to her, and pulled a pilled hunter green cardigan with wooden buttons from a narrow closet.
“Oh—thank you,” she said, placing it over her shoulders.
“Shall we?” he said, leading the group back up the stairs to the deck. The sun peeked out from behind clouds, burning off the early-morning fog.
A woman was at the helm, someone she recognized from the boatyard but didn’t know personally. She wore a red windbreaker and a Helltown baseball cap and asked Anders if he wanted to stop at Long Point, a fifteen-minute sail. Long Point, the former site of a Civil War battery, was a 150-acre peninsula that attracted tourists looking for a perfect picnic spot.
They sat on benches, facing each other in pairs—Shelby with Duke, and Max next to Anders, who uncapped a thermos of coffee. He asked Duke about his work with Seaport Press, saying that small publishers were the lifeblood of the industry, “Saving us from a bleak hellscape of the corporate monolith that is publishing today.”
Shelby wasn’t so sure she agreed with that. She felt lucky to be published by a big corporate publisher. They were giving her a way to make a living doing what she loved.
“Well, I appreciate that, Anders,” Duke said. “It means a lot, coming from you. But I must admit, distribution is a real challenge.”
“Agreed. And more so every season,” Max said. “Do you know I had to explain to a bookseller last week who Anna Garréta is? I told him one of my fall debuts is like a current day Sphinx , and he looked at me like I had three heads.”
“I mailed out dozens of copies of a debut mystery,” Duke said. “And not one store responded. Actually, that’s not entirely true. One store did respond: they sent me a form letter offering to donate the book to the local library.”
Max sighed in solidarity. They turned to Shelby.
“I can’t complain about publishing,” she said, almost sheepishly. “I’ve had a great experience with my imprint, my team. I feel very fortunate.”
“A New York Times bestseller right out of the gate. Fortunate? I think you’re being modest. That type of success only comes with talent and hard work,” Anders said.
Shelby felt herself blush. The sales of her book felt more like luck or good marketing than they did a barometer of her ability. She’d read countless brilliant books that published with little notice. “Well, thank you.”
“Are you working on something new?” he asked.
She nodded. “I’m writing a new novel, yes. But I’m here in town to manage the bookstore this summer. I’m friends with the owner. Actually, we’d be honored to host you at the store. For a reading...signing...whatever works for you.”
He slapped his knee and smiled. “Now that’s the best offer I’ve had in a while.”
She smiled at him gratefully. He’d made it so easy for her.
“Well, that’s just amazing news. Our customers will be thrilled. You can put me in touch with your publicist to work out the details. I’m going to find a venue for the event because our store is small, as I’m sure you know.”
Anders waved away the suggestion. “You’ll never hear back from my publicist. Deal with me directly, please. We’re neighbors now.”
“I’d be happy to host a reading at my house,” Duke said, glancing at her in excitement.
She smiled at him, and a fragile hope filled her chest. Maybe by the end of the summer, Duke would not just forgive her missteps with Secrets of Summer , but also forget.
In the meantime, she couldn’t wait to tell Colleen the good news.