Chapter 16
True to his promise, Jack has stood by my side the whole evening. He also, to his credit, has kept the hush puppies coming—though
after the fourth trip, I was cut off.
The riverboat cruise down the Charleston Harbor was a glorious mix of both peaceful and energizing. The wheel slowly churning
and pouring water from one bucket to another. The hum of readers and industry pros chatting about all things books. The serene
beauty of the surroundings. And occasional input about the current ranking in the PGA John Deere Classic from some husbands
sneaking looks at the game on their phones.
I find myself settling at the front of the ship. It’s quieter here, tucked away from where the authors are set up talking
with readers. They don’t technically have a designated meeting spot—their role is to mingle—but the second Amelia stepped
on board, she spoke quietly to Penny, who rushed quietly to Garrett, who dashed quietly to the person in charge with the news
that, essentially, it wasn’t her job to do the walking . That her doing the work would be self-deprecating and desperate. No, if people were so eager to talk, they would need to come to her,
not the other way around.
So they quickly found her a chair.
It was a folding chair and, evidently, too “foldy” and cheap looking for her rosy backside.
Penny was tasked with informing someone that it was not “on brand.” You should’ve seen her face swallowing that one.
Anyway, they threw a crisp white tablecloth over it and tied some bows around the back of the chair, and that’s where Amelia
is now.
There’s a pleasant drift of people around me now, and the saxophone from the live band lifts a little melody nicely into the air. A number of couples have taken to the dance floor not too far off, twirling slowly and whispering sweet nothings before stepping off again.
But for the fact that it took an act of Congress to get it through Amelia’s brain that I am off tonight and officially unavailable for carrying out any of the silly little duties she so likes to hand me in the name of
assistant, I can almost forget entirely why we’re here.
I can almost believe this is just a romantic date for two—work thrust far, far aside.
“Isn’t that the editor you were talking to earlier today about Pat’s marketing plan?” I say, looking past Jack’s shoulder
to the man standing in a cluster beside one of his authors.
Jack turns and looks. “Huh,” he says after a moment, his voice less than amused at the coincidence. “So it is.”
I can see it.
Clouds are forming in his eyes.
The man has been ghosting Jack’s emails for three weeks now. His team modified the marketing plan for Pat Henderson’s next
release, and apparently it is quite a bit less impressive than the efforts they made for his previous books. Which Pat’s marketing person knows. And Jack knows. So Jack
has informed this editor and put in a request for more help. Multiple times. And the editor has dodged each request.
“Go on.” I elbow him in the side. “He’s stranded on a boat. You got him now.”
“You sure?”
“I’ve got a dozen seagulls to watch. And if that gets boring, I’ll go find Penny,” I say with a smile.
He hesitates. Looks into my eyes to make sure it’s absolutely fine. Sees nothing there to indicate otherwise. Then that little
work-loving smile slips up one side of his face as he sets his glass on a nearby table.
“Need both hands to pin him down. Good thinking, babe!” I call out after him, grinning a little too gleefully at the remark I’m not too proud to admit I find hilarious.
The man’s face when Jack comes up behind him and gives him a hardy slap on his shoulder is priceless. Jack is all smiles and
friendly words, you can tell, and from the look of it, it only seems to terrify the man more.
Fair enough.
I imagine the only thing more terrifying than Jack being stiff and unfriendly is Jack being just the opposite... friendly.
It’s actually quite the stroke of luck—bad luck for the editor, naturally—for Jack that Pat’s editor is here tonight at all.
Most publishing teams don’t show up to author events, really.
Now that I think of it, it’s probably because of that big conference event here this weekend. SIBA. The Southern Independent
Booksellers Alliance. Wouldn’t be surprised if the other authors for Amelia’s event tonight are piggybacking the weekend by
doing double duty both here for release and there. Which, actually...
My breath halts.
There she is.
Editor Florence Peters in the flesh.
She’s standing off to the side of her author and the little mingling cluster, staring at her phone. She looks quite a bit
grayer than the website photograph, the brown of her short hair replaced by silvery-gray strands tucked behind her ears. But
the glasses are the same large, round, friendly frames that scream, “ I read books for a living, am highly intelligent, could beat you in a spelling bee any day, and most definitely bring my own
reusable bags to the grocery store. ” All facts confirmed when I perused (stalked) her meager rows of photos on her socials. I went all the way down to 2011.
I’d recognize her friendly face anywhere, even here.
I take a step forward.
Then stop.
Another daring step forward.
Stop myself again.
I shouldn’t do it. There are no stated rules, but the unstated ones about author to agent to editor relationships are just
as concretely laid down as the stated ones.
You do not talk to the editor your agent is querying. You do not hire a middleman and then meddle in the situation by reaching around
the middleman to shake hands.
You don’t.
Agents get furious, which in itself isn’t the problem in my case. It’s Jack. And anyway, dating your agent is top of list
of those unspoken things one does not do, but here we are.
The frustration part on his side doesn’t scare me. I can handle a little, “What are you doing, Bryony? I am in the middle
of a very fragile conversation here.”
No, what makes me nervous is her reaction. Florence Peters. Will she take kindly to an aspiring author jumping in to talk
potential business without the gatekeeper around? Or is she one of those old-fashioned types who’d scratch me off just for
trying?
Will it make me look too desperate?
Possibly.
Will she get angry?
Maybe.
Do I have to try?
Absolutely.
This is my opportunity.
I feel the double angst as I carefully maneuver forward, keeping one eye on her and the other on Jack. It’s not like I am
hiding this meeting from him, but if he sees me, he will probably stop me, and if he stops me, I will probably die. I have waited
for two years for a moment like this.
I end up halting just off from the drink area, and wait.
This must be what a mountain lion feels like sitting in the shadows beside the watering hole, waiting for the deer after what
feels like months since having a decent meal. My wait really has been that long. I’ve been waiting on her response after her request for the full book for literal months. I’ve been living off crumbs of hope from Jack. Hearing she liked the sound of my book proposal. Hearing she found it intriguing . Hearing she was looking forward to reading the book on holiday and getting back with him. Holiday. As in months ago.
Forget all the people Jack has reached out to during the past two weeks.
She’s the dream.
She’s the big kahuna of publishing hope-fors.
She is the metaphorical deer at my metaphorical watering hole.
And looking at the way her glass is empty, it’s only ( please, oh please! ) a matter of time before she goes for a refill.
Five minutes go by.
Amelia is laughing loudly now as she smiles gayly (i.e., maniacally) and clutches a gaggle of ladies closer for a picture.
I bite my lip as the staffed victims of the folding chair incident watch in the distance with mildly disturbed frowns.
Ten minutes pass.
I start to flip through backup plans of ways to meet.
Nothing is coming to mind.
I mean, how exactly can you not rudely interrupt a tête-à-tête between two strangers to introduce yourself? Especially when your goal is not to look like a stalking, desperate aspiring author preying on the editor in question?
Conveniently trip into the conversation? “Oh, I’m so sorry. I slipped right on my dress there. Oh, hiiii. Is that you? I’m
that wannabe author with lots of potential. Let’s shake hands.”
Pretend to be on staff and offer a refill? “Sorry to interrupt, miss, but can I refill your drink and discuss my manuscript?”
“Those crab cakes are so salty, right?” I feel myself trying to send a telepathic message, zeroing in on Florence’s plate with my eyes. “You know what would be nice right now? Oh, I know. A nice big glass of water. Or tea. Or coffee. Or champagne. Or decaf coffee. Or lemon water. Or this very spritely looking strawberry water. Really, anything liquid would be such a good idea right now, wouldn’t it?”
I almost startle myself when she says something in parting and actually moves forward, toward the drink table !
This is my moment!
My moment !
I rush forward, then slow my steps just in time to line up with her.
We reach the table at the same time. This part is going to be tricky.
I keep my eyes averted, straining, waiting for her to make her move.
What is she going to go for?
And more specifically, whom exactly was the sunset cruise trying not to offend by offering precisely this many drink options?
Nearly every square inch of the white tablecloth is covered with bottles and punch bowls and carafes with various little labels.
There’s a carafe for black coffee. Carafe for organic black coffee. Carafe for organic, single-source, fair-trade black coffee
that is mold free and tested for authenticity in three countries. (Serious question: Why not just use that one?)
My goal is to wait until the millisecond she moves toward one of the drinks and then move my hand toward the exact same thing at the same time. It’s a tricky thing,
though. Wait too long and I’m just strange and bad-mannered. Too early and I may misjudge which one she’s after.
I have to be surgical about it.
Neurosurgeon level.
She’s made her move!
Out of the corner of my eye I see her reach toward a glass water jug (that, or it’s a speck in my eye, but it’s a gamble I’ll have to take) and I
casually, decidedly reach for the jug as well.
“Oh,” she and I say at just the same time.
I grin (although what my cheeks want to do is grin like a madwoman, which I’m forcing down with all my mental ability). “Sorry. Go ahead.”
She says something similarly polite at the same time, then gives a breathy little chuckle when I wait and says, “Thank you.”
I take in a “surprised” breath. Put a hand to my heart. “Wait a moment. Are you... Florence Peters?”
A subtle respect permeates my tone. One that says, “ I, too, am distinguished and have self-respect but am here to offer you respect as well. ”
The best kind, not too groveling.
She looks a little taken aback.
Wow, she really doesn’t know aspiring writers all over the world have her face on their computers and would buy her baseball
card, should it exist. “Yes. And I’m sorry, I’m not too good with faces. Have we met?”
“Oh no,” I say, giving a little laugh while trying to temper my internal response of Oh, I wish, I WISH. I wish we were best friends and had a standing coffee date every week to walk to our favorite shop together
to buy croissants and drink black coffee like cool adults and talk books and you would lean on my wisdom about where you should
plant your windowsill cilantro, and I would be granted goddaughter privilege at your granddaughter’s birth, and...
“I’m Bryony Page. I believe you’ve been chatting back and forth with my agent. Jack.”
She pauses.
What is that?
The light in her eyes dims. Just a little bit.
“Jack...,” she says.
“Sterling,” I finish.
And oh the relief I feel as it comes back again. The recognition in her eyes. “Oh, Jack. Yes, I’ve worked with him plenty of times over the
years. Is he here tonight?” She glances around.
“Yes,” I jump in, redirecting her attention to me. “But as for my book you two have been discussing...”
“Oh. Well. I’m not... recalling any recent correspondence...”
My fingers are beginning to wind around each other in front of me, poor immature habit, and I pull them back to my sides in a mature manner. “I think you’ve had my manuscript, Water Under the Bridge , for a few months now. You received the proposal. Asked for the manuscript to read over the holidays. I believe it’s been”—I
pause, pretending I don’t know exactly how long it’s been—“about a year since his first email.”
Three hundred and eighty-two days.
Florence’s eyes give a flash of pity. “Oh. Hm.” She presses her lips together, thinking.
“No...” Her eyes drift away from me again, searching for him, and I have a sinking feeling in my chest. “I think I would
remember anything from Jack. He has such talented authors”—she throws a hand out at me, as if offering up a consolation prize—“no
doubt such as you. Are you published?”
“I—” I feel a growing sickness coming over me I don’t understand. “No, well, a bit...”
How does she have no recollection of any conversation about me?
I’ve talked with Jack a hundred times over the past year about his conversations with Florence Peters. A hundred times. How could her memory of something so vastly important to me amount to nothing ?
“What’s your genre?” she continues kindly.
“It’s—um—” But I’m finding it hard to answer. Not only because saying, “It’s magical realistic, semi-biographical women’s
fiction,” is incredibly confusing, but also because the conversation isn’t anything like I imagined. This isn’t how this conversation is supposed to go.
This is why I have an agent. He is the one with the talent who understands how to pitch.
“I’m just, I have to say, very surprised. Are you... are you quite sure you haven’t gotten anything from him?” I tiptoe with my words.
“Maybe it was another editor at Brooks.” Her eyes are even softer in pity. In fact, she’s going off and filling the glass
I’ve been holding numbly in my hands with water. Somebody draws her attention from the corner of her eye, and she gives me
a little I’m sorry about this smile. “I’ll be sure not to forget this conversation though. Have Jack email me. I’ll look forward to your—well—whatever it is you write,” she says with a light laugh. “It’ll be a little surprise!”
She turns and moves off into the crowd.
And I continue to stand there at the table, dumbfounded, so long that someone asks me to move aside so they can get in.
People are chatting around me.
The hum of people laughing gayly in their shiny sequins with their hair in clips.
Someone in a conversation to my right is stoking Amelia’s ego with gushing compliments about how The Seven-Year Holiday helped her get through her reading slump.
Amelia is responding with shock and thanks as though nobody has ever said anything nice to her in her life, leading to a sudden
onslaught of a dozen women throwing compliments.
But one thing sticks out in all of this.
One thing that sticks me to this spot, unable to move.
Unable to think.
Jack never emailed Florence Peters.
Never.
And slowly, painfully, I’m watching the columns crash around me and dust kick up into the air, considering the domino effect
on my life of that one, oh so important fact.
If Jack never emailed Florence Peters, maybe... Jack has never pitched my book.