by Laudat, Reon
Sometimes Dominic shifted to a more hands-on role for clients, such as Brody who had requested Dominic’s personal editorial feedback. With these clients he would go through multiple rounds of revisions—within reason—until they’d polished the work to the best of their combined abilities. While Dominic understood a writer’s need to roll with his or her muse, he also understood a publisher’s bottom-line motivation. Readers clamored for the next installment of a red hot series and did not want to wait two, three, or— heaven forbid—four years for it. Since Brody’s last completed manuscript, his writing pace had slowed considerably, much to his publisher’s dismay.
Brody trooped inside Dominic’s office, the beat-up hiking boots he favored no matter the weather, thudding against the carpet. Clad in the usual down vest that resembled a life jacket, long-sleeved flannel shirt, and cargo pants, he dropped his tall, brawny frame into the guest chair and plunked his weathered backpack on the floor.
Brody lived for danger, action, and adventure. Dominic suspected he had a touch of ADHD. But how had he managed to hyper focus and sit still long enough to compose several manuscripts of a hundred thousand-plus words?
Brody tugged at his plaid shirt, adjusted the vest, and then removed the ever-present reusable water bottle and took a swig.
“Brody, my man, how are you?” Adjusting his glasses, Dominic settled in the executive chair and tilted it backward as the fennel from his sausage sub teased his senses. “Would you like coffee? I can have Quentin get a cup for you.”
“No, I’m good.”
Dominic took a drink of his coffee. “Did you forget something when we spoke this morning?”
“You didn’t phone my editor, did you?” Brody didn’t bother to remove his mirrored wraparound sunglasses.
“I told you I tried to phone her first thing this morning.” He grabbed the stress ball off his desktop. “She was in a meeting, according to her assistant.”
“Well, we spoke.”
Dominic sat up straight and squeezed the ball. “You mean you phoned her about the deadline?”
“Yup. I did. During the drive here.”
“I thought we’d agreed I would speak to her first.” Dominic cringed at the thought of that exchange. Brody’s candor could be off-putting to those who didn’t understand him—especially Brody’s new editor. Gwyneth Putnam, a highly respected, but tweedy, old-school type who preferred deferential authors, had replaced Brody’s easygoing former editor, with whom he’d enjoyed a harmonious relationship.
“I told Gwyneth I wouldn’t make deadline.”
“You and I already discussed that. We also agreed I would talk to her about a three-month extension.”
“I know, but I was fooling myself thinking I could get it done in three.”
“But what you have now is great. After you’ve done the suggested light revisions, it should be good to go.”
“I need more time.”
“How much more time?”
“Nine months.”
What the hell! “Come again?” he said, dropping the stress ball.
“As in nine months added to the three we’ve already discussed.”
“So we’re talking another year?” Dominic bit back, Are you out of your freakin’ mind?
“Yup, another year, at least. There’s no way I can do this book-a-year crap-ass schedule they’re pressuring me to keep if I’m to maintain quality.”
“But when we renewed the contract with your publisher you agreed—”
“I know, but at the time I was overly optimistic.” Brody opened his backpack and removed two energy bars. He offered one to Dominic, who declined.
Brody ripped the wrapper and took a greedy bite. “Man, I’m not some machine cranking out widgets,” he said around the granola wad in his mouth.
“But you’ve already done fourteen drafts.”
“And I fully intend to do more. They say Ernest Hemingway rewrote the ending to A Farewell to Arms thirty-nine times.”
“Yes, the last page. Some say there are actually more variations, from just a line or two to several paragraphs.”
“So? One page, several pages, several chapters. Bottom line, I need you to back me up and tell Gwyneth there’s no way. I refuse to turn in less than my best. My readers deserve that.”
“Don’t your readers deserve the next installment of this series in a timely fashion? What about that mini cyber revolt that brewed a few months ago? When you’re doing one primary story arc over multiple books, you don’t leave your readers hanging with major cliffhangers for too long. And then you unfortunately let everyone know what you’ve been up to.”
Brody’s Adam’s apple dipped as he swallowed. He took a gulp from the water bottle. “But you told me blogging, vlogging, and social networking would be a good idea. A chance to connect with my fans on a more personal level and give them a regular dose of Brody Goodwin between books.
“Yes, I did encourage it, but that was before I knew you’d expose so much.”
“What was I supposed to do? Post cute cat pictures? That’s not Brody Goodwin.”
“That Post-a-Pic photo of you whacking Peter Cottontail, no bueno, man.”
“Hey now,” Brody demurred, “I always use the most humane methods. That was a clean kill.”
“Clean?”
“Yup. And I made the rounds to my traps this morning,” he said.
Dominic leaned forward, discreetly inspecting Brody’s flannel shirt and nails. No tufts of fur or dried blood.
“Hmmm. Hmmm. Fresh rabbit is good eating.” Brody grinned, relishing the memory. “And a secret ingredient took it over the top.”
That dash of rabies? Dominic took a sip of his coffee.
Brody made no secret of his taste for labor-intensive cuisine, which some might refer to as “vittles”: wild mushrooms, berries, and flowers foraged from the woods near his cabin. His protein, the rabbit, squirrel, raccoon, and opossum he trapped.
Dominic’s stomach churned at the memory of the grinning boiled coon head—canines and molars intact—on a platter that Brody had served at his dinner party last spring. That evening Dominic had played vegan, sticking with the dandelion-and-fiddlehead-fern sauté with a side of pine nut relish.
“It’s all good. A bad kill affects the flavor of the meat, you know.” He polished off what was left of the energy bar in one bite. “And besides, the varmint photos always get lots of twinkle-dinkles.”
Twinkle-freakin’-dinkles. The Post-a-Pic equivalent of Facebook “likes” and Twitter stars. Just five years ago, if someone had told Dominic he’d have a conversation with a grown man boasting about his “twinkle-dinkles,” he would’ve assumed they were a few cans shy of a six-pack.
“I thought we’d agreed adding real-life activities would make it more readable and not a boring promotional tool. I don’t want to pummel readers over the head with buy-my-books-buy my-books-buy-my-books!”
“I get it, but if I recall correctly, some of your readers were pissed off when they heard a rumor that your next book would be delayed because you couldn’t make deadline, and there you were, posting about three- or four-week-long cave diving excursions in the Caribbean, and then yet another two-week-game-hunting safari in Africa, complete with photos and video.”
Brody gave Dominic the side-eye. “Man, are you trying to crack the whip on me?”
“Just playing devil’s advocate here.”
“I needed all those trips to help with my writing.”
A load of bull. Dominic pressed his lips together, silently regarding Brody.
Brody averted his eyes and shifted on his seat. “Okay, okay, so they weren’t exactly research on anything in particular, right now, I mean. But the experience and knowledge I’ve gained might come in handy one day. I get around to using everything. And I do know I’d been so blocked and stressed before those trips I couldn’t write my own name, but after I returned home I could write again. I felt refreshed, fired up even. That last trip is the reason I could g
ive you the latest draft. See, you’re not a writer. You can’t possibly understand the creative process.”
Dominic found it heartening listening to a hulking dude such as Brody emote about his “creative process.” His assumption that Dominic could not possibly relate rankled. After all, he was a writer, too. A mediocre, just-for-the-fun-of-it undercover writer. He did understand the creative process. He’d completed seven novels, but had no desire to see them published.
“I’ve been around enough creative types to know the process is not exactly the same for any two writers,” Dominic replied.
“Then you should know some novelists do their best writing when they’re not actually writing or sitting down with a keyboard, pen, and notebook. And there’s a whole ’nother layer with the muse.”
Dominic resisted using one of the stockpiled quotes regarding the muse’s erratic comings and goings. The ones that proclaimed those comings and goings were artiste-spun bunkum to disguise a lack of discipline rushed to mind. Instead, he reminded Brody that yet another extension—especially a year-long one—would not go over well with his publisher. He also mentioned the contract breach and the expense of altering marketing and promotion plans.
“I refuse to be rushed or pressured into doing less than my best,” Brody insisted.
“More than a dozen drafts is hardly rushing.” Dominic propped his elbows on his desk and massaged his temples where the beginnings of a headache pulsed. “This isn’t going to look good. I’ve seen the latest draft. I think you’re way too hard on yourself. This is going to be your best work yet. How about going for the compromise? Let’s go for six months?”
“It can’t be done, I tell you. Now, I need you to call Gwyneth and back me up. That is your job. Backing me up. You work for me, not my publisher.” The brook-no-argument capiche was implied in his expression.
Dominic removed his glasses and cleaned them with a small swatch of micro-fiber from the top desk drawer. He needed to keep his hands busy so he wouldn’t reach out and wring Brody’s thick neck. Instead, he mentally counted to ten. Outbursts were for the weak. But he often wondered why authors hired agents for their advice, only to ignore it. He swallowed a retort and put his glasses back on. “Of course I work for you.”
“Then it would be great if you could call her while I’m here. I need to hustle back home so I can start preparing for Maui.”
“You’re still going to that conference?”
“Hell, yeah! I need more time to write, but that doesn’t mean I need to stay holed up in my cabin in the woods. Have laptop will travel.” Brody chuckled. “You seem a little tense. A little more sunshine and Vitamin D will do us both some good, my man. Hey, maybe we can go parasailing together in Maui. It’ll loosen you right up.”
With utmost diplomacy, Dominic tried to get Brody to reconsider his deadline decision.
Brody held firm. “Now, if you could make that call to Gwyneth right now, I’ll be on my way.”
In this intensely competitive marketplace, Brody was willing to tick off his publisher and run the risk of fickle readers forgetting his name. So be it. Dominic reached for the phone. “I’ll make that call right now.”
Brody settled back in his chair with a self-satisfied smile.
Chapter 6
For Kendra, packing usually ranked somewhere between getting a pap smear and standing in long airport TSA lines, but she hummed cheerfully while filling her suitcases for Maui. Afterward, she ate leftover Kung Pao chicken carryout, called Aunt Jackie, skimmed a couple of submissions from her bedroom-based slush pile, took a quick shower, and tucked herself between the covers two hours earlier than usual to guarantee a good night’s sleep. Before turning off the lights, she reached for the stack of unopened mail on her nightstand: bills, junk mail, and not one, but three, kitschy postcards from her mother, who had left Vegas and was now on another honeymoon in the Bahamas.
Only sixteen years separated Kendra and her mother. They got along well enough, most of the time, but had never been particularly close. Two years ago, Vanessa had returned to support Aunt Jackie and attend Uncle Alex’s funeral. She and Kendra had spent quality time together for the first time in nearly a decade. Before Vanessa left for home, she’d vowed to stay in touch by phoning, emailing, and texting Kendra more often.
Vanessa now called herself a “lifestyle blogger” so Kendra learned the most about her from Just Vanessa, a combo TMI blog and brag book about Vanessa’s ridiculously idyllic life, complete with copious, carefully curated, soft focus photos. Much to Kendra’s surprise, “The Blag,” as she’d come to refer to it, drew heavy traffic and numerous commenters, who regularly stroked Vanessa’s ego:
U R a goddess!
I need that gorgeous outfit in my life.
You’re my inspiration!
Your new hubby is a prince. Does he have a single brother?
If Angelina Jolie and Halle Berry had a baby, it would look like you.
Not one troll in the bunch.
The Blag also had a connected Post-a-Pic account with a slew of followers. Kendra simply did not get the endless fascination with online “stars” who had a talent only for serving up narcissistic details of their daily lives. But clearly there was a voracious audience for that sort of thing.
Kendra surveyed the postcard photo of the bride and groom’s luxury Nassau digs. In the age of social media, blogs, and smartphones, Vanessa was one of the few people, besides Aunt Jackie, who still sent snail-mail postcards while traveling. A bubbly heart dotted each lower-case “I” in the note, reminding Kendra of the scribbling in a school girl’s notebook.
Vanessa loved being in love, particularly when it was all shiny and new, before the tedium of everyday life set in. She believed the One was pure folklore, instead preaching her own gospel about what she’d dubbed the One Hundred, which was the number of “potential soul mates” she arbitrarily believed the average person could have in a lifetime, after factoring in “the world’s population.” Vanessa seemed determined to work through all One Hundred of hers, having been married and divorced three times already. Kendra had lost count of the ring-less “engagements.” And the pretend daddies and “honey bears” she had endured in the years before moving in with Aunt Jackie.
It was right after Kendra’s relationship with Graham had fallen apart six months ago that she had begun to obsess about her own challenges with men. Multiple engagements were bad enough. If she didn’t do things differently she’d wind up like her mother with a series of divorces clanging behind her like a string of smelly cans. She reached for her phone to check email a last time before turning out the lights and found a note from Dominic: Looking forward to seeing you in Maui!
Unsure how to respond, she didn’t hit the reply key. Instead, she scrolled to the next email and her jaw dropped. Brody Goodwin? She recalled signing up for his e-newsletters. Surely it was a spam blast generated by his publisher to build anticipation for Brody’s next novel. Upon opening it she found what looked like a personal message. From Brody! Her pulse rate accelerated.
“Well, well, well. What have we here?” Kendra said aloud. The little bedside lamp would not do. She sprang out of bed, almost tripping over the covers, to fill the room with brighter light.
Brody knew Kendra was attending the Hawaii Authors Conference in Maui and wanted to meet for coffee there. It was never just about “coffee.” What would Dominic think of this development? She recalled his pompous speech about why some clients left their agents. And oh, how he had gloated. Such a thing never happened to the Great Dominic Tobias, who obviously boasted a record-breaking client retention rate, according to him.
Kendra couldn’t hit the reply key quickly enough:
Dear Mr. Goodwin,
I look forward to meeting you for coffee. I’m staying in the conference hotel, too. We can coordinate the particulars after we’ve arrived on the island. Aloha!—Kendra Porter
Chapter 7
Kendra hadn’t stopped smiling since her plane lande
d at Kahului Airport, and she’d strolled toward a lei greeting, a surprise perk of the no-frills travel package she’d selected. She’d collected her luggage and her rental, a yellow Chevy Aveo. While she’d fantasized about a sportier red convertible, it wasn’t in her tight travel budget. Instead, she’d rolled down all the windows as she cruised toward the Kaanapali Beach area, where she’d booked a room at the conference hotel.
A warm, fragrant breeze whipped through her hair. Palm trees swayed in welcome. Things only got better when she entered the open-air lobby filled with a riot of exotic blooms and foliage. She looked forward to checking out the grounds’ wildlife — African penguins, swans, flamingos, and parrots.
Her room was small, and the private lanai had a view of an active construction site. But the Pacific Ocean was a lot closer here than it was at her tiny Brooklyn apartment. She took in her cozy place for the next seven days. Beautifully decorated in a soothing palette of mint green and cream.
Fatigue soon settled in after the long flight and the time change so she would turn in early. But not before checking on Aunt Jackie. After a quick shower, she changed into her PJs and put the lei of plumeria and orchids back around her neck to enjoy its fragrance. Maui would’ve been great for Aunt Jackie, but she’d refused. She could not leave the shop to helpers these days, she’d said. But Kendra was also sure her aunt did not want her footing the bill for such a trip when Kendra was already helping the shop through slow times.
A vacation was the last thing on Aunt Jackie’s mind while grieving and fighting to stabilize the yarn shop’s finances. Kendra still worried about her, particularly when she had to leave her alone for more than a day or two. Aunt Jackie’s parents had moved to a senior citizens community in Boca Raton and her in-laws lived in Tennessee.
These days it was as if her aunt could only manage good cheer, faux good cheer at that, during store hours to engage customers and the help. She didn’t need to be “on” upon returning to the home she’d long shared with her husband, a Southern gentleman who had always exuded boundless kindness and quiet strength. She could unfurl her despair like the too-tight chignon she’d taken to wearing these days because it was a low maintenance way to wear her full head of curls Uncle Alex had adored.