Chapter 5. Holly
Holly
She hadn’t been inside Serena’s Psychic Studio since she went with her mother for a reading shortly after Anna’s death. Serena was Beauport’s most famous medium; everyone who sought answers from the beyond went to see her, Holly’s mother included.
Holly didn’t actually believe in all that psychic mumbo jumbo. You lived, you died, and then you got sent into the great nothingness. But she wanted to have her coffee away from the annoying busker, who was bad enough to make Tom Petty’s spirit show up with a cease-and-desist order.
The shop was as Holly remembered. It was inviting, with soft light emanating from an assortment of glass lamps, reflecting off colorful crystals, gems, and pendants likely meant to provide protection to the wearer.
Tapestries covered the walls, lending additional warmth to the atmosphere.
Holly sat on a plush red chair intended for readings, and Serena took the bridge chair opposite her.
Earthy-smelling incense, strangely enticing, relaxed Holly, like a smoky drug.
Wooden shelves stocked full of glittering crystals, various occult oddities, including a deck of gilded tarot cards, as well as books about astrology and the esoteric, competed for Holly’s attention.
Scattered throughout were statues of Buddha and other deities whom Holly couldn’t identify, let alone worship.
She felt like she was floating in a spiritual bath connecting her to other realms, realities visible only to those with special sight.
Holly’s special sight was limited to the reading glasses she purchased at the drugstore.
“You look well,” Serena began. “I’ve been following your career success.”
Holly suppressed the urge to blurt out the truth.
When it came to publishing, people didn’t want to know about the struggle—the reviewers who crafted cruelty with twisted glee; the large chain bookstores that carried two copies of a recent release, if that, thinking they were doing you a favor; the salespeople who looked at Holly like she was a vandal anytime she offered to sign their paltry stock.
Once, Holly would have given a book talk to an empty room if it weren’t for two people looking for a place to knit and a homeless woman who stumbled in to get warm. After the talk, Holly tried to give the woman some money, but she took off before having the chance.
“Yes, it’s all going quite well—a dream come true.” Holly grimaced inwardly at the lie.
“I’m so glad,” said Serena. “And how’s your mother? Is she here with you?”
Holly felt a sharp stab of grief. She flashed back to the last time she’d seen her mother at the memory care facility.
Her mom looked so fragile; she was thin everywhere, skin clinging to the bone, veins visible. Her hair, coarse and thinning, had been cut short, as though marking how much time she had left. Gone were the blue eyes of her youth, replaced by a milky haze.
Her doctors diagnosed it as pseudodementia, probably caused by depression.
According to her MRIs, Holly’s mother shouldn’t have experienced such a significant cognitive decline.
The initial symptoms were mild—fading memory, malaise, loss of appetite.
As anyone familiar with the unpredictable effects of grief would expect, they appeared shortly after Anna’s death.
However, her condition worsened rapidly, resulting in poor recall, insomnia, and grim hallucinations.
The nurses were very attentive. Carol developed a close bond with one caregiver in particular and sometimes seemed to remember her better than her own daughter.
The staff treated her mother like family, which made sense because Carol Sinclair had spent much of her career working as a traveling nurse.
Sadly, by the time she was under their care, she could barely change a Band-Aid.
Holly had taken her mother’s frail hand in hers.
“Mom, maybe we should sell the beach cottage. We could afford better care for you. You could live with me, and I could hire some help.” Tears had sprung to her eyes. She didn’t want her mother trapped in this gray, depressing room that smelled of bodily fluids mixed with disinfectant.
“Anna is there,” her mother answered in a raspy, tired voice.
“No, Mom … Anna is gone. It’s just me, Holly. Your living daughter.”
“She’s always there,” her mother had said, her voice bolder, firmer this time.
Holly snapped back to the present, returning to Serena, almost forgetting the question about her mother.
“No, it’s only me, I’m alone. My mom—she passed away recently.
” Holly felt the familiar lump form in her throat.
She cleared it with a hard swallow. “I’m going to live here for a while, fix up the cottage… ”
Serena’s hand reached for Holly’s. “I am so sorry to hear that,” she said, her eyes brimming with sympathy. “I wish I had known. I would have come for the services. Carol was such a dear friend for many years.”
Holly remembered Serena’s visits from her younger days.
She and Anna would titter at the silly predictions the young psychic gave their mother over coffee or dinner at the cottage.
Their grandfather thought it was all nonsense as well.
But Serena had been a kind, steady presence in her mother’s life, and for that they were all grateful.
Carol carried a deep loneliness after the loss of her husband, and Serena’s friendship had been a healing salve during their summers in Beauport.
Serena gave Holly’s hand a reassuring squeeze. “She’s here with us in spirit. I hope you believe that.”
Holly returned a forced smile—she did not believe it.
“Thank you. You meant a lot to my mother. I miss her every day, and I sometimes wonder if she’s watching over me, the way she believed Anna did.
” Holly paused, hoping to escape the flood of emotions that threatened to overwhelm her.
She looked out the window at the sparkling ocean in the distance and changed the subject as smoothly as she could.
“So how’s business? I’ve come to Beauport hoping it’ll be a good place to work—get some inspiration for a new novel. ”
“Oh, there’s no shortage of inspiration in this beautiful town,” Serena said. “What are you working on?”
Holly’s reluctance to share the dire turn her career had taken clashed with a compelling urge to tell someone—anyone—about her recent conversation with her agent, Dan Bishop.
She’d given Dan her first draft of The Ashford Orchard Chronicles.
The book wasn’t where she wanted it to be.
The grandmother’s character needed fleshing out; her backstory about the affair with the itinerant apple picker wasn’t quite working.
And the conflict with the middle daughter, trapped between a desire to appease her mother by staying at the farm and a wish to follow her dreams to the West Coast, could be weightier.
But she liked how the characters leapt off the page, how the sisterly bond felt real, with pieces of it pulled from Holly’s experiences with Anna.
She’d hoped Dan would be able to rush a deal with her publisher, knowing full well that speed went with publishing like patience did a toddler.
Unfortunately, Dan’s reaction was worse than Holly had anticipated. Her publisher wasn’t serious about re-upping at all.
“It’s not the book, Holly—it’s the sales record,” Dan had said over the phone. “They don’t want to insult you with an offer that doesn’t match your acclaim.”
“My acclaim?” Holly was aghast. “Have you ever tried to eat acclaim, Dan? It’s deficient in almost every macronutrient. What the hell were they offering?”
Holly heard the number and gasped. “Holy hell, I’m dead.”
“There’s not a writing career out there that’s traveled in a straight line,” Dan assured her.
“King. Grisham. Roberts. Their lines seem to always go up.”
“You can reinvent,” he said.
That was agent code for writing something with murders or bodice-ripping protagonists, which had never been Holly’s cup of tea. She didn’t need to reinvent—she needed a backer with deep pockets, someone who believed in her talent. Too bad that someone wasn’t her publisher.
“Dan, please, last year I was Patron of Letters for the Virginia Literary Awards—that’s a big honor. And I got long-listed for a PEN American Center award only a few years ago. That should be worth something.”
“It would be if you’d won.”
Ouch. That hurt, but Holly worked with Dan for his honesty, not his tact.
He had a point. People loved winners, and Holly was always an “almost” when it came to the big awards.
She’d been long-listed also for a Massachusetts Book Award and an Andrew Carnegie Medal for Excellence, none of which she’d won.
She could call herself Holly Long-List, like a pirate.
“What can we do, Dan?” Holly had asked. “I need money—stat.”
“Try writing something that sells,” suggested Dan, which had sent Holly’s blood pressure skyrocketing.
“I do that with every book,” she said. “I wouldn’t want my name on the cover of something I didn’t think was worth purchasing.”
“Holly, I’m not talking about your skill,” said Dan. “I’m talking about your approach. Maybe it’s time you told a more … I dunno, universal story. Something geared toward the masses.”
“How about a book about learning mindfulness from a cat?” suggested Holly.
Dan’s voice brightened. “Yeah, that, but it’s already been done. Meow Mindfulness—it’s flying off the shelves. Have you read it?”
“Fuck, Dan. I know all about it. Hell, I own a copy. I was joking. And besides, it’s not really fiction, even though it is fiction.”
“Right—yeah,” Dan stuttered. “Well, at least it’s selling.
Look, Holly, you’re a brilliant writer. But if it’s money you need, you may want to broaden your horizons.
Next summer, imagine everyone reading Holly Sinclair’s first-ever romance or mystery or thriller.
Those sell like hotcakes … not that I’ve ever actually bought a hotcake, but the point stands.
It could be your ticket out of trouble.”
Holly winced as she recalled her first attempt at writing a novel like that, a book she’d started the summer she turned twenty-two.
It had all the ingredients Dan told her to include—love, betrayal, revenge, and deadly secrets.
She couldn’t think of anything more cringe-inducing than rereading those words from her younger days.
But even worse was facing the real reason she had stopped writing that story in the first place.
Holly inhaled the incense that filled the room, returning to the moment and to Serena’s question: What are you working on? Like Holly had never heard that one before. The only inquiry more common at a book talk was: Where do you get your ideas? Yawn.
“Maybe I should write about hearing ghosts,” Holly said, sheepishly sharing her wake-up call the night before. Although she was certain that the source of the noise she’d heard had a pulse, it was a good segue out of the writing business.
Serena’s eyes brightened. “It’s probably Anna. Let me come over. I’ll do a reading. No charge at all.” She was practically begging. “Consider it a welcome-back-to-the-neighborhood gift.”
Free anything was Holly’s catnip, and her pragmatic side kicked in like a reflex.
The exterminator she’d called would charge 150 bucks, regardless of whether they found a critter.
Holly feared encountering something up there with sharp teeth and beady red eyes.
Having Serena beside her would make exploring the attic a little less frightening.
Besides, it would be nice to have company.
She accepted the offer with gratitude.
“Wonderful,” Serena said. “I’ll see you tonight at eight. And you can tell me all about your exciting life as a published author!”