Charlotte reassured her. Then she came to the email she’d spotted first thing. It was from her editor. She’d saved that one for last—and wished she could avoid it altogether—but she knew she had to respond before logging off. Megan Schwimmer was a wonderful person, but she had a job to do and that was to get Charlotte’s manuscript in and edited on time so they didn’t hold up the other departments at her publisher and her book could come out on its scheduled date.
“He said he can make it,” her mother announced when she disconnected from her call and carried Charlotte’s plate to the table.
Charlotte got up to gather her own silverware while her mother poured her a glass of orange juice.
“Anything interesting?” Penny asked, indicating her computer.
There was nothing from Cliff. Email would be an unlikely way for him to contact her, and she knew that, but hope reigned supreme. “Just something from my editor.”
Penny had returned to the sink and was scrubbing the frying pan. “What does she have to say? Do you think she’ll give you an extension?”
Charlotte didn’t see how that would be possible. Her release date in the fall was a coveted one—typically reserved for the big-name authors who could make or break a publisher’s entire quarter. An extension would screw up everyone. “I don’t dare even ask. I know they have high hopes for my second book.”
“Has she heard about the state of your marriage?”
That was, no doubt, what had prompted the email. Megan had already let her know she was eager to see some sample chapters or, barring that, a synopsis giving the basic premise of her next book. But Charlotte still needed to decide on what that premise would be.
She ate slowly, putting off the inevitable until after she’d pushed her plate away.
“Finished?” her mother said.
She glanced up to see Penny watching her and nodded before opening her editor’s message.
Megan told her how sorry she was to hear about her split with Cliff. She didn’t act as though losing one of the most famous shooting guards in the NBA would hurt Charlotte’s career, but Charlotte knew she had to be afraid it would. Charlotte was afraid of that herself. So now was not the time to admit she hadn’t even started her next manuscript, that she was entirely blocked. She knew the panic it would cause at her publisher—and that it would only bring more emails and unsolicited suggestions for what her new story should be. She’d welcome that if she thought it would truly help, but she couldn’t write according to someone else’s vision. The premise had to stir her imagination—had to call out toher.
Taking a deep breath, she wrote a brief reply:
It’s so nice of you to check in. I’m sure, with time, I’ll be fine. I’m staying with my folks, so I’m in good hands despite what you may see online. And don’t worry about my work in progress. I’ll be putting my nose to the grindstone over the summer. At least now I won’t have Cliff’s busy schedule to distract me. Ha!
After reading that email several times, just to make sure it struck the right tone, she hit Send. But she was painfully aware of the words she’d chosen. “Work in progress” wasn’t really accurate. All she had was a work that had yet to be started.
She sighed, lifting her glass of orange juice.
“Everything okay?” Penny asked.
Nothingwas okay, but she offered her mother a feeble smile. “It will be eventually.”
“I’ll finish cleaning up in here while you get your makeup on,” Penny said, taking the empty glass from her. “Are you sure you don’t want to buy a house? Should I call my Realtor friend, Jenny?”
“I’m definitely not ready for that kind of commitment. I don’t even know where I want to live.”
“So how will we find any apartments you’d like to see?”
“I’ll look online. Maybe I’ll rent a townhouse or condo.” She was just getting up when her computer dinged, signaling a text message. She’d left her phone in her room, but since her phone was synced up with her laptop, she could receive messages on either device.
Hoping it was Julian—she could already use a little more of his resilience and strength—she sank back into her seat. But it wasn’t Julian; it was Cliff.
Hey, hope you’re doing well. You have a shit ton of mail piling up over here. Are you ever going to come get it?
Why didn’t he just box it up and send it to her? Didn’t he have her parents’ address?
He’d had it at one time. Maybe he’d deleted it. It had never really meant anything to him.
She almost told him to ship her the mail, but he hadn’t mentioned the clothes she’d left behind—or asked when she planned to collect the rest of her belongings. That gave her enough hope that she couldn’t deny herself the opportunity to have another conversation with him. Even if they never got back together, maybe they could gain some closure which would make the next few months easier. Part of the hurt she felt came from the fact that he hadn’t explained why he was throwing her away, why he’d changed his mind about them. Certainly, he could do that much.
I’m happy to come get it. I’ll also put in a forwarding address. When would you like me to drop by?
If he said he’d just set it outside or that she knew the code to the house so she could get in while he was gone, she’d tell him to mail it, she told herself. But he didn’t.
