La Costa learned that Tess was born and raised in the Williamsburg section of Brooklyn in the late sixties. It was the very same part of town where her legendary idols had risen to fame from—in her own words, “Babs and Barry came from Williamsburg, now how cool is that?” Who hadn’t heard of the famed Barbra Streisand, or the pop icon Barry Manilow? Certainly not Tess, as she was on a first-name basis with the two, whom she might have vicariously shared a similar zip code with at one time. La Costa had to smile. She wasn’t worldly by any means but did agree that she loved a good throwback seventies ballad from time to time.
“Do you know why those artists were so freakin’ successful back then, and still sell to a loyal fan base of baby boomers and every-other-generation through to today?”
La Costa did not.
“It’s because people love a good love song, like they love a good love story. That’s the reason. When you are selling emotions, you got your audience by the kahunas. Trust me, my first two were conceived during a Manilow’s Greatest Hits loop on my iPod one slow autumn weekend afternoon in—are you ready for it? In New England. No lie. I swear to God! That’s a true story.”
“Does Barry know that?” La Costa asked, laughing out loud, and suddenly noticing that the busy restaurant had since cleared out, and they were the only two still lingering in a conversation that La Costa felt could go on for days. She simply adored Tess.
Tess laid it all on the line to convince her that she was the real deal, and although she had not been representing top-known authors for years like the winning track records of agents with the big publishing houses, she was still worthy of nurturing La Costa’s talent and earning her a viable book deal.
“I got my start right after the twins turned two. I was going out of my mind, looking for something to do that would help me find my mojo again and didn’t involve listening to mind-numbing Barney videos on repeat. I had been bedridden for the last trimester and had gotten through it by reading everything I could get my hands on. I ripped through whole collections and box sets of every genre from kids’ books to erotica. You name it. The good, the bad, and the ugly. I read them all. Every trope, every variation on a theme, no stone unturned. No lost galaxy unexplored. It was then that I realized what I most loved to do was what I could do best—find the diamonds in the rough and help talented writers launch their careers. I had a calling, you might say. A knack for knowing what would sell out there. I just needed a chance to prove myself and get my feet wet in the industry.”
“So, what did you do?” La Costa asked, riveted.
“I took a job as an assistant for a literary agent in the city and learned all that I could. I was a quick learner. I paid attention to the agent’s duties and learned the ropes. One day, a manuscript crossed her desk that she was not interested in, but I had read it and knew its merits. I arranged to meet with the author on the sly, as I just had fallen in love with his story. It was unique and yet timeless in so many ways. I went over my boss’s head and presented it to a publishing house on her letterhead.”
La Costa gasped.
“I know, right? A big no-no.”
“So, what happened then?”
“It was picked up by that publisher all right. And I was promptly fired.”
“Oh no!”
“Oh, yes. But I was thrilled! I learned what I needed to know. I did have what it took, and so, I opened up shop in a spare bedroom in the house, got some business cards printed up, and began soliciting manuscripts in writers’ magazines and publications everywhere. Even in bookstores and libraries. I attended writers’ conferences, eager for the scraps that other agents passed over, and soon came to find that much of the work was ‘pass-worthy,’ but that I only needed to find the gems in all that rubbish. I was so diligent and critical about every submission that came my way. I had to be. I was hungry for the promising unknown.”
La Costa noticed that Tess’s demeanor had sobered a bit.
“That’s where you come in, La Costa. I have been searching for that one great gem, and I do think I found it in you.”
“I don’t know what to say, Tess. This is all so new for me. I honestly don’t know if I can do this.”
“Tell me, truthfully. Did you ghost write Georgia’s biography?”
La Costa nodded.
“Then you can do this. I know you can. All you have to do is say yes, and I’m off to the races for you. Trust me, you have something extraordinary, and the world deserves to see it.”
Just then, her cell phone rang, and she broke into a tirade of Greek expletives mixed with English—“Maaaaaa! Óchi do not let Papa get up there. Demitri will come by tomorrow. Anaméno. Yes? Okay, love you, Mitera—antío.”
Tess shook her head. “My father is a maniac with the house repairs. I don’t like him to climb ladders. I’m sorry for the interruption. If you don’t think this is all too much, I would love to represent you.”
La Costa was more than certain. “Okay then, let’s do this. You’ve got yourself an author. How do you say, ‘let’s do this’ in Greek?”
“As to kánoume!”
La Costa laughed. “What you said! You’ll have to be patient. I do not know the first thing about any of this. It’s definitely all Greek to me,” La Costa said, slipping on her coat.
“Just don’t you worry, sweetie. Do the work. Make your deadlines, and let me worry about the rest. Lucky for you, I speak Greek!”
Chapter Twenty-five
2003
With the spring came the launch of Georgia’s book Southern Splendor that sent Georgia on a multi-city book tour and a schedule packed with signings, television and radio interviews, and personal appearances. La Costa was left to hold down the fort with the final renovations, in which she had claimed a small section of one of the smallest guest rooms as a working office. Splendor Bay was set to receive its first guests with the grand opening, in just three short months. Georgia would be back by then, and things would hopefully move ahead with the Bed & Breakfast, and Georgia’s book sales humming in the background. La Costa now had a deadline of her own to meet with Gaylord Publishing, a fast-growing publisher squarely in sixth place standing in the shadows of the top-ranking behemoth trade houses in New York. All it took for a company to rise in the rankings was a significant spike in unit sales due to a healthy list of bestselling titles and authors. It was Tess’s belief that her client could do just that. Finalizing the fourth draft of City Vixen was a process that made La Costa’s stomach queasy every time she sat at the computer and stared at the blinking cursor. What if Tess hates it? she wondered. What if the publisher made a mistake and the whole thing was really just a sham? What if she was a sham?
Fear and uneasiness permeated her thoughts, and yet, she pushed on. Filling her workspace with outlines and index cards; hundreds of notes and drafts that it took to get a single close-to-perfect, three to five thousand-word chapter. In her heart of hearts, she reasoned that giving birth to an elephant would be easier. Yet still, she wrote. Every day, without fail. Finally, early that fall, she had reached the end of the best draft she could write, and the feeling in doing so, was euphoric.
“Here’s to you, my dear! Another great milestone for La Costa Jackson—or should I say, Reed! The world is going to love your book, I’m certain of it!” Georgia said, raising her glass of Merlot over the dinner plates in the brand-new gourmet-style kitchen with its gleaming granite countertops and sparkling new appliances.
La Costa smiled. “That remains to be seen. Along with Tess, that makes two of you who think so—three if you count my publisher. Fingers crossed,” La Costa said. “And here’s to you being back, and to more happy guests at Splendor Bay!” It was now early fall, and with the B&B up and running, it was good to have Georgia home, and all three of them together once again for a scrumptious meal. Georgia’s baking was only rivaled by her way around a skillet of fried chicken, cornbread, and white beans.
Louis was sitting in the chair like a little man, with his napkin tucked neatly in his
collar and elbows off the table, as was Miss Georgia’s stern directive at any meal setting. He had just started kindergarten, already well ahead of his classmates in proficiency of the academic basics and growth ratios. He would be turning six in the winter, by which time, La Costa was certain, he would tower over his classmates in more ways than one. Louis was wildly smart and athletic—qualities that burst forth as soon as he could walk and talk. La Costa could not have been prouder of him.
“Mr. Jennings is staying on another day in the Palmetto room,” Georgia said, “and we’ll need to move the Mackays to the Port Royal suite for this coming weekend.”
“Got it,” La Costa said. They had been steadily busy since the start of the summer season, keeping up with the preparations and details for the heavily packed weekend guests, who often checked in on Friday afternoons and stayed on through Sunday evening. Georgia had to hire additional help to ramp up the housekeeping, and a part-time breakfast cook to keep the patrons in fanciful and delectable morning meals that met with Georgia’s high standards. She, of course, oversaw the creation of all the sweets and pastries; delights of all manner that were ever-present for the taking, and on display in pretty glass domes on fanciful cake pedestals on the large dining table just off the kitchen.
On occasion, Georgia would need to break away to a promotional appearance or signing and leave La Costa at the helm. She didn’t mind, really, as having the stability such a lavish home, a business to manage, and her own debut writing career about to take flight, made her feel useful, needed, and wonderfully validated. Of course, nothing mattered more to La Costa than Louis’s happiness and stability. They were a family of sorts, and it didn’t matter if they matched the traditional definition of what a family should be. It was hers.
* * *
Stan Petty studied the weathered photograph that the woman had left of the infant boy, along with the envelope with the retainer she had given to him six months prior for his “services,” which had been fat with small bills, all twenty-five hundred of it, and of which, was now, empty. She had been anxious to know the whereabouts of her son, and had promised to produce the balance upon delivery.
She showed up again, unannounced, looking pretty, but strung-out. Not unusual in cases like these. She still, however, refused to provide any contact information in order to reach her. “I’ll contact you,” was all that she ever said.
“Where are we?” she asked, unable to keep her jittery nerves in check, fishing a cigarette from her purse.
“These things can take months, or even years,” Petty grizzled, trying to feign optimism. “And it’ll cost more moving forward. I think I got a good lead on La Costa Jackson’s whereabouts, so I would encourage us to keep searching.”
“How much?” Her tone was low and tight, like she hadn’t taken a full, deep breath in days.
“At least another two grand,” Petty said, unflinching. With what was at stake, he held all the cards.
“I’ll get it,” was all she said. And then quickly left.
Petty spun around in his dilapidated office chair and chuckled, watching through the broken blinds as she drove away.
He tossed the manila folder back onto the messy pile on his desk.
It was not three weeks later when a raid on a crack house in the Wholesale District yielded a bust in which his client was shown on the evening news, being shoved into the back of an LA police patrol car, kicking and screaming. Petty later confirmed her conviction for a myriad of offenses, ranging from drug possession to prostitution to an aggravated robbery charge that placed her at the scene of a botched hit at a quick mart in Watts. She wouldn’t, he reasoned, be returning anytime soon.
He retrieved the then-buried file folder from the bottom of stack that was simply marked: PANTHER ST. JAMES – MISSING MINOR, and pitched it, along with all of its contents, into the wastebasket.
Chapter Twenty-six
January 2006
(Three Years Later)
At the suggestion of her agent, and with her first four-book series completed, La Costa and Louis moved from South Carolina to New York City, into a small but comfortable garden apartment in Manhattan, where La Costa could be closer to her publisher and the writing market.
It was beyond thinkable to be leaving Georgia and Splendor Bay, but the writing, so to speak, was on the wall, and the move was what was needed for La Costa to progress with her calling, which was writing salable romance fiction in a highly competitive market. She simply could not continue to divide her time between her writing deadlines and the B&B. She needed to be in New York, in close proximity to her agent and publisher as her career was beginning to pick up momentum. Plus, the time had come for her and Louis to stand on their own feet.
“You know, I am going to miss you and this place like crazy,” La Costa said, holding back tears that rivaled nothing in the world she had ever felt. No other job change or life move had ever packed the punch that leaving Georgia and the business that she had helped to build did.
“It’s just another chapter, my dear,” Georgia had said. “It’s yours for the taking. You must follow that path wherever it leads. You’ve earned it. I couldn’t be prouder of you.”
La Costa could not recall a time in her life when she had ever heard those words. It was as if she had been given a second chance in life to rewrite her story. Georgia had given her that gift. How would she ever begin to repay her?
“I just want you to go out there and slay it, dear heart. Go show that big ole world what you’ve got. There is so much more, I know!” Georgia smiled, and then enveloped her with a hug that smelled like Chanel No. 5 and felt like home.
“Thank you—for everything, Georgia. We are so grateful to you.”
“It is I who is grateful, my sweet. Go! Be a fabulous success. I expect nothing less,” Georgia said with that twinkle in her eye that never failed to make La Costa believe that anything was possible.
La Costa and Louis climbed in the Town Car that would take them to the airport. The movers had an easy load with just the packing of her and Louis’s personal possessions. It would be a new start, indeed.
Life in New York City was an adjustment, at best, but it was where La Costa needed to be as her career began to take flight, closer to her agent, publisher, and the movers and shakers in the publishing market. At times, promotional and publicity appearances, to which she was contracted, had La Costa traveling from coast to coast, which often compromised much of her scheduled writing time during the week. As a result, she would have to then make it up in the evening hours, after she and Louis had eaten dinner, when she then helped him with his homework, piano practice, or just grabbed some free time to play a video game or two. Once Louis went to sleep, La Costa would make a large pot of coffee and get to work writing into the early morning hours to get her word count done. It was blissfully grueling, but she loved it. Time spent with Louis was precious, and she was not about to take any more away from him than necessary. Her agent, Tess Kardamakis, was as resourceful as she was dedicated to La Costa’s success. She arranged to lend out her nanny and let Louis stay with her family, whenever La Costa had to travel. Tess’s twins were one year older than Louis, and they got along famously. It was truly a group effort to keep everything moving in the right direction. Weekends were kept free for Louis’s extracurricular activities or for fun romps around the city exploring new foods, cultures, and neighborhoods that fed La Costa’s muse and ignited Louis’s own curious spirit. When able, La Costa volunteered at Louis’s school in the classroom or library, which allowed her to spend additional time with him both before and after school.
La Costa completed her fifth novel—the first in what would be a six-book series—just as Louis finished the fifth grade. The first book in the series, aptly entitled Steele and Ink, brought in a decent stipend in advances from Graylord and paved the way for more to come. It was a contemporary romance featuring a strong-willed modern-day heroine named Rebecca Steele. In the heady novels, Rebecca, the protagonist,
is a young tattoo artist who owns a shop in the middle of Harlem, and who is not only gifted with the ability to ink stunning and beautiful tattoo motifs, but—lives as well, through her dynamic and addictive blog postings that promoted fierce and inspiring takes on life. With a bent for beauty and expression, Rebecca’s exploits often put her squarely in the path of diverse and unpredictable adventures of the heart that, like fresh ink, forever leave their mark. In subsequent books, Rebecca meets and falls in love with a chancy race car driver who is as elusive as he is handsome, a drifter songwriter, a politician with presidential aspirations, and a police detective who exploits her sensibilities, using her studio to crack down on a dangerous drug ring, of which he is secretly involved. In the sixth and final installment, the self-assuring and lovelorn Steele finally lands her true love in a twist no one would see coming.
As the books were published and launched, La Costa was expected to travel several months out of the year to meet contractual obligations at press interviews and promotional appearances. She had a clause added to her publishing contract that would see to it that such appearances would coincide with Louis’s academic schedule. She refrained from attending book signings or readings in the summer or spring months, when he was home from school during his middle school years. For the most part, La Costa and Louis were inseparable, soul-locked companions who shared an intrinsic bond that transcended traditional ties of the DNA brown eye-brown hair genes. They were the best of pals. La Costa raised him with every bit of unfailing love and sacrifice that any natural mother would have for her child.
Remarkably, with the release of the fifth book of the Rebecca Steele series, in 2010, Georgia’s memoir, Southern Peach, which had been optioned for a made-for-TV movie, was finally given the green light for production after an eighteen-month hold, thanks to the adroit sales finesse of Leo Monk, who had garnered top dollar from a premium cable network, hot for the winning bid. The success of the long-awaited adaptation taken from the imprimatur would not go without further tribute to La Costa, who was given public and screen credit for the film featuring Georgia’s life story and marriage to Macklin Byrne, as being co-written by the incomparable and emerging author, La Costa Reed. The modern-day romance of epic proportions, having garnered an Emmy nomination to boot.
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