She grew up bouncing between her mother’s classroom and her father’s library stacks, where she learned not only that she loved to read but that most of the faces on the covers and the heroes on the page didn’t look like her.
She got into publishing to change that. To make a difference, however small, in the literary landscape. And sure,Fletch’s books weren’t exactly breaking any boundaries, but the sheer scale of their success gave Ava the leverage she needed to work on titles that did, to take chances on new talent.
Now she’s listening to Eleanor Vandenberg explain this plan as if pitching a book. And Ava finds herself searching for plot holes, stress-testing the idea even as she knows that it’s crazy.
It’s the kind of corner Fletch loved to back his main characters into, a devilish bind that will require cunning and creativity to escape.
She can practically hear him, teasing her now, the way he did whenever they disagreed. When she’d point out that something wasn’t working, and the hackles would come up.
Well, he’d say, crossing his arms.Have you got a better idea?
Even though they both knew that wasn’t the editor’s job. She was there to poke, to prod, to point out when something could be improved upon. The author’s job was to figure out how.
But now the author is dead.
And Eleanor is looking at her, lips pursed, the question plain on her face.
Have you got a better idea?
And truth be told, Ava doesn’t.
And if she doesn’t find a way to get Fletch’s final book to shelves, the damage will be even greater. To Merriweather Press and, by extension, to her. If only she had gotten him to turn the manuscript in on time. Hell, six months late. Even a year. That’s what they’d say, when they laid the blame at her feet. But wresting words from Arthur Fletch had been like trying to pry honey from a bear.
Ava blinks. Eleanor is rising to her feet, running a hand absently over her dress to smooth out any creases, even though the fabric is apparently nice enough it doesn’t even wrinkle.
“This is going to work,” Eleanor says with such unnerving certainty that Ava almost believes her. After all, if the universe is going to bend for anyone, it’s probably Eleanor Vandenberg.
As she stands in the office doorway, watching the agent walk away, Ava wonders how she had agreed to any of this. It’s madness. But maybe—just maybe—it could work.
If it does, they’ll close the loop, put Fletch and his story to rest, and never speak of it again.
Eleanor reaches the corner and waves without looking back.
“I was thinking,” says Holden.
Ava jumps at his sudden reappearance. “Jesus, Holden,” she mutters, one hand flying to her chest. She’s had enough surprises for one day.
“What if Rufus isEnglish?” he goes on. “I’ve always wanted to be English, and I think it suits the character, don’t you? Plus, I’m rather good at accents.”
As he speaks, he slips into a posh English voice that, Ava has to admit, isn’t as horrible as she expected.
Ava sighs and looks at him, this young white man with all the eagerness of a golden retriever and the conviction that things will work out, because they always have.
This, she thinks bleakly,is a terrible idea.
*
“RUFUS”
HOLDEN
Chapter One
Now
“YOU HAD ONE JOB,” SAYSAVA, PACINGthe cottage in her pink sweater. “All you had to do was look the part, and stay in this cottage, and keep your mouth shut.”
Holden wants to point out that technically that’s three separate jobs, but the look on her face is a solid 8 on the Ava Paulson Annoyance Scale, so he bites his tongue and looks around the room for a life raft instead, landing on a shallow stack of pale-blue paper on the kitchen table.
