Over the next week, Charlotte fell into a productive routine in which she got up early every morning and went to her computer. She told herself she only had to write five pages, but some days she was able to produce more.
Soon she had forty pages finished. She printed the first few chapters, spread the pages on the table, and circled a sentence that finally felt like her voice again. Seeing her words, feeling the forward momentum of the story, feltsogood. Once she reached chapter five or six, and she’d edited those pages so they were as good as she could make them, she’d be able to send them in to get her editor’s opinion—something that both excited and scared her. She liked the story so far, but it was only her second book, and it was dealing with a much more divisiveconflict. It was also striking a more somber tone—obviously a reflection of where she was at emotionally. She felt it was engrossing, but she was afraid it wouldn’t be similar enough to her first book.
What if her publisher didn’t like it? She was under such a tight deadline there was no margin for error, and if they went with it even though they weren’t entirely happy and it flopped, there’d be no forgiveness. The people she worked with had their hopes set far too high to be able to take failure lightly. But Charlotte didn’t really see how this book could succeed. Once it was released, she wouldn’t have Cliff’s celebrity to help propel it to the top of the bestseller lists.
The story had to besogood, had to stand entirely on its own merit. But better writers had failed to realize the kind of sales necessary to remain in the industry. To achieve that on her own seemed daunting. Still, she kept reminding herself to push forward. She had to try. The last time she’d spoken to her father, he’d said, “Stop sabotaging yourself with all these doubts, babe. Let your publisher be the one to tell you if it’s not good enough. Don’t destroy your own confidence. Otherwise, you’ll go nowhere.”
He was right, of course. But imposter syndrome was real and something she had to fight every time she sat down to write.
After she finished work each day, she and whoever hadn’t already set off to do something—most often Sloane and Lilly—would go hiking, shopping, sightseeing or exploring the coast. Sometimes Julian joined them. She also spent some of her off-hours scrubbing Sabrina’s phone of dating apps, sexts and any explicit photos while keeping the number, the clean pictures and anything Lilly might treasure.
She wanted to pass the phone on to half sister as Sloane had suggested, but she’d been holding back in case some man Sabrina had connected with hadn’t gotten the message that shewas no longer alive and sent something suggestive or made a comment that wouldn’t show Sabrina in the best light.
“You have Sabrina’s phone with you today?” Sloane asked.
Charlotte glanced up. Sloane had been inside a nearby bakery, purchasing lemon croissants while Lilly went with Julian to get sorbet, so she’d had a moment alone and pulled out Sabrina’s phone to make sure she hadn’t received any new messages. “Yeah. I thought I might run into a good opportunity to surprise Lilly with it.”
Sloane clapped her hands. “She’s going to be so excited.”
“I just don’t want to do it too soon. I’m still hearing from some of Sabrina’s contacts.”
A moped coughed past. “Even after you texted everyone?”
“Yeah.”
“What are people saying?”
She lowered her voice despite the fact that Lilly wasn’t even close. She didn’t want anyone else to hear her, either; there were tourists clustered all around. “One guy said he’d never had a better lay.”
Sloane curled her lip to show her distaste. “Now I see why you’re waiting.”
“Another said the world’s a better place.”
“Ouch!”
She shaded the screen from the bright Amalfi sun. “Maybe I should go ahead and change her number—”
“No,” Sloane broke in. “There’s something special about keeping it. Lilly told me her mom’s phone number is the only one she knows by heart. It’ll preserve a part of Sabrina for her.”
“And she’ll be able to text Steve whenever she wants.” Charlotte lifted the phone to show Sloane the screen. “I’ve left his contact info in here.”
“She loved the picture he sent.”
It’d been a week since Sloane had helped Lilly find a place inPraiano where they could get it printed so she could tape it to her mirror. She’d done that to keep Lilly occupied while Charlotte worked. “What are you hearing from Ben?” she asked.
“He’s keeping busy while I’m gone,” she said, once again veering away from a more serious conversation. She’d shared what she’d shared, but she didn’t like to dwell on it. “In his off-hours, he looks things up on the internet and sends me links to fun things we should do.”
Charlotte knew about a lot of his earlier suggestions. “What’s he sent lately?”
“Says we need to hire a boat to take us to the Emerald Grotto.”
“Sounds like something from a Disney movie.”
“It’s a cave near Amalfi,” Sloane told her. “Sunlight comes through an underwater fissure and turns the water a pretty emerald color.”
“I definitely want to see that.” They hadn’t spent much time in the town of Amalfi yet, but she knew there was supposed to be some good hiking there. Lots of cute shops, too, not to mention restaurants and bakeries. She hoped to see it, as well as Sorrento and the Isle of Capri, before they had to go back to the States.
“When should I schedule it?” Sloane asked. “I’ve been holding off because I wanted to be sure you were at a good place in your book so you could join us.”
