Epilogue
Two months later
It wasn’t the water pill. It wasn’t the booze.
It wasn’t the mixture of those two elements, either, that made Melanie Joan post that horrifying comment on Book Babe’s review, because, as it turned out, she’d never posted it.
Like every other terrible thing that had happened to her back in July, the comment that had gotten her into so much hot water had been Greg Scepter’s doing.
But at least he let her know.
After copping a plea deal (twenty-five years in prison, no parole), Scepter took out a full-page ad in The New York Times—an apology to Melanie Joan Hall that he claimed to be writing in memory of his mother:
Ms. Hall posted a few juvenile insults that might have offended some.
But I used my program to take them into the stratosphere.
I asked my AI, “What are the worst things one woman can say to another?” and it obliged.
I added those hateful words to a screenshot of her original comment and spread it all over the Web. For that I am truly sorry.
The apology ad had come out in this morning’s Times, and Melanie Joan had happily devoured every single word.
Right now, she was doing a dramatic reading of it at my kitchen table in front of Spike and Flynn, Richie and myself, Blake and Rosie—a sort of impromptu dinner party we’d thrown to celebrate Scepter’s sentencing.
The timing couldn’t have been better, the sentencing having taken place today, a Monday.
Richie was in Boston Mondays and Tuesdays all summer and fall, and on this particular Monday, Melanie Joan was in town to promote Stronger Alone.
Though the book wouldn’t be out for another six months, her new publisher was sending her on an extensive publicity tour to promote her backlist, rev up interest in the memoir, and spark preorders.
She’d be at the Harvard Coop tomorrow night.
She’d turned down multiple requests from Good Morning Boston—including one that came with two dozen red roses from Sam Sharpe.
Thank God you dumped him, Melanie Joan had told Spike during our monthly Zoom cocktail hour, before theatrically tossing the roses into the garbage.
She kept reading. “ ‘I know now that Melanie Joan Hall is one of the greats,’ ” she said, her voice a pretty good approximation of Greg’s.
“ ‘And I intend to spend many years reading her books and escaping into the glorious worlds she has created.’ ” She put the newspaper down.
“I am satisfied with that piece of writing,” she said.
“I can only hope it wasn’t created by AI. ”
“I don’t know. ‘Escaping’ may not be the best choice of words,” Spike said.
“Good point,” Melanie Joan said.
“Speaking of good points,” I said. “Remember that not-so-good one you made in July, about how the world has changed and readers want different things and so it might be time to retire?”
Melanie Joan sighed. “Sunny Randall, who can never resist an I-told-you-so.”
“Guilty as charged. But that’s not what I’m saying.”
“What are you saying?” Richie said.
I thought about everything that had happened within the past two months—from Melanie Joan’s massive comeback, to Specter Books’ fall from grace, to Mimi Donnelly’s formal adoption of her grandson, Tommy, to the decision of Edward Piro’s three surviving children to take him off life support, give him a proper burial, and execute his will (from which his only son had been notoriously absent) as he had wished.
“I guess I’m saying that not everything has to change,” I said.
“Some things have evolved to the point where they shouldn’t be messed with. At least…not for a while.”
“Books, for instance,” Melanie Joan said.
“Food,” Flynn said. “I mean, this beef stroganoff you cooked…”
My face flushed. Beef stroganoff was one of three dishes I could make adequately—a truth that had existed for my entire adult life. “It’s very old-fashioned, I know,” I said.
“But, Sunny,” Flynn said, “it’s good.”
I looked at Richie, who had served the beef stroganoff to everyone and poured the wine and greeted our guests, and who would later be alone with me, enjoying our time together after five days apart. “Are we good?” I said quietly.
He took my hand in his. “We are,” he said.
Flynn stood up and raised his glass. “To good friends, good food, good reading,” he said, “and to all those other things that don’t need to change in order to thrive.”
I smiled and clinked glasses with everyone, my throat catching a little as I swallowed my wine.
I had to say, it was the best toast I’d ever heard.