Chapter 24
The building is huge.
Tunnels and turns that make no logical sense. Signs everywhere. People everywhere.
Throw in my nerves and I’m an absolute wreck.
Gloria has dressed me in the smartest ensemble of my entire life. When she heard what had transpired, it took roughly two
minutes of stunned silence before she broke out of her frozen position, grabbed her purse and my elbow, and announced shrilly,
“Well, if you’re going to go, you’ll need a revenge outfit!”
Apparently, the goal was to remind everyone behind the scenes that I was the brains and the power behind this massive machine
in motion, and that while they put me under their thumb through this humiliating venture, the reality is that I was taking
my “big brain” and “creative genius” (her words, not mine) with me and never stepping in Jack’s sights again.
I don’t feel like I’m going to get any revenge here, of course not, but at the very least I feel like a professional in what
she laid out for me. My pantsuit gives off dignified vibes. The black satin pant legs swish slightly with each footfall, little
whispers of encouragement to keep going. I can do this. Nobody looks at me like I’m out of place.
Nobody looks at me here, really, at all.
I’m invisible. Just another somebody employee walking through on her errands. And that’s good for me.
I pull a wash of brown curls behind my shoulder.
Pause in the tap-tapping of my low-slung, much-too-expensive-but-will-wear-forever heels at the sign on the wall.
There’s a set of big blue doors opposite. The one I was directed to look for in the ensuing emails from last week. I didn’t even read them. Gloria took over. Read and communicated the information to me.
And here we are.
Big blue double doors.
People moving in and out with importance.
Penny spots me from some sort of foyer inside and rushes toward me. “Bryony! There you are!” Grinning widely, she takes me
up around the shoulders and ushers me inside.
I follow numbly.
The world already is starting to spin a little.
Everything is starting to feel like a dream.
That’s because you need to breathe, Bryony. You have literally cut off your oxygen and are about to pass out.
I take in two huge gulps of air.
Continue the simple act of moving forward.
There are no windows. We are in the heart of this massive building, it feels. And behind me, I hear the click of a door shutting.
The walls are bright yellow, forcefully so. Even the batch of sunflowers on the receptionist’s desk seems to scream, “ BE HAPPY!! WE’RE ALL SOOOO HAPPY!! ”
Susanna, for her part, is sitting on the edge of a chair in the corner, seeming equally as uncomfortable as me. A receptionist
is hidden behind the massive bouquet of flowers. A small cluster of people surround Amelia, and I avert my eyes immediately.
I don’t want to know who they are. I don’t want to see or talk to any of them.
Susanna spots me and her eyes light up. She pops up from her chair quietly and is at my side in a moment.
“Bryony!” she says in a hush and gives my hands a little squeeze.
It seems we are on the same page here.
“Hello.” I smile softly.
“This book.” Her eyes are wide, trying it seems to express the depth and weight of her words. “Your book,” she says more quietly. “I just wanted to tell you. It’s... going to make the world a little bit brighter.”
I press my lips into a grateful, if bittersweet, smile. Thankful for the reminder in all of this of what I have to hope for.
There is hope today.
But then my brows knit together. Susanna’s an editor. Not in marketing. Not in publicity. Why is she here?
As if she can read my thoughts, she gives my hands a squeeze and says, “I just wanted to be here to cheer you on.”
My eyes glisten momentarily before I push the tears back in. I nod, noting how personal this is. She never showed up voluntarily
for any of Amelia’s other books. But she’s here for mine. She knows: this book, especially, is mine.
Amelia is set to go live at 8:00 a.m. sharp, and while she answers fluffy questions here and there on this fluff show, there
is a moment at the end where she announces her next book. Forty emails must’ve flown through my inbox this week over the announcement.
Sales wanting to announce Meet Me Under the Bridge at the final moment. Marketing wanting to wait to keep the attention on the current book that has just launched. Editorial
even jumping in with their thoughts here and there.
Everybody had an opinion and emotions got involved, but in the end, editorial (of all departments) and Susanna specifically
was the one to convince the team that while The Seven-Year Holiday is strong, Meet Me Under the Bridge is going to be the big hit. The wonderbook. The, in her words, “perfect rom-com to satisfy hearts and minds.”
They even got the graphic designers to throw all projects aside to focus solely on creating the perfect cover for the announcement.
When I saw it, I cried.
It’s unlike any of Amelia’s previous books. More tame in colors. More muted in palette. A watercolor rendering of the building. Still illustrated, as rom-com covers are, but simpler. Two figures beneath the bridge. A cascading stream falling gently on either side of Amelia’s name at the bottom.
It’s the most beautiful cover I have ever seen.
Perfectly fitting for the story.
Setting the expectations well. People will find love in this story. People will laugh, I can only hope, at the surprising
characters who fill up the pages. In time they will fall in love with the characters. But there is also something deeper to
be expected in Meet Me Under the Bridge . Something to learn about cultures. About growing and widening your world beyond your neighbor’s fence line. About forgiveness.
And letting go. And healing.
And for all of those things I am grateful. I am grateful that today I will get to see it shared with the world. Even if from
behind a wall.
Like a mouse, watching the scene unfold from a quiet corner.
“I don’t like this shade of yellow. I said specifically ‘honey-butter yellow.’ Not whatever—whatever this is.”
Amelia’s voice creeps out of the cluster of people in the corner, and in a glimpse I catch her ensemble. To be fair, she does
look like one of Barbie’s guests invited to a midnight neon roller-skating party. Her highlighter-yellow pencil skirt looks
three inches too short and boxy. The tweed yellow blazer over the yellow blouse looks like someone did indeed color it inch-by-inch
moments ago. In fact, there almost seem to be strikes of highlighter crisscrossing all over the shirt.
“Oh dear.” Penny brushes a hair from her face. She looks rather smart today. And at ease. In fact, I don’t think I’ve ever
seen her looking so happy. “I’ll just—go see what I can find. Hello, Bryony.”
And to my shock, I hear a little snap and can swear I see the tip of a highlighter peeking out of her trouser pocket as she slips her hand in. She gives me a crazed
smile. Everything about her is off today. She even seems un surprised to see me. Like I’ve been here all along. Which, I don’t know...
“ Do that ,” Amelia spits after her.
You know, I never did understand those people who talk about color complementing. How oranges suit some people’s skin color
while reds or greens suit others. It all just sounded like the kind of thing bored middle school girls did at a sleepover
for fun. Like those personality tests where the answers are all pretty much the same. Just now you’re defined by a different
color. Or animal. Or tree.
But today? Looking at Amelia?
I get it.
Yellow does not suit her.
Her face looks pale and sickly between the bright yellow of her ensemble and the bright yellow of her hair. The pink on her
lips looks vibrant—too vibrant. She looks a little like a two-dimensional sketch a child would make. Circle for the head.
Choppy yellow hair that curls at the ends in one massive, 1950s flight attendant swoop. Blocky yellow clothes. Sticks for
legs.
Huh.
Well, isn’t that interesting? Learn something new every day.
A door swings opens and a man strides in, glances up at one of the many clocks on the wall, and claps his hands. He seems
like a busy man. The kind of man who loves to glance up at clocks and find he’s ten seconds away from being late and destroying
his career and everything he’s ever held dear. An adrenaline junkie, perfect for a career in television.
“Let’s take you back, ladies!” the man says, and before I know it, I’m being pressed from behind toward Amelia and the door
off to the side of the receptionist desk.
“Oh dear. Well, I guess we’re out of time.” Penny wheels around to face the door, completely unsympathetic despite the tsk-tsk she’s given. In fact, she looks absolutely euphoric.
Poor dear.
She’s snapping. Snapping before my very eyes.
Amelia is fuming. People are tugging at her from behind, too, and if her hair wasn’t so massive right now, I wouldn’t be surprised to find steam shooting from her ears.
At least there’s no sign of Jack here.
I’m surprised.
But relieved.
I honestly didn’t know how I would be able to face him.
The man swings open another door, and our little troop follows him up one hallway and down the next. Door after door after
door opens until at last we are at a humble-looking little brown door and he grasps the knob. He pauses, turns and gives us
a “shh” sound with his finger pressed to his lips, and opens the door.
I take in a breath.
The room is massive.
Back door to a shining stage in the distance. People are already seated for the live event. Melinda May is already sitting
on a teal couch with somebody, one shiny pointy heel crossed over the other. We wait a few seconds as she speaks some inaudible
words, and then a laugh ripples around the room.
He motions for us to walk ahead.
It seems impossible for anyone to hear us, really. Not unless somebody in a moment of leaning into intrusive thoughts let
out a scream or something.
People in black T-shirts are hovering at various points in the background, moving spotlights, shifting cameras. Flipping pages.
Everybody is concentrated on the conversation occurring between Melinda and her guest. Everyone painfully focused while Melinda
herself leans back and takes a sip of coffee. Like none of this is really around her. Like she’s actually sitting in a little
nook at a breakfast table somewhere fabulous like Cape Cod, having a chat with her little friend.
Wait.
I squint. And correct myself. A little friend named Anna Kendrick.
“You sit here.” The man points to Amelia—who looks even more aggravated that he didn’t refer to her by name. In fact, he’s acting like he doesn’t know who she is at all—though to be fair, Anna Kendrick is onstage, and from the weekly lineup I read in the receptionist area, Tim Tebow is coming on tomorrow.
Amelia finds her way to the black chair and motions to a woman nearby, who jumps into action beside the man with a string
of electronic devices. She’s already pushing back Amelia’s hair to clip the mic onto her blouse as he says, “She’s going to
get you set up and tell you everything you need to know. Now you.” He points at me now. “You come with me.”
“Oh. Okay.” I admit I become a little nervous under his direct stare.
Of course I know I have a job to do, but the reality is, there’s a 99 percent chance this is a marshmallow interview. It’s
a casual, fun-loving television program for the population of America just cracking open their eyes and settling down to a
show while the eggs simmer. Cute little mugs of coffee are involved. Half the time somebody is called to do the Hokey Pokey
blindfolded. Pranks with people popping out of couches. Surprise station-wide gifts of vehicles and hot tubs with two hundred
screaming, out-of-control participants.
This isn’t an intelligent bookstore interview where a fight breaks out among two teams trying to decide whether the protagonist
was “alluding to something deeper with the disposable straw on page 112.” This is pure, easy entertainment.
Amelia’s specialty.
My work here is just to suffer in silence and avoid ending up in court.
The man flips his hand over and beckons me toward him.
Penny and Susanna start to walk behind me, but he holds up his hand. “Just her.”
“O... kay,” I say feebly. “See you on the other side.” I toss a little smile over my shoulder toward Penny and Susanna.
“Have fun!” Penny says, her hands in little excited balls at her sides.
It’s an entirely out-of-place comment given the situation, but at least I’m acknowledged here.
“Step lightly,” he says as we move around lights and cords snaking along the concrete floor and various shadowy figures all
quietly doing their jobs. Everybody is listening intently to the interview. There’s a focus here like none other.
Finally we come to a little door. Unpainted. Something someone in passing would easily take for a storage closet full of mops
and buckets. But no buckets are inside. Just an empty room. And a single metal folding chair.
Okay. I’m definitely dying here. Amelia has hired a hit man.
“Here you go,” he says and I turn to him. He’s trying to usher me in with his hand. There’s even a little flicker of a friendly
smile attached that in this lighting looks very much like a horror movie.
“I’m not... sure,” I say tentatively.
I don’t want to be rude here, even in the face of apparent death, it seems, so I find myself negotiating politely with my
kidnapper. “It’s just a little... lonely looking. What about... um... one of those other rooms? I’m sure I could
sit in the receptionist area where we came in?”
“Mics here.” He ignores me and steps inside. “The room is soundproof—”
Not, for the record, something I’d recommend a kidnapper announce in a pro-con list for why his victim should come inside.
“—and you can see the screen live on the wall.”
I take a couple of steps inside and look above the door. Sure enough, there’s Melinda on her vibrant green couch with her
vibrant pink lipstick and her big smile and yellow sunshine mug that says “LET’S MAKE IT A BEAUTIFUL brIGHT MORNING!”
The man behind me has taken up a remote control and is tapping at the screen. The sound goes up. Melinda’s voice surrounds
us.
A woman is suddenly at my side delicately clipping a mic on my blouse.
“Here’s the remote.” The man places it in my hand.
“Well, I—”
“Water bottles are in the corner.”
Well. It’s not a kidnapping at least. More like prison. But the nice, air-conditioned, and stocked with Scandinavian mountain–sourced
water in a mini fridge type.
“Your agent is just getting mic’d up now.”
“My... agent?” I feel that familiar pinch in my chest. “Why... ?”
He shuts the door.
After a little inspection to ensure there’s no electricity line running through the chair, I take a seat.
Well well well.
So I’m in the show’s “secret room.” How many of the celebrities who come on here have their own people for such purposes?
Makes sense if you think about it. All those celebrities being unusually hilarious at eight in the morning when put on the
spot. Maybe this is where all their improv specialists sit, throwing out lines through mics in their ears.
“All right, I’m ready,” Jack says, opening the door and stepping inside. He looks around for a chair and the stage manager
takes approximately one millisecond to snap his head back and hiss, “Chair!”
Three humans emerge simultaneously, each carrying a chair.
The manager grabs the one closest and rests it on the floor beside me. He listens to something in his ear for a moment, then
nods, takes the remote from my hand, presses Mute, and sets it back in Jack’s. “I believe we’re ready,” he says, and I’m not
sure exactly whom he’s directing his words to—us or the people in his headset.
Regardless, he grabs the doorknob, says, “Five minutes,” and pulls it shut.
Leaving Jack and me together.
In this soundproof room.
Alone.
My brow rises at the sight of a mic line running from the collar of Jack’s shirt.
Jack is straight to business. “The job is simple, Bryony. Answer the questions—honestly, to the best of your ability—and this
should all be over in thirty-six minutes.” He pauses. “I’m sorry it had to come to this.”
“It’s fine,” I reply politely. I’m sitting straight up. As in, rod straight toward the ceiling.
“Do you want to... talk... for a moment?” he says tentatively.
I shake my head firmly. Decide to stare at the screen. “No. I’d rather not say anything that could get me sued, thank you
very much. Once is enough for a lifetime.”
Jack rubs his face. Looks at me for several long moments. Then nods at the floor. “Here we go. And, Bryony?”
He leaves my name so maddeningly long in the air I eventually reply with a tart, “What?”
“Just know, I was always and will always root for you.”
Something draws his attention in his earpiece, and he nods. “Audio is on,” he says to me and unmutes the screen. Why does
he get the earpiece? Where is mine?
What is going on?
Melinda’s voice comes out loud through the screen. “And here to welcome us on this bright and beautiful Thursday morning.
You all know her. You’ve all heard her name. The queen of fiction herself. Let’s all give a warm welcome to Amelia Benedict!”
The camera pans to hundreds of fans standing, cheering, whistling all around. Multiple people are wearing the show’s “signature
colors.” It’s a room of bright pink and pearls. I squint. Is that... is that Yun Hee?
The camera pans over to Amelia, who is now standing, leaning forward, hugging Melinda like they are dear, dear friends.
“Oh my goodness, how long has it been since you’ve been on?” Melinda says as she squeezes Amelia. “ So good to have you on again.”
“I have thought of nothing else all week,” Amelia says brightly. It’s her classic “welcome on” line. The one I heard repeated a dozen times at every location
we went to.
“Come. Come and grab a seat and tell us, how are you doing?” Melinda grabs her mug of coffee someone has just repoured and sits down. She crosses one leg over the other. “ The Seven-Year Holiday has just launched.”
“That’s right. Three weeks ago.” Her face is one massive grin. No one would connect the jab Amelia just took, but the reality is, the team had been trying to get her on The Bright Show for launch day and was denied (something about Martha Stewart showing people how to pot tomatoes), and Amelia was, in a word,
furious.
“It’s just such a pity we couldn’t have connected on the big day.” Amelia flashes a bright smile.
“Isn’t it?” Melinda grins back, looking not sorry at all. “Anyway, you are here now.” She gives Amelia’s knee a big pat. One
that starts with a hearty pat and morphs into a stronger body-jiggling shake. “Tell us how it’s been. I hear you have a riveting story about a rogue”—and she turns to face the cameras with a get a load of this look—“ squirrel that entered a bookstore during an event. Apparently you fed it from your hand ?”
And for several minutes I sit there in tense silence beside Jack, watching as Amelia talks and laughs about all the various
menial aspects of her life that she fluffs up with bogus details to sound interesting. She did not, in fact, save the squirrel’s
life at the bookstore. The squirrel ran in through the open door before the start of the event, and her response was to scream
and throw peanuts at it until it ran away.
Melinda is chuckling like this is the best , most fabulous story of her life as Amelia finishes. “Well, look at that, folks. Amelia has cap tured even the hearts of woodland animals with her fabulous books. Now about those books, I’m wanting to hear more.”
And here’s the pivot.
I’m waiting for the elementary-level question. The “Tell us all, what would your characters drink in the morning? Coffee?
Or tea?”
Which is why I’m stunned when her voice suddenly changes, and she says very seriously, “How specifically does the incident
of 1942 affect the way Rose’s grandmother related to her granddaughter during the cup and saucer moment in chapter 12? Would
the outcome have been different if her grandmother had not experienced these issues?”
“What?” I bite my lip. This is absolutely not what I was expecting and, from the look on Amelia’s face, a surprise to her as well. I mean, last time she was on, Melinda
had her play the “tube of lipstick game” and pick color ranges that were most suited to her characters (alongside a free lipstick
bag for every person in the studio).
“Well,” I begin, thinking rapidly. It takes a moment. I have to admit, my brain has been swirling with thoughts of Meet Me Under the Bridge the past week; it’s hard to think back three books ago. But after a few seconds, it clicks. “I guess I would say,” I begin
through the mic, assuming I’m speaking directly into Amelia’s ear, “Rose’s grandmother offered up that specific cup and saucer
during that scene because the Patricia saucer related to her time in Japan, when her husband was stationed in the air force during World War II—which is how Rose’s
mother, Patricia, got her name. It symbolized her reminding her granddaughter how precious her mother was to her and simultaneously
symbolized letting go of toxic habits in order to put more attention toward cherishing her granddaughter. Though they had
lost their mother and daughter, Patricia was the bond that united them.”
Jack has muted the screen while I speak, no doubt so I can focus, and I watch the screen as I speak. There is a screen behind Amelia’s head with moving text of what I said. I can only see the bottom half of the screen, but it’s obvious someone is typing out what I (through Amelia) say.
Amelia is gesturing widely with her hands, smiling and laughing with the perfect entertainer face as she always does.
“Oh,” I add after a few moments, “and yes, that scene would have been entirely different if Rose’s grandmother hadn’t had
those experiences in life. The entire book would be pivoted, in fact.”
I watch in silence as Amelia’s mouth moves with confidence, her lips and hands moving in rhythm as she gives her answers with
grand expressions.
Melinda nods. Nods again.
Jack unmutes as Melinda talks again. He’s a bit slow on the clicker, and her words come in after she begins her sentence.
“—so interesting, Amelia. Thank you for sharing this with us. And a follow-up question: When Rose is in the bookstore seeking
information about the history of the cup, she gets an unexpected answer about her grandmother’s tumultuous past. What do you
think this says broadly about the creation of storytelling? Do you feel like she should have found the cup?”
I frown. “What cup? I’m sorry, but I think you are mistaken. In A Room for Rose there is no scene about discovering a cup.”
It’s muted again.
And I can see Amelia splaying her hands out, speaking, and Melinda leaning forward. Nodding intently. Oddly, grinning.
I mean, this isn’t that exciting of an answer.
Jack unmutes again.
“Fascinating,” Melinda says. “And do you think Bill’s love for Rose is why she holds that cup so dear?”
My brows shoot up. “Who’s Bill?”
And I have to be crazy, but it looks like Amelia is nodding with a confident, “Absolutely.”
But there are my words on the screen behind her. Right? I can’t see the top of the screen, but what I am saying is being typed over her head.
“Mm-hmm.” Melinda looks enraptured. “And how long did it take Bill to realize he needed to escape back into the city?”
“What city?” I say, my voice rising. “I don’t— There’s no city involved in this story. Maybe...” My wheels are turning,
trying to process what’s going on here. “Maybe you’re thinking of one of my earlier stories? Sunset over Santorini ?”
But Melinda is nodding and bobbing her heel as she listens while Amelia answers.
“Amazing,” Melinda says.
“What’s amazing?” I cast a bewildered glance over to Jack for the first time. “This is not what I said,” I hiss. “I don’t—”
And there Jack is, however, with a curious little smile on his face. The tiniest flicker.
And it hits me.
Hard.
In the chest.
I’ve seen that expression on his face. The memory of those first days, the first time we ended up peeling off to do something
not specifically work related. We were having a business lunch. It was going well. I was sharing my thoughts about a manuscript;
he was bouncing back ideas. It was merely two weeks after our first meeting. And then his phone alarm went off. He made a
face as if he knew he was caught losing track of time and had just remembered another commitment.
He said, “Care to continue this conversation on the move?”
And before I knew it, my feet were on the fan side of a peewee field, and I was motioning madly with the other moms and dads
and aunts and uncles for a little three-and-a-half-year-old boy named Jack—named after his uncle Jack—after he hit the ball
with his little bat and started doing front rolls instead of running to first base.
We didn’t end up talking more about work that day. But we did talk about what felt like everything else under the sun. And that day, when his nephew slowly front-rolled his way to first base, was when I first saw that look on Jack’s face. Pride.
Quiet pride.
And that’s exactly how he is looking at me now.
“And for all new or soon-to-be fans out there, I think it’s time we do a fun little game with your backlist of books. A hot
seat, if you will. Shall we, everyone?”
Amelia’s smile looks stiff as Melinda glances around the audience, and an eruption of cheers ensues.
“I think we have our answer.” Melinda laughs as she shifts her attention back to the camera and audiences everywhere. “Okay,
Amelia, the rules are simple. I name a character; you name what book they’re in. Ready?”
“Sounds fun.” Amelia grins. I can see her mind though. She’s just as confused about this as me. There are no fancy lipsticks
to draw on dolls blindfolded. There’s no dramatic story to unfold here. Just... quiz work. Dull at that for the nonreader.
And yet the audience is going wild for it.
Melinda draws up a finger.
Pauses as we hear a buzzer.
“And here we go. Josie,” she says, and all of a sudden, the timer starts.
“ Sunset over Santorini ,” I say like rapid fire, spurred on by the sound of the timer ticking loudly over the speaker.
“ A Room for Rose ,” I hear Amelia say with a confident smile.
“What?” This time I stand. Point at the TV. “No. No .”
“Denton?” Melinda says challengingly.
“ A Leap of Faith ,” I spout.
“ A Room for Rose also.” Amelia grins even wider.
“Perfect,” Melinda says.
“ WHAT? ” I cry out. I look to Jack now accusingly. “What’s going on?”
And then a thought comes to mind. A terrible, horrible thought.
First Jack threatens to sue. Now this. Is he somehow trying to destroy my life entirely? The vengeful agent who couldn’t handle his client leaving him? The angry lover who has now locked me into
this safe room and broken my mic system and nobody will believe me, that I gave the right answers? That I was doing my absolute best to do the right thing and get out of here?
I have no evidence.
Nobody will believe me.
It’s just Jack and me in here. All alone.
“Haley Frydman?” Melinda says.
“ Smuggler’s Paradise .” I know full well it won’t come through, but I have to try anyway.
“The butcher in The Seven-Year Holiday who collects cotton candy,” Amelia says promptly, then pauses, catching herself.
“Interesting,” Melinda says. “Cotton candy, you say?”
“Well...,” Amelia says, then coughs, looking a little puzzled at her own response. She recrosses her legs. “Anyway.” She
gives a little laugh and picks up her coffee mug. “Hot seat, am I right?” She chuckles, blows into her coffee, then takes
a sip.
Melinda laughs heartily. A little too heartily. A “ha-ha-ha,” and then she crosses her legs again with a more serious expression.
“It is a funny little game, isn’t it?” She gives a pointed look to the audience, and they laugh all the more.
Melinda sits back and shifts gears. You can see it on her face as she uncrosses her legs. “And now, if you haven’t been holding
on to your seats already, folks, buckle up now, because we have an exclusive announcement here at The Bright Show this morning.” Melinda’s teeth seem to glow even whiter as her smile just bursts with anticipation.
She points toward the screen behind her. “Folks, the author of all of these books we discussed this morning, right here, right now, the true author we have come to love and admire for her stories chock-full of wit and substance, this author has written what I can only believe to be the most sizzling story of the year next year, actually jumping off from firsthand experience herself—”
Amelia’s smile flickers in surprise.
And then it flashes up on-screen.
The cover of Meet Me Under the Bridge in all its glory.
“ Meet Me Under the Bridge ,” Melinda cries triumphantly. “And isn’t it absolutely stunning ?”
I feel a slight quake, like a group of people have just stopped outside the door.
I reach for the wall beside me, steadying myself.
She’s right. The cover is absolutely stunning.
Even though I’ve looked at it a dozen times, I can’t help taking in an admiring breath as I see it announced for the first
time to others. I find myself stepping toward the screen, but a foot away, watching people’s reactions. Feeling little drops
of pleasure as I see their nods of acceptance of this new work. Of admiration. They love it too.
“Can you tell us, Amelia, what this book is going to be about?” Melinda says.
And I’m ready for this.
Of all books, of all the stories I’ve ever written, this one is dearest to my heart.
But this time as Amelia begins to speak, something horrible happens.
I hear my own voice coming over the speakers, over the... over the television... as well?
“It’s about a bridge in Newport,” Amelia begins, just as I, holding the wall, say, “It’s about a teacher who builds up an
ESL program in the small town of Florence—”
“And the...”—Amelia’s voice slows down as her eyes pop wide—“the bridge... breaks and...” Her eyes swivel off camera
to a giant box that has just arrived onstage on her left—a large nondescript box with a nondescript door that looks quite a bit like the one I walked inside just a few minutes ago. “ What the— ”
And then, out of nowhere, there is a slam and a rush of air as all four walls around Jack and me fall to the ground. The wall I was just holding on to has collapsed beneath my fingertips.
And my hand is still raised up, holding nothing but air, as I look out.
I’m standing in the middle of the stage, staring at Amelia and Melinda on one side, and two hundred audience members on the
other.