Victoria let out a low laugh. “Oh, no. We have no idea if she will even agree. But, well, at this point, she might not have a choice.”
A man I didn’t know with bushy eyebrows hurried in and dropped a stack of papers in front of Victoria. “That NDA you requested, Mrs. Abbott.”
“Thank you, Wade,” she called to the man’s back. She smiled at me. “Wade’s not really one for small talk.”
I knew I needed a lawyer, but I didn’t have the money for that, so I took the papers and said, “I’m going to need to read these.”
“Of course,” Victoria said smoothly. “But can I take that as a yes? We’re really on a time crunch here.”
My mind raced with all the Bookstagrammers I’d reached out to, the essay ideas I’d pitched, the social media I was desperately trying to grow. For my own author brand. For books I wouldn’t be writing anymore. Worst of all, if I didn’t have another novel, my whole hometown would know that I was a failure. I would have to go back, tail between my legs, the dreamer who couldn’t hack it. “If I do this, would you takea look at another idea from me? Maybe in a different genre, if you’re worried Elizabeth and I would overlap too much? What about something contemporary? Contemporary romance is so in right now!”
Jamie looked at Victoria and then nodded. “I think Elizabeth might be our Regency queen. But we could use a contemporary princess for sure.”
“Or a romantasy regent?” Victoria quipped.
I wanted to take part in the fun, but I was dangerously close to crying. I had gotten a friend to cover my shift at Salty Sip for only an hour and a half. I had imagined how I’d burst back in with amazing news. But now that was all over. Everything was over.
I had a vision of leaving Salty Sip and going to the liquor store. Not for alcohol. For empty boxes. Because if I didn’t do this, there would be no choice but to pack up my belongings and head back home. I was the bright, golden small-town girl who was going to make it big. And now my star had burned out before it had ever even had a chance to rise.
Chapter 2
Heartless Cappuccino
Elizabeth
Awriter’s world is a world built on routine. Sure, it is shaped by passion, by vision, by those extraordinary bursts of light, moments of “knowing.” But its foundation is rather dull. And I had mine: morning water, beach walk, pair of hard-boiled eggs, cup of coffee. A moment alone with my journal on the front porch, clearing my mind. Then writing. Two thousand words, come hell or high water.
Except ... I hadn’t written one stark word in more than three years.
Yet today I woke up feeling levelheaded, hopeful,ready. Yes, it had been a while since I had written. But today was the day that would change all that. I threw on my exercise clothes, had my glass of water, and laced my shoes. The morning air felt warm and good, the sand smooth and nearly untouched by humans this early. The seagulls sang, and waves lapped the shore, and by the time I had had my eggs and my coffee, I knew I was ready.
I sat in my favorite chair on the porch, admiring the water, my legs curled around me. I opened a brand-new notebook, took out a pen, and willed myself to write. Something.Anything.This didn’t have to be for a book. It could be the smell of coffee. The birdsong. My thoughts about my future. But it wouldn’t come.
Determined to get through this, I went inside and traded my new notebook for an old, well-worn one. It was full, but I managed to find a half-empty page. I reread what I had written three years ago to jog my memory and, once again, attempted to put pen to paper.
My hand simply would not move.
I took a sip of coffee and looked out over the water. It was so calm, so placid. I thought about Anthony, my late husband, about our beautiful life together. I had been his forthright, motivated, diligent wife. I was glad he couldn’t see me now. Even still, I couldn’t muster but so much anger at myself. I was healing; it was a process. I had tried, and I would try again tomorrow. And the next day. It would come. I knew it would.
I finished my coffee and went inside my big empty house to put the mug in the dishwasher. Anthony and I had fantasized about a house at the end of the island, between the sound for him and the ocean for me. It was a rare plot of land, an extraordinary dream. And the irony that I found myself calmest, most held, on his sound side now wasn’t lost on me.
I loved this old house, the way that it rambled. First, it had been a tiny fishing shack. Through the years, one owner had added a new kitchen, another a primary bedroom and bath. Anthony and I had added a garage and a sunroom, and reconfigured the floor plan quite a bit to create our dream home. I loved the original moldings, the leaded-glass windows, the mail slot on the old front door with its giantbrass lock. It, like me, still held all its scars, remnants of the iterations it had lived through. This house, like me, had always been a work in progress.
I needed to clear my mind. I took to the beach again and made my way to Salty Sip for a perfect cappuccino, always my second and final cup of the day, once my reward for finishing my words, now one of the treats I gave myself for simply managing to breathe throughout the morning.
I noticed right away that my usual coffee girl wasn’t there when I ordered. She made the best coffee in the city, and, well, I’d never say it out loud, but I enjoyed the heart she drew in the foam.
I was sitting on the porch at my favorite weathered teak table, looking out at the seagulls diving into the ocean, practically bathing in cicada song, when my darling son burst through the door in a polished suit and tie. He looked like he wanted to murder me. Well, perhapsmurder mewas hyperbolic. But what can I say? I’m a writer.
“Are you kidding me?” he asked, sliding into the seat across from me.
“Well, good morning to you, too, darling. Yes, my drink is fine, but not quite as good as usual. Thank you for asking.”
As if I’d said nothing, he hiss-whispered, “Mother, Victoria just called and said you missed your deadlineagain. It has been threeyears.”
My heart pounded at the mention. I obviously knew exactly how long it had been since I had poured my heart out on the page. At first, I thought it was writer’s block. Now I suspected it was fear that tapping into that deepest part of myself might make me face all the emotions I had been avoiding. Or, perhaps, it was fear that I had lost my touch. The sales for my last two books had been down. By not writing, was I protecting myself from the very real possibility that thiscareer I loved so much was over for me? That I, at sixty-two, was no longer relevant to a readership that preferred its romance novels with fairies and dragons?
But I would never say that to my son. With him, I tried, always, to be that stoic pillar of a mother that I felt a man needed to be able to count on—in life and especially in our business dealings, since he was my agent. The best one I’d ever had, in fact.
