I’m not him.
I could cash out now. Deliver the second book and then go back to my actual plan for life.
Toni paced, even though the serene color palette of her home was specifically chosen to be calming, but Toni had yet to manage talking while angry without moving—or maybe her tendency to move during calls was a result of too many lectures. A moving professor was an engaging professor.
“Sweetie, this is a big deal,” Emily said, voice slipping to her manage-the-author tone. “It’ll be great for photos. They want to shoot some of you and the star ofyour upcoming show.”
“I hate photos,” Toni grumbled. “Addie can do them without me. She’s gorgeous. Have you seen the ad in—”
“Toni, the sales numbers are great, and the publisher wants to discuss the next books in the series.” Emily sounded like she had on those rare nights when Toni was a little too tipsy to be left alone at a bar.
“For real?” Toni felt like the air was sucked out of her. “But the second one isn’t even finished. I can’t—”
“Preorders for Book Two are great,” Emily said mildly.
“They’re selling it before it’s written…?” Toni flopped onto her sofa, disturbing Oscar Wilde. “Can they do that?”
“There’s a show greenlit, a bestselling book, and the sequel is in process,” Emily explained patiently. “Greta is very optimistic. She—and I—have complete faith in you, Toni.”
Oscar Wilde stretched out and jabbed his claws into her leg and then slunk off. Toni stared at her cat, wishing she could be as blunt in her discontent as he was.
“Toni… you have no choice on this. I shouldn’t have let you weasel out of doing a launch event, but now? With the sales? The preorders? The show? You will go for the weekend, and you will stand beside that gorgeous woman and have photos taken topromote your damn books.” Em’s tone of voice came through the phone with enough clarity that Toni could picture her taking off her glasses. Maybe on another day it would elicit guilt. Not today. Today was the anniversary of Anthony Darbyshire’s death. The man who was solidly in the last place for Father of the Year perpetually.
“I hate publicity things,” Toni said. “You know that.”
And I don’t know how to feel about seeing Addie since she’s stopped replying to me,Toni thought.
Emily sighed in that way that made it seem like Toni was the difficult one. Maybe she was. Maybe she wasn’t cut out for this job at all.
Finally, Emily said, “There is a promotion clause in the contract, Toni. Youknowthat. They are exercising their right to have you promote the book at this event. You avoided having a launch event at Cape Dove, so now it’s time to pay the proverbial piper.”
“I don’t have a Victorian suit.” Toni heard the concession in her voice as clearly as Emily undoubtedly did.
“You do, in fact. I ordered some things for you when I sent you the invitation.”
“Somethings? Not a dress? Seriously, Em, there are lines and—”
“Exhale, sweetie,” Emily interrupted. “Right now, you might think I’m a monster for not figuring out how to get you out of upholding one of yourcontractualobligations, but I’m not about to try to force you into a corset or bustle.” Emily chuckled. “Give me a little credit.”
Toni closed her eyes. “What did you order?”
“Best friend before being your agent, sweetie. I know you. Tails. Vest. Several interchangeable pieces. You’ll look like the most dashing Victorian gentlewoman that Cape Dove has ever seen.” Emily’s voice softened as she tried to point out the upsides of this damnable Victorian-immersion weekend.
“Hat?”
“But of course!” Emily laughed. “I’m really looking forward to the publicity photos, you know. I think we ought to use one on the back of the second book. There’ll be a photographer there to take some shots of just you if you cooperate. Honestly, if you like the look, we could order a whole Victorian wardrobe for promo events for future books.”
“I can’t think about another contract, Em. Let me finish thesecondbook and…” Toni hadn’t planned on the first one succeeding like this, so she’d accepted that two-book deal. Instead, she’d already paid off the worst of the debt, and with careful planning and a bit of belt-tightening, she could live off the rest of the incoming money for literalyears.“What if Book Two sucks? What if the show fails? What if tastes shift and lesbian detective books are not viable and… I can’t sign a new contract to write a third book, too, Em. I can’t.”
“There’s a name for this panic, you know,” Emily said, cutting through the rising flood of fear that was filling Toni just then. Lightly, Em added, “Imposter syndrome. What you’re feeling is normal.”
“Em.”
“Toni.” Emily mimicked her tone. “You need to face facts when you feel this way. Your book has legs, Toni. It’s back on the List this week.”
“The List,” spoken with a capital letter, meantThe New York Timesbestseller list. This, in publishing speak, was said the way “tenure” was spoken by the younger members of an academic department. Of course, tenure came with long-term job security, and the List simply meant that publishers wanted to buy more books—preferably of the same genre and success level.
I can’t guarantee the same success level. In fact, I’m pretty certain it won’t match this.
