“Mia, why are there so few authors events scheduled?” Shelby asked.
“I think Colleen requests a lot of authors but gets denied.”
“Denied?” Shelby hadn’t thought too much about how her publicist decided what bookstores to send her to on tour; she assumed it was a combination of which stores requested her and what made sense geographically. She’d never imagined a bookseller requesting her and being told no. They even sent her to one store where literally the only one in the audiencewasthe bookseller. Shelby performed her presentation anyway. The bookseller’s sad little clap at the end made her want to curl up in a ball.
Standing in front of a room full of empty chairs had been a terrible feeling. It brought her back to the days of being the new kid at school, the last one picked for the team or the group project. She knew bad turnouts were a normal rite of passage for debut novelist, but it hadn’t felt that way.
“And also, you have to decide what to do with these,” Mia said, dragging a box close to her feet. “They’re coming out in paperback this month. So are we keeping them or returning them?”
“I’ll look through and decide.” It was tricky when books came out in paperback and they still had hardcovers in stock. She could lose money mailing a return for a fraction of the book’s retail value, or she could lose money by not selling the book at all because readers could go for the paperback.
Sometimes, making a living selling books seemed like pushing a rock up a hill. Pam and Annie probably thought there were more practical ways for their daughter to make a living. Practical, yes. But special? No.
Shelby hadn’t realized how much she missed the feeling of finding the perfect book for someone. It was one thing to suspect it when she made the sale, but then when they came back and told her they loved it? Or emailed her all of their thoughts and she’d had the exact same feelings about it? In some ways, it was even more rewarding than writing a book—at least, most of the process of writing a book. So much of her time was spent alone, creating a story she could only hope would connect with readers. But when she sold books, she had a finished product in her hands and got the immediate gratification of sharing it with another person. For the most part, bookstore owners were in it for the love of books.
She knew Colleen certainly was. And she wasn’t going to let Kate Hendrik move in on her territory.
Seventeen
Hunter faced the ocean from a chaise longue on the deck of her parents’ house, a manuscript on her lap.
No one else she knew in Provincetown had a home like hers, nearly all glass and sprawling with six bedrooms and ten bathrooms. Her parents built it on a lot overlooking the famous jetty that stretched from Pilgrim’s Landing Park to Long Point and the Wood End lighthouses. Her parents bought the view, but they never actually walked out onto the jetty, over a mile of uneven, slippery rocks. But Hunter had done it a few times and was thrilled by the feeling of being suspended between land and sea. She enjoyed extremes. Maybe that was part of the reason she preferred one-night stands to relationships; they never got boring.
She took the manuscript off her lap and set it aside. Fifty pages in, and she knew it was a DNF—Did Not Finish. Instead, she picked up the novel she’d bought weeks ago, and turned to the acknowledgments page. She liked reading the names of the people who’d helped get the book published. One day, her own name would be in there. She couldn’t wait.
Although, what was the expression? “Be careful what you wish for.” Ironically, her namewasin the back of a book; Shelby had thanked her inSecrets of Summer. She’d mentioned her and Colleen both, writing something like, “This book wouldn’t exist without you.”Yeah, for real. You stole my life.
It pained her that while her future career would get a boost by discovering a publishable manuscript, one of the best “discoveries” of the past few years had been written by her best friend. Was that what made her so angry? Not just that Shelby had written about her, but that she’d become successful first? Hunter hated that she felt so competitive with her. It hadn’t always been that way. In fact, she’d always rooted for Shelby. Hunter was an only child, but she imagined having a sister was exactly the way she felt about her best friend. Until their last summer together.
The sunset was giving shades of purple; the people on the jetty had a spectacular view. Hunter stood up. In that golden moment, the vision of the life she wanted was so clear. But in a few minutes, the light would be gone and she’d be alone with piles of fiction that wouldn’t help her one bit.
Duke had made his peace with Shelby. Maybe he had the right idea; she didn’t trust Shelby anymore, but she was a good connection in the book world. Why spiteherselfby freezing her out? Better to just be friendly towards her. Friendlywithher. But they couldn’t be the way they were. That was over.
Shelby heard the pulse of techno music, laughter from the beach, and the occasional car honk on Commercial Street. She was probably the only person within a five-mile radius who was sitting at home. But then, she wasn’t on a vacation.
Her work-in-progress was open on her laptop, and she stared at the blinking cursor.
She was stuck, and she didn’t have time to be stuck.
Crafting a novel was a delicate balance of asking the right questions, but not waiting until she had all the answers to begin writing. In fact, it was the opposite. Writing a novel was a leap of faith. If a novelist waited to know everything they would need to get from page one to the final sentence, they would be paralyzed. Still, with the new book, Shelby expected to be able to skip over the “driving through the fog with no headlights” feeling. But the uncertainty was just as strong this time around—if not stronger.
Someone knocked at the door. She set her laptop aside. This had happened last night, too. A friend of Colleen’s stopped by, not realizing she’d moved. Shelby needed a sign on the door with an arrow pointing in the direction of Doug’s place: This Way for Colleen Miller.
“Hold on,” she called out, making sure her laptop didn’t teeter on the edge of the couch. The door was locked—one habit of hers that marked her as an out-of-towner. She unlatched it and pulled the door open.
“Hunter,” she said, more surprised than when the stranger showed up last night. “Colleen isn’t here.”
“I know,” she said. “I came to see you.”
Shelby anticipated the moment would come. She’d been anxious about it, but figured running into Hunter couldn’t be worse than what happened the last time she’d seen her.
Hunter walked in, not waiting for an invitation. She had her full ’90s aesthetic going strong, with a vintage black-and-purple lace dress (Anna Sui?), combat boots, and silver heart choker necklace. Her hair was loose, her roots dark as always against her bleached blond hair. It was all very Courtney Love by the sea.
She plopped down on the couch and Shelby jumped to move her laptop.
“Writing a new book?” Hunter said.
“Uh, no,” Shelby said. She didn’t know why she lied, but it felt right. It felt safer. She really did want to make amends with Hunter. She hadn’t realized, living her life in New York, how much she missed her. Or really, she missed what they’d had. College friendships were different than those she’d found in adult life. They were almost like love affairs, with their intensity. She would never spend as much time with a new friend as she’d spent with Hunter, living together, taking classes together, partying together, summers together. She’d have to be married for years before she’d clocked that much intimacy with someone else. That was why it had seemed so natural to write bits and pieces of her into the heroine ofSecrets of Summer.
