Duke’s entrance hall floor was all handmade tile, and the walls were decorated with paintings by local artists. The living room featured chinoiserie and wood furniture with Queen Anne details and cabriole legs. She walked through to the library, where they both had desks. The large, sun-filled room had oriental carpets, Japanese fans, and porcelain figurines on every surface.
“I brought snacks,” she said, walking the box over to him.
“Oh, Hunter.” He shook his head. “I swore I wouldn’t eat dessert during the day anymore. Things just get so decadent this time of year. It’s like, the temperature rises above seventy and all the rules go right out the window.”
“Suit yourself,” she said, setting the cupcakes on her desk. She opened the box, plucked one out, and peeled the wrapper from its base. Her mouth watered just thinking about biting into the icing.
She sat in her chair and looked out the window at Duke’s back lawn. His birdfeeder attracted a constant stream of finches. Most were brown, but when an occasional redhead appeared, it was the highlight of her workday. Last week, a red one had set to work on a tree stump and its determination put her own work ethic to shame.
Duke walked over and handed her a pile of manuscripts.
“These are slush, but you never know when you’ll find a gem. So please read at least the first few chapters.”
Oh, how she’d love to find something special. But she wasn’t optimistic. The odds of finding a publishable novel in the slush pile had been slim even at her old job where award-winning writers were published. At a start-up press like Seaport, it was like picking up oyster shells on Herring Cove beach and expecting to find a pearl inside.
“Okay,” she said dutifully.
“By the way, I stopped by Shelby’s the other night.”
Hunter was surprised. And irrationally irritated. Duke was free to talk to her. Maybe their solidarity on the issue of Shelby had been partly in her imagination. “Why didn’t you mention it before?”
He sighed, glancing upward then back at her. “I’ve been trying to figure out how I felt about it. She did apologize. And I know how myopic artists can be—it’s part of their charm. Also, she’s helping Colleen...”
“Don’t tell me you’re fine with what happened,” Hunter said, crossing her arms.
“I wouldn’t sayfine. But I’m trying to be my best self and turn it into something positive. And I think I did: Shelby agreed to petition for beach access by Land’s End. If she can get that done, her bookstore will have a competitive edge over Hendrik’s. Their location doesn’t have outdoor space.”
“I think if any of us are depending on Shelby, we’re really in bad shape.”
Duke let out a sigh. “Colleen is trusting her with the store. That must count for something.”
Hunter reached for another cupcake. “It just seems unfair to me. Shelby uses our secrets to write a bestseller, then just glides right back to her spot here in town like nothing ever happened. She gets away with it!”
“What would make you feel better?” Duke asked.
Hunter knew the answer. She’d thought long and hard about it. “I want to edit a bestseller. I want my own success.”
Duke patted the manuscript pile. “Successisthe best revenge. Now pass me one of those cupcakes.”
Shelby stood behind the counter, scrolling through the Land’s End calendar. She must be missing something. Colleen had barely scheduled any author events.
“Excuse me,” a woman said, approaching the counter. She had long red hair and carried a bicycle helmet. “Do you have a local interest section?”
Shelby led her to a shelf stacked with Michael Cunningham novels, design books by Ken Fulk, and yes, copies ofSecrets of Summer. “Are you looking for fiction or nonfiction?” she asked.
“Nonfiction,” the woman said.
She handed her Mary Heaton Vorse’sTime and Town. “This is a local classic. She writes about Provincetown like no one before or since.”
Shelby read the book twice during her first summer in Provincetown. One line stayed with her for a long time:“I am not the only person who came here to spend two weeks and remained a lifetime; I am not the only one who if exiled would feel as though my taproot were cut.”Thinking of the words now, she felt nostalgic. That first trip with Hunter, she’d fallen in love with Provincetown. Until that point, when she heard people use the expression “falling in love” to describe a feeling for a place, she felt it was hyperbole. And then she experienced the Cape. But unlike Mary Heaton Vorse, she’d always known the time would come to leave.
Shelby returned to the computer, looking again for any events on the schedule she might have missed. Was it possible Colleen hadn’t scheduled more than three events over the next eight weeks?
Author book readings had never been a huge priority for Pam and Annie. But things were changing in town and Land’s End should change with them. They’d sold out of the Mary Oliver biography last night. That might have happened over the course of the summer, but in one night? That could only happen with a book event.
There wasn’t that much she could do about it now. Summer book tour schedules would be set by now. Still, she logged into a program that listed touring authors. The interface was surprisingly basic, as if it had been built in the 1990s. It featured a single field to request an author, then two fields asking how many readers you expected for the event and how many books you expected to sell. There was a small text field for additional comments so bookstore owners could pitch themselves and their store.
“I found a few more copies,” Mia said, emerging from the stockroom and depositing three Mary Olivers on the counter.
