“Welcome, everyone,” Colleen repeated to quiet the room, setting off piercing feedback. “I’m Colleen Miller, owner of Land’s End Books.”
Shelby smiled at hearing Colleen call herself the store’s owner. It had been her parents’ store, but recently they’d retired and told Colleen they wanted to sell it. Colleen, having grown up in the store, having planned her entire life to continue with the store, begged them for the chance to take it over.
Colleen smiled at the audience, and seemed to be as thrilled with the moment as Shelby. She was lucky, she realized, to be able to share that moment with her old friend. It wasn’t so long ago that they wondered if they’d succeed in doing the things they wanted to do, and there they were. Actually, Colleen had never been too uncertain. She’d always known she’d take over the store. Shelby, however, had been less confident she’d actually see her words in print. But it happened.
“I’m delighted to introduce Shelby Archer, whose novel,Secrets of Summer, published this week. TheNew York Timescalls it ‘A rollicking tale of family intrigue perfect for any beach bag.’ So, please help me welcome Shelby.”
The room erupted in applause. Nervous excitement surged through her.
“I’m so happy to be here today,” she said, looking at the audience. Her publicist had given her a tip that if she felt nervous, she should look just over people’s heads. That way, she didn’t get distracted by anyone’s facial expression, but she gave the illusion she was seeing the crowd and connecting with them. “Thank you for coming. And thank you to Colleen of Land’s End Books for hosting me today.” She did make eye contact with Colleen, and her friend’s smile made her feel like it was old times. “I’m fortunate enough to be visiting a bunch of bookstores over the next two weeks. All of them will be fantastic, but none as significant to me as Land’s End Books. Without this bookstore—without Provincetown—my novel wouldn’t exist...”
She was suddenly distracted by a familiar flash of platinum blond hair in the back of the room. Hunter! She’d come after all. Shelby glanced away, focusing back into her speech. She was nervous about speaking and had memorized every single word: how she got the idea for the plot, the most interesting things she learned researching Cape Cod, and her thoughts about the underlying theme of the novel: How well do you really know those closest to you?
Before she knew it, twenty minutes had passed, and it was time to segue to the Q & A.
“I’d be happy to answer some questions,” she said, feeling her shoulders relax. This would be the easier part, the fun part.
Colleen had told her that if the audience was shy, she’d ask the first question to get the ball rolling. But it wasn’t necessary; several people’s hands shot up. Shelby called on the person closest to her, a woman she didn’t recognize.
“I was wondering,” the woman said shyly. “What do you like best about writing novels?”
Shelby nodded. “That’s a great question. I’d say the thing I like best about writing novels is having the ability to deliver the happy endings we don’t always get in real life,” she said.
The woman beamed at her. The next hand she saw was Hunter’s. Shelby knew she probably felt bad for not responding to her texts, and wanted Shelby to know she was there. Smiling, Shelby pointed to her. Hunter stood, and Colleen walked over with a mic so the rest of the audience could hear the question. Hunter took the mic from Colleen’s hand.
“I’m wondering,” she said, “did you even think twice about the people you betrayed in writing this book? Or doesn’t that matter? Maybe getting this book published is just more important than your friends.”
The room fell silent. Shelby hadn’t realized there had been an ambient hum in the room until everything came to an absolute halt. She glanced at Ezra, who jumped into action, grabbing the mic from Hunter and announcing:
“Thank you, everyone. Now, if you’d please form a single line at the book signing table Shelby will be happy to personalize your copies.”
Shelby stood frozen. The audience followed Ezra’s direction, forming a line while tittering nervously. But in that moment, she wasn’t thinking about her readers. All she could think was: she never should have come back to Provincetown.
Four
Hunter Dillworth felt herself shaking from adrenaline. It would take a few drinks to calm her down, so she walked straight from Shelby’s book reading to her favorite bar.
The Bollard was a locals’ place, overlooking the bay and originally a fisherman’s hangout. On some nights, it still was. The decor included fishing nets nailed to one wall, framed photos of locals with their boats, and a shelf filled with antique Coca-Cola bottles. The few wobbly tables were mismatched. The juke box stopped adding songs circa 1998, but Hunter didn’t like much of the music that came after the mid-90s, so that was fine by her. The only food on the menu was fish and chips—also fine by her.
It was a place where there was no shame in drinking alone, and that was exactly what Hunter did: two quick tequila shots at the curved end of the bar.
She thought about the look on Shelby’s face when she asked the question. Hunter hadn’t spoken her mind so freely since she was let go from her publishing job two months ago. She’d looked the HR person straight in the eye and quoted Kurt Cobain: “You can’t fire me because I quit.”
Saying exactly what was on her mind always felt pretty damn good. Unfortunately, that in itself never fixed any problems. So although she confronted Shelby—publicly at the reading and privately when Shelby followed her outside afterward—it didn’t change the fact that her best friend had written a main character based on some of the most private details of Hunter’s life. Not just written, butpublished.
She ordered a beer, trying to avoid the unpleasant truth that Shelby’s book was only part of the problem. Maybe she wouldn’t be as upset with the fictionalized version of herself if she wasn’t disappointed in the real-life version.
Losing her job had been a blow. Her parents didn’t understand why she was so upset: she didn’t need the job for money. No one in the Dillworth family needed to work. Her mother volunteered at a museum, and her father had just gone back to school for his Masters in Renaissance painting. Her parents’ mutual interest in fine art was what drew them to Provincetown, a place that Jackson Pollock, Norman Mailer, Mary Oliver, Eugene O’Neill, Lee Krasner and a lot of other legendary artists had once called home. But ultimately, the Cape house was just another thing her parents collected and then moved on from. They’d spent the past two summers in Italy.
Hunter had always felt a little embarrassed by their wealth, and frustrated with their assumption that she wanted to follow in their footsteps as a socialite. She’d felt, for as long as she could remember, an urgency to earn her own money. It was the only way she’d stop feeling ashamed about her generational wealth. And the truth was, she loved publishing. It wasn’t just about proving something to herself, or to her parents. She wanted a career in books, and she’d been on her way when she was laid off.
A guy walked in, catching her eye. She’d seen him earlier at Shelby’s book event. He was tall and lanky with straight dark hair and eyes that seemed nearly black. She guessed he was maybe part Japanese; he reminded her of the guitarist James Iha of the Smashing Pumpkins circaSiamese Dream. During the Q & A, he’d rushed over to grab the mic from her after she question-bombed Shelby. At first she thought, okay, this could be the best meet-cute of all time. But then it turned out he worked with Shelby. Maybe her publicist? She didn’t get the story straight before she left.
He slid onto a bar stool just a few down from hers. When the couple between them got up and left, the guy noticed her.
“Hey,” he said. “You’re the woman with the question.”
“That’s right. And thanks to you, I never got an answer.”
