Chapter 25
“Oh my word, folks,” Melinda is saying above the claps and cries of awe. She practically yells over everyone as she points
to the screen over her head. “It looks like we missed a little detail on that cover.”
And then to my shock Amelia Benedict’s name dissolves and my own name—MY OWN NAME—emerges in its place. Big, bright, and bold.
brYONY PAGE.
And above it, #1 Bestselling Ghostwriter.
My stomach has flown to my throat.
I am about to throw up. I clutch my heart, eyes giant and round.
But then I feel the quiet press of my hand, and I look down to see Jack giving it a light pressure to balance me again.
I take a breath, and when he sees I’m okay, he lets go.
“This is— No, this—” Amelia’s quaking words are flying underneath the cheers and chants and claps of everyone around us, and
she moves to stand, shifting her attention and increasingly furious expression from Melinda, to Jack, to the traitorous cover,
to me.
“It was you !” Her finger points in all directions, then it seems to land ultimately on me. “And you!” She points at Jack. “The both of
you have worked against me since the beginning. Stealing my books. Making up this—this ridiculous —”
“Don’t forget me!” Penny steps out from the woodwork backstage. She gives an overbright smile, looking incredibly proud of
herself. Waves to the crowd.
And then I see it, the mic on her collar as well.
The Bright Show put me in a soundproof room and wheeled it ever so slowly onstage. And Penny? Was she the one feeding Amelia her lines all this time? No wonder it sounded off. I mean, Haley Frydman, the butcher in The Seven-Year Holiday who collects cotton candy?!
Amelia, after some guidance from the stage officers, marches offstage, headed no doubt for her nearest lawyer. But that will
be another matter for my brain to face when my body is not currently on live TV in front of millions of people .
“So as you can see, folks,” Melinda says, holding her cup up as a man comes by and fills it, flashing a smile to the camera,
“it looks to me like the wool has been fascinatingly pulled over all our eyes the past two years, and right now, for the first time, we are looking at the true author of Sunset over Santorini , Smuggler’s Paradise , A Room for Rose , A Leap of Faith , The Seven-Year Holiday , and who knows?” she says with a shrug and a laugh. “Maybe more. But let’s hear from the author herself. Bryony, let’s grab
you a cup of coffee.”
She motions for me with a pat on the couch to sit beside her.
This isn’t bad .
I’m in shock, but none of this is bad .
In fact, it’s good .
I find myself reminding me of that over and over, forcing myself to settle into this new reality.
On wobbly legs I begin to move forward, and then she adds with a snap and gestures to Jack. “Oh, and I’m given to understand
that you are under a contract of confidentiality, and it was imperative that you be completely oblivious to this entire reveal,”
Melinda says. “So, with respect to that, we’re also going to need your agent up here. Jack, get on up here!” she says with
a massive wave.
I feel the slightest pressure on my lower back as Jack encourages me forward, and together we go to the couch.
The couch.
On The Bright Show .
In the most surreal moment.
Of my entire life.
“So,” Melinda says brightly as I numbly hold a coffee mug into which a man is currently pouring coffee, “tell us... everything. How long have you been writing Amelia’s books?”
“I...” I feel a hiccup of pressure on my throat.
“No comment from Bryony Page,” Jack interrupts with a smile and a gentle hand over my forearm. “But I’ll let you personally
know from my own witness, two years.”
“That’s an incredible amount of writing in a short amount of time. How did you do it?”
“I...” It’s confusing. She’s looking directly at me, prompting me with her eyes.
“Bryony Page is incredibly hardworking,” Jack jumps in. “Not only has she committed to teaching ESL to adult immigrants and
refugees at The Bridge for the past fifteen years, following in the steps of her grandmother, but she continues to work faithfully
teaching these students during the day and writing all of the books by night. And weekends.” He laughs. “And lunch breaks.
And every spare moment she can.”
“Wow,” Melinda says, and I see a flicker of real-live approval in her eyes. Admiration. And it feels like a balm to my soul
after years of being misunderstood. “And can you tell us more about this fascinating place, Bryony? The Bridge? I’ve been
told that this is the real-life setting of Meet Me Under the Bridge .”
I hesitate.
I’m not sure if I can speak to the story. It was accepted as part of my contract this past week. The book belongs to Amelia
now.
And as though Jack knows what I’m thinking, he leans over and whispers quietly to me, “I told you I wasn’t going to accept
your manuscript. This book is yours.”
“Brooks isn’t taking it?” I whisper back, all while Melinda smiles as the happy third wheel, looking entirely accustomed to
fervent whispers on the couch on live TV between couples. Or former couples. Or just people.
“I didn’t say that,” he says. “I said I didn’t accept the manuscript on Amelia’s behalf. Every publisher under the sun will want this book when it gets publicity like this. Even those, perhaps, with a list,” he says suggestively.
He smiles and nods at Melinda as though to say, “ There’s a lot more to this behind the scenes, but this isn’t the time for that conversation. This is the time to tell the
world about your book. Just trust me. ”
Trust him.
I take a breath.
Feeling the barriers break down.
My chest open up.
“And as for that second book under your contract with Amelia,” Jack says louder, “I advise you, as your agent, if you’ll have
me, to terminate the contract, given that there simply will not be time with your new life. As an author under your own name.
With your very busy life teaching students at The Bridge . And who knows?” Jack shrugs. “Maybe you’ll find time for hearing out and forgiving a very stupid man who made a stupid mistake
in the past too.”
A rush of “oooohs” goes round the audience, and Melinda’s eyes spark with joy. “And as if today couldn’t get any brighter, folks, here it looks like”—she throws out a hand at us—“we have love in the mix too. Oh, my heart.” She claps her palm on her chest, then points brazenly at the two of us. “So what is this between
you two?”
My cheeks are hot and must be flaring pink. I open my mouth, but Jack jumps in. “That might be a great question for another
day, Melinda. In the meantime, you were asking Bryony Page about Meet Me Under the Bridge .”
He looks to me with expectation.
I notice Jack is adding my full name in every sentence he can. It’s a plan. A tactic. He’s searing my name into people’s memories.
Reminding them over and over and over again with that cover on-screen: brYONY PAGE. brYONY PAGE. brYONY PAGE.
And now—with the romantic intrigue and the hint of a second visit—there’s a plan there too. Securing getting me on The Bright Show a second time.
The man is an absolute genius.
“Right,” I say, after an intake of breath. “The Bridge. Well. The Bridge is a place very special to my heart...”
And so I go on, sharing all about The Bridge. The people. The troubles financially and how the threat of having to shut down
inspired me to write this story. I delicately step around any implications of writing for Amelia, keep everything aboveboard.
And whenever I get close, Jack is there to jump in. Squeeze my hand. Interject a strategic word here and there that keeps
me from saying anything that could get me in trouble.
The audience absolutely eats it all up.
Every time he touches my hand.
Every time he compliments me.
They seem to love not just my works but also the way Jack so openly and proudly props me up. Supports me. Cheers me on. Keeps
me—legally, that is—from harm.
My thoughts fly to my next book.
Wouldn’t it be fun to write about such a charming agent in shining armor?
I feel a zing and the itch to grab my notebook, start plotting out points now.
Huh. I didn’t know if I would ever be able to write again after all this.
“Well, this has been positively fascinating,” Melinda says, for the fiftieth time this morning. “Bryony—Page,” she adds, with
a surreptitious look at Jack and a curvy little smile, “I think I can speak on behalf of everyone here today and say we are
in awe of your dedication to the place behind this incredible story to come.” She glances at Jack, who mouths the date, then she
says, “March of next year, folks. That’s what we’re aiming for. Meet Me Under the Bridge . And we have heard your struggles. Your triumphs. Your loyalty and sacrifice, and I have no doubt that the publication of this book will reap many benefits for this incredible organization that will keep it on its feet. But —”
Water forms in my eyes as I comprehend her words.
“—just to be sure,” she says, her grin widening, “on behalf of The Bright Show , we want to offer a permanent partnership and add this wonderful and meaningful organization to our charity list. Starting with this.”
And before I know it, two staff members in bright yellow T-shirts come onstage, carrying on their shoulders a massive check,
with the number two followed by a lengthy line of zeros, and the words The Bridge in the recipient line.
I can’t even think.
I’m frozen.
Frozen in shock.
I don’t think I’ll ever be able to move again.
My mouth has dropped open, and an unnerving chill runs through my body.
I’ve turned to plastic. Right here. On this green couch.
“Very good signature!” somebody calls out in the audience.
Socorro?
Melinda laughs. Points to the audience. “And this might be a nice time to give you one more surprise,” Melinda says. “Will the students and former students under brYONY PAGE who have been able to join us today please
take a moment to stand?”
And then I see it.
Dozens and dozens of people in bright pink moving to stand. Grins splayed across their faces. Newer faces and those from early
days. Serghei. Fen. Miho. Saliha.
And at the front are Gran and Gloria. Gran looking out of place in her bright pink T-shirt instead of silk chiffon. Wiping
her eyes with a loose handkerchief as they all clap.
And that’s when I can’t take it anymore.
And I begin to cry too. Big, fat elephant tears that streak down my cheeks and most definitely ruin my makeup.
As the room begins to heave with cheers and hugs and celebratory words, Melinda takes her mug and moves close to the camera and the front of the stage as she always does at the end of every show.
“Well, folks,” Melinda says, smiling at the camera. “It looks like we’ve had another bright and beautiful morning here on
The Bright Show . Together, let’s go out there and make our day great .”