Backlash

by Geneva Lee

  A few steps from my desk there’s a community copy machine liberally plastered with instructions on how to coax it to do one’s bidding. It’s definitely not the executive office I imagined sitting in one day.

  I don’t care, because there’s a stack of manuscripts waiting for me on my desk. Who cares about the cramped space? Books take you all over the world. No passport required. Trish watches me nervously, probably wondering if I’m going to demand a corner office.

  Thanks to Poppy’s intervention, I’m overdressed for my first day on the job. Where Trish looks comfortable in a pair of slim-legged khaki trousers, canary-yellow ballet flats, and an oversized white tank top, I’m in a black pencil skirt that hugs my ample hips and 3-inch black crocodile-leather heels that Poppy deemed “tame enough for work.” My saving grace is the soft denim shirt I insisted on. Knotted in the front, the outfit was classic but sophisticated. Even Poppy approved.

  Now, I wonder if I’m sending the wrong message. I don’t want Trish to think I’m here to take over. There’s a lot I need to learn from her before I’ll be ready to be a real editor, let alone oversee the entire company as its owner.

  “Is it okay?” she asks when I’m quiet for too long. “We can move your desk anywhere—”

  “No!” I stop her. I don’t want her to ruin the moment. “This is perfect.”

  “I know it’s not fancy…” Trish glances around as if she’s afraid someone might hear her. “But we can’t afford much.”

  “About that.” I take a deep breath and prepare myself. “My salary.”

  “Obviously, it’s not very competitive,” she says, tugging her honey blonde hair into a messy bun. “I can see if we can afford more.”

  “Are you kidding? It’s my first real job. I’d probably work for free coffee,” I confess to her. Now that she knows who I am, there’s no need to hide that fact. “But I also own the place, so maybe I shouldn’t take a salary at all.”

  “Of course you should take a salary.” Trish looks at me like I’ve grown a second head. “If you think you’re gonna make any money as the owner, then you’re deluding yourself.”

  “But Bluebird can afford this?” I should have seen how difficult this was going to be. As much as I want this job on my own terms and as much as I want to be treated like everyone else, I can’t divorce the fact that I’m responsible for all of them. Why I thought I could come here to play editor and pretend I don’t have the power to make or break this publishing company, I don’t know. Standing here now amid my new coworkers, I realize they’re more than that. They’re my company’s backbone.

  “Look, you should get paid for what you do. It’s only fair. But you might want to check with accounting—and by accounting, I mean Meg.” Trish grins and hitches a finger toward a woman sitting on the far side of the room. “She’s pretty much in charge of keeping the books. It’s a really sophisticated operation we have going here.”

  “I can see that.” I return her smile. If she can have a good attitude about all of this, I can as well. I’d expected to come here and find a pity position, but Trish isn’t acting any differently than when I saw her last week. “I want to do whatever I can to help Bluebird succeed. But, honestly, I really want to work with books.”

  “Let me be clear about this. You earned the editorial job,” Trish reminds me. “I had no idea who you were. Not that it matters.”

  “It doesn’t?” I mutter.

  Trish mistakes the look on my face. “Don’t worry. I haven’t told anyone that you own them.”

  “I don’t,” I say quickly. Something about the way she says it reminds me too much of my father.

  “I’m just teasing.”

  “Sorry, sore subject,” I admit. “Being a MacLaine is a lot like having a big, old albatross hanging around my neck.”

  “I would think it opens a lot of doors,” Trish says thoughtfully.

  “It does—but mostly to cigar lounges and boys clubs and private meetings with lots and lots of old men.”

  “When you put it like that.” Trish gives me a rueful smile. “I have no idea why your dad kept Bluebird for all these years. I’ll be truthful. We kept waiting for him to decide we weren’t profitable or that we needed to publish different kinds of books. It was a relief when…” She trails off, clamping her mouth shut.

  “It’s okay. Actually, it’s refreshing to know I’m not the only one who felt a little relieved when he died.” I can’t believe I said those words out loud, but Trish doesn’t look shocked.

  “We’re just glad to be in good hands now.” She winks at me. “So, anyway, we aren’t very formal here. Come and go as you please. I just ask that you get the manuscripts and notes back to me by the dates on the Post-it notes.” She taps a yellow sticky note dated July 18 attached to the front of the manuscript. “If you’re not going to make a deadline, let me know. If one of your authors is being a pill, let me know. If you need anything—”

  “I’ll let you know,” I promise her.

  “I need to make a few calls. You’re welcome to hang out or start whenever. I think you’ll like these manuscripts.” She hesitates a second before giving me a quick hug. Pulling back, she gives me a thumbs up. “Welcome to the team.”

  The team. I like the sound of that. I settle down at my desk at my job and pick up my first manuscript. I always thought my dreams were out of reach, but it turns out they were just down the street.

  * * *

  I’m so absorbed in the Valmont grad’s manuscript that I skip lunch and keep reading. The premise is unlike anything I’ve ever read. It’s a thriller, but somehow romantic and dreamy at the same time. I want to linger on every word and savor every sentence. It’s so good that I nearly jump out of my chair when Trish taps me on the shoulder. I hastily drop the page onto the top of my stack.

  “Sorry,” she says with the hint of laughter in her voice, “but you have a guest.”

  For a split second, I’m embarrassed, wondering which of my friends has come down to take pictures of me like it’s the first day of school or prom night. Then I catch the dazed expression on Trish’s face. My gaze moves from her wide eyes to the front door, already knowing exactly who I’d find. Sterling is standing near the door, looking a bit too much like a male model for his own good. Glancing around the office, I realize that everyone is staring at him. But Sterling? He’s looking directly at me and the intensity of his gaze scorches through me.

  “Thank you. Is it okay?” I ask Trish, half-hoping she’ll tell me about some heretofore unmentioned visitation policy preventing hot men from distracting the entire office during work hours.

  “Look, if you don’t want him to visit you, he can come and hang out at my desk,” she whispers.

  I wave him over and she flashes me a quick smile before she disappears back to her own desk. I can’t help noticing that she’s still watching him. Sterling winds through the maze of desks with the confidence of a man who knows exactly where he’s going and sees no obstacles in his path. He let his five o’clock shadow grow a little longer, leaving a sexy bit of stubble on his jaw. His hair is slicked back, showing off the strong line of his nose and his almost unnaturally blue eyes—eyes that haven’t left me yet. Each step closer sends my heart rate ratcheting up.

  “Lost? Or did you feel the need to distract the entire workforce from their jobs?” I ask, dropping my chin into my hands and staring up at him.

  “Me? A distraction?” His head swivels around like this is news to him. Throughout the office heads drop, trying to avoid being caught ogling him. He shrugs when he looks back to me. “Everyone seems busy. Maybe I’m only distracting you, Lucky.”

  “Fat chance.” I snort and hope it comes off believably. The truth is, as much as I want to return to the manuscript, my body is actively rebelling against me. I squeeze my thighs tighter, trying to control the ticking pulse that started between them when I saw him. I need to get Sterling out of here before I leave a puddle on my seat. “Why are you here?”

&nb
sp; “It’s your first day. I brought you a present.” He holds up a brown paper bag.

  “You didn’t have to do that.” I hesitate and lean back in my seat. I need to be more direct—more forceful. I can’t let him think that he can smooth talk his way into my heart. “You shouldn’t do that.”

  “I know,” he stops me before I can ask him to leave. “I’ve been thinking about what you said and maybe you’re right.”

  I clutch the arms of my chair because I need solid proof I’m not dreaming. “Come again?”

  “There are things I need to tell you,” he lowers his voice so that no one can hear us. “I can’t tell you everything—” I open my mouth to protest, but he shakes his head, “—not every story is mine to tell.”

  “But you’ll tell me about the guy in the hotel and the last five years?”

  “Yes,” he says.

  “And you thought, hey, this isn’t a big day for Lucky, I’ll just pop by and be as distracting as possible while she tries to make a good first impression…?” I open a desk drawer and rifle through the papers in it.

  “Err, sorry,” he asks, looking boyishly sheepish, “What are you doing?”

  “Looking for a contract. I want this in writing,” I say.

  “Very funny.” He drops the present on top of the manuscript on my desk. “What are you doing tonight?”

  I bite my lip. I want answers and I don’t want to wait for them, but Sterling often promises more than he delivers.

  “Don’t overthink it,” he says. “Just say you’ll have dinner with me so that we can talk.”

  “Okay,” I agree slowly, “but on one condition. Not your place. Not my place. Neutral territory.”

  “Deal.” A wide smile steals across his face, momentarily rendering me awestruck. It’s rare to see him genuinely happy, but when he is, I can’t help the swell of joy I feel. He seizes the opportunity to lean down and brush a kiss over my forehead. “I’ll pick you up at five-thirty, Lucky.”

  It takes me a second to recover, and he’s halfway to the door before I process what he said. “Six,” I call after him.

  He nods, his back on the door, as he pulls out a pair of aviators and slides them on. When he’s finally out of the building, I realize I’m not the only one with my eyes glued to the door. Trish is already back at my desk. “Who was that?”

  My biggest mistake? My biggest regret? How do I describe who Sterling is?

  “Uh-oh,” she says, dropping to sit on the edge of my desk. “I know that look.”

  I manage to tear my attention from the exit. “What look?”

  “The look of a woman who’s in love with a man but wishes she wasn’t.”

  “Is it that obvious?” I ask with a sigh.

  “Only to those of us with eyes,” she assures me. “Word to the wise? Men are like manuscripts, if you love one, fight for it before someone else snatches it up.”

  “Is there a lot of competition here?” I ask dryly.

  “For manuscripts,” she says before tipping her head toward the door. “But I saw the look on his face. He is one hundred percent in love with you.”

  I glance up to her. Is she right? She does pretty much study human nature for a living. “I’m not sure that’s enough.”

  “Girl, love is the only inexhaustible resource in this world,” she says. “If you need more, demand more. You deserve it. And that man? He wants to give it to you.”

  She heads back to her desk, leaving me with a half-read manuscript and a vice grip of emotion coiling around my heart. Maybe she’s right. Turning my attention back to the book and hoping I can clear my head after Sterling’s impromptu distraction, I find the present he left me. Digging past the tissue, I find a note.

  Lucky,

  I thought about getting you a fancy red pen, but there’s no room for mistakes with that. So here’s your very own editorial pencil. Shape your story however you want and don’t be afraid to make mistakes. You can always erase them.

  At the bottom of the bag, there’s a single, sharpened red pencil. I twirl it in my fingers before laying it next to the manuscript. I can’t help reading more into this gift and his note. I’ve made plenty of mistakes. He knows that. If only it was as easy to erase them as a bad sentence. I don’t know if I can trust Sterling, but I do know that this thing between us—it can’t be erased, mistake or not. He’s right. It’s time to revise my situation.

  I’ve been waiting my whole life—waiting to be free, waiting to be wanted, waiting for him. I’m done waiting. It’s time to do some editing. Because this is my town, my life, my heart—and he’s going to have to earn his place in each of them.

  16

  Adair

  The Past

  On Thanksgiving morning, I follow the scent of pumpkin and cloves to the kitchen where I find Felix pulling a pie out of the oven. Most of today’s cooking is being handled by Sadie, our cook, and her staff, but Felix always handles the desserts. He’s in the holiday spirit, sporting an apron embroidered with orange and yellow leaves.

  “Tell me you made one for breakfast,” I beg, breathing in the heavenly scent.

  “You’re predictable.” He pulls a cookie sheet holding a small hand-pie out of the lower oven and places it on a trivet on the counter.

  “And you’re the best.” I grab it greedily, but regret it when it singes my fingertips.

  “Every year.” He shakes his head.

  “Speaking of, who are the guests of honor this year?” I blow on the hand-pie, knowing from experience that I’ll burn my tongue if I don’t wait.

  The holidays are a time for the MacLaines to show off our wealth, under the premise of hospitality, of course. The season starts with inviting someone—usually a business associate of my father’s—to share Thanksgiving dinner. Then, a week before Christmas, we host a huge party at Windfall, the scale of which grows larger and increasingly ludicrous every year. On Christmas Eve, we open presents, so that the next morning we can fly off to a family vacation planned by my mother. Last year, we spent the week leading up to New Year’s Eve in London. This will be the first year I’ll wake up on Christmas morning with nowhere to go. Suddenly, I don’t feel like eating my pumpkin hand pie. It’s usually the perfect start to the holiday season, but now everything’s different.

  “Your in-laws, or future in-laws, will be here for dinner. I expect they’ll be around for most holidays now,” Felix says.

  I wrinkle my nose. “Fantastic.”

  Felix shoots me a look.

  “What?” I say defensively. “They’re so boring. Ginny’s dad spends all his time telling vaguely racist jokes, and her mom is like a walking game show. She just tells you how much everything she owns costs her. ‘See this bracelet,’” I mimic her, “‘Ronald paid five-thousand dollars for it. We just bought a new Lexus and upgraded the trim.’ Ugh, it’s so weird.”

  “Why do you think she does it?” Felix asks gently.

  Ginny’s family is well off by most standards. Her dad is a prominent doctor in Nashville and her mother a homemaker. They were probably at the top of their social rung before their daughter met my brother. “I don’t know. To impress us?”

  “To fit in,” he says. “Consider how overwhelming all of this is.”

  My shoulders slump, not because I’m inaccurately describing the Higginboth family, but because I’ve spent the last few months having Sterling open my eyes to just how extreme our family’s wealth is. “I just wish…”

  “Don’t wish. Act,” he advises. “Maybe you can make them feel more comfortable.”

  “Okay,” I promise. I grab my hand pie and head back to my room, wondering what would make Sterling more comfortable. Honestly, I can’t imagine him ever feeling like he fits here—and that’s a bigger problem. I’m not sure I want him to fit in here.

  * * *

  Dinner is a formal affair held every year at three p.m. sharp. This allows the women to starve themselves all day in preparation for consuming so many calories, while ensuring the
men have time for cigars and brandy. Some things never change. I opt for a deep red dress with long sleeves that end in dainty bell cuffs and a full skirt, but forego the standard heels in favor of the pair of gold velvet flats I wore for last year’s Christmas party. Opening the drawer to my nicest jewelry, I freeze when I spot the small ivory notecard. Familiar curly handwriting is scrawled across it.

  Darling, I’m so proud of you and I can’t wait to see you graduate from Valmont in four years. These are probably a little much for campus, but I thought of you.

  My hand shakes as I lift the card to find a pair of delicate golden earrings shaped like flower blossoms. On a thin wire hook in the center of the blossom’s bell, a brilliant opal dangles. My birthstone. How long had these been waiting for me, untouched? Since August, at least. Mom must have put them there around the time I was getting ready to start at Valmont. I tuck the card back in the drawer. It will be the last one I ever get, I realize. Staring at the earrings, I finally pick them up and hook them, one at a time, into my ear. I check the mirror, discovering that they catch the copper of my hair, reflecting a dozen shimmering hues.

  The alarm on my phone goes off, warning me that I need to head down to the table. I drag my feet on the way. When I reach the landing to the stairs, my father is at the base, glowering at me from his wheelchair.

  “Three sharp does not mean five minutes later,” he barks before wheeling away.