Ava groans audibly.
“Or,” says Eleanor, “we find someone else to finish the book.”
Holden isn’t sure how that would work, but it certainly seems like the better option. And yet Ava is shaking her head.
“The public would revolt if they knew that we gave the series to someone else.”
“So don’t tell them,” says Eleanor bluntly. “Let them think that Fletch diedafterhe finished his opus. The news of his death is going to come out. But we can hold it off for a little while. Long enough to find a replacement and make sure the book is done, and ready to go to print by the time the in memoriams start rolling out. You know,” she adds, as if it’s an afterthought, “you could finish it yourself.”
Holden watches his boss consider. Briefly. Then shake her head again. “No, I don’t think I can.”
“Even with your job on the line?”
“Especially with my job on the line. There’s a reason I became an editor, and not an author.”
“The steady paycheck?”
Ava snorts. “Hardly. I haven’t written anything since college. You thinkArthurwas over his skis? I’d be tumbling down the mountain, straight into a tree.”
“Look,” says Eleanor, uncrossing her legs just so she can make a point of crossing them again. “We both know Arthur was difficult. Brilliant, but... difficult. Not to speak ill of the dead, of course.”
“Of course,” echoes Ava.
Holden thinks it’s funny, how once people are dead, you can’t say mean things about them, even if they are true. Last week Ava went on a full-blown rant about Fletch, calling him a Grade A asshole with a god complex and an ego the size of his backlist, who couldn’t get it up (literarily speaking).
“And,” continues Eleanor, “I think we both know that credit for the success of the Petrarch series goes to you as much as Arthur.”
“I wouldn’t say that,” says Ava, even though her expression saysObviously.
“You were the reason those books made the splash they did,” declares his agent. “And I know he didn’t make it easy.”
A muscle ticks in Ava’s cheek. “He was a man. They rarely do.”
Holden shifts on his stool, in case they’ve forgotten he’s here. But neither woman looks his way. After a long beat, Ava shakes her head more forcefully. “I can’t finish the book.”
“Come on. Youcould.”
“Not happening,” says Ava. “I’m good at my job. I’m a... shepherd.”
“In that case,” says Eleanor, “we need to find a sheep.”
“A ghostwriter.”
Holden smiles. He loves that term. He knows it doesn’t refer to an actual ghost, just a writer who does the work without the credit, but it always makes him think of a pen moving of its own accord, words appearing like magic on the page.
“Plenty of writers out there would quite literally kill for the chance. The midlist is full of them.”
Ava raps her pen on the desk, the way she does whenever she’s thinking through a plot hole. “Most ghostwriters are mimics. They may be able to copy Fletch’s voice. His style. But who’s to say they’ll be able to think of an ending worthy of the series? Evenhewas running out of ideas. We need fresh blood. Maybe even someone from another genre. Or at least, another generation. Ideally, more than one, so we can see who’s best.”
“So, we audition them,” says Eleanor. “See who comes up with the best ending. Throw in a book deal to sweeten the pot. A way out of the midlist.”
They spend the next few minutes batting the idea back and forth, until they settle on its shape. A weekend-long contest (after all, timeisof the essence). On Fletch’s private island. Four authors, to be agreed upon, all of whom have the chops but not the sales record.
“Five,” amends Eleanor. “I just signed a new client. Cate Newhouse. Very promising. Her writing has a flair that rather reminds me of Fletch.”
“Fine. Five.”
“We’ll have them sign nondisclosures, of course,” says Eleanor. “Secrets don’t stay secret for long in publishing. And we’ll judge it blind. Let the work speak for itself.”
