by Wendy Wax
35
Some writers take to drink, others take to audiences.
—GORE VIDAL
By the time Sticks and Stones came out on April 16, Kendall had pinched herself so many times her arms were black and blue.
She spent the day in Atlanta, where she went to a Buckhead salon for the works, coming out late that afternoon buffed and polished and professionally made up. She dressed in her room at the Ritz-Carlton where Scarsdale had booked her for the night. Tomorrow Dana Kinberg would escort her to bookstores all over Atlanta to sign stock and meet booksellers. Then she and Dana would fly to Miami, from where they’d begin their trek northward. Her last appearance would be in Chicago, when Kristen Calder would interview her about Sticks and Stones, with selected book clubs in the audience.
Hardly recognizing herself in the mirror, Kendall changed into one of the Travelers ensembles that she’d bought at Chicos—after being assured that all of the pieces were not only interchangeable and machine washable, but could be balled up in her suitcase only to pop out unwrinkled at each destination.
As she slid into the passenger seat of Dana’s car for the drive to the Margaret Mitchell House, Kendall offered up a silent prayer of thanks for the petite dark-haired author escort that Scarsdale had provided and without whom she was certain she would now be bouncing off the walls. Or cowering in a darkened corner.
Somewhere in her early forties, Dana Kinberg was an unusual mix of calm and chutzpah, a champion hand-holder who remained unfazed by Kendall’s fear of the unknown, the publisher’s punishing schedule, or the bazillion details she’d be expected to handle on the road. Normally Dana only worked in and around Atlanta, but Scarsdale had arranged for the escort to accompany Kendall all the way through to the stop just before Chicago.
To date there hadn’t been a single question Kendall had posed that Dana was unable to answer. If Dana wondered how Kendall could have written so many books and remained so ignorant of the touring process, she was too tactful to say so. Kendall was already growing dependent on her and they hadn’t even left town yet.
“Oh, God.” Kendall breathed heavily as they turned onto Peachtree and pulled into the parking lot behind the Margaret Mitchell House. “What will I do if no one shows up?”
“That’s not going to happen,” Dana said in her soothing matter-of-fact voice. “I checked in with reservations this morning, and the event is a complete sellout. You don’t need to worry about a thing.”
Kendall didn’t see how this could be so, but rather than waste these last few minutes arguing, she spent them breathing deeply in an effort to calm down. On the front step, she paused in a final attempt to gather herself. With Dana at her right shoulder acting as her entourage and literary “wingman,” Kendall entered the room.
The first familiar faces she saw were Melissa’s and Jeffrey’s. They rushed over to her, identical smiles creasing their faces, their arms already open for hugs. Calvin followed with a pleasantly neutral smile on his face. Todd and Dee flanked him on either side. Laura Wiles was nowhere to be seen.
“Look, Mom!” Melissa said. “The place is packed!”
Kendall looked around her and saw that her daughter was right. A well-dressed crowd milled about, drinks in hand, waiting to take their places at the cloth-covered tables. Many were friends from the suburbs—women she’d volunteered at school with, played tennis with, seen casually at church. There were a few people from Calvin’s office that she’d known forever. Others were members of the local chapter of Wordsmiths Incorporated, to which she’d belonged for more than a decade, but a gratifying number appeared to be complete strangers who’d come to see her or at least to hear more about Sticks and Stones.
Surreptitiously she pinched herself yet again. Once she was certain that she was awake and not in the midst of a lovely dream, Kendall began to circulate. She chatted with the Margaret Mitchell House staff as well as several reporters that Dana led over to meet her. Then she made the rounds of all the familiar faces; she was so grateful that they’d come, she hardly knew how to thank them.
After that the evening sped by in a blur. She didn’t remember what they ate, what selections she read from her book, though she’d chosen them carefully in advance, marking only those she’d written herself. She had no idea how many books she signed afterward, but the bookseller looked happy and Kendall’s fingers ached halfway through from clutching the Sharpie. Her jaw throbbed from smiling and talking.
The only truly uncomfortable moment came when the children questioned why Kendall was staying at a hotel rather than at home. But Calvin left the explaining to her, and Melissa and Jeffrey seemed willing to believe that she’d opted for the hotel because of the next morning’s stock signings and the early-afternoon flight her publisher had booked her on.
She was fairly certain Dana drove her back to the hotel, although she might have floated there on a cloud. Or in the pumpkin-turned-carriage that Cinderella had once used.
She fell asleep staring up at the hotel room ceiling, her arms wrapped around her body, too tired and too pleased to pinch herself. It had been the most exciting night of her life.
Kendall was still pinching herself three days later in Jack- sonville, as they prepared to leave Florida for major cities in Texas, followed by Louisiana, Mississippi, Alabama, northern Georgia, North and South Carolina, Virginia, Tennessee, and Kentucky.
Before each signing Kendall felt that flutter of nerves, that last-minute fear that the store would be empty and the only people who would stop at her table would be looking for directions to the bathroom. But at each store the crowds grew larger and so did the requests for media interviews.
At first Kendall had been uncomfortable on the early-morning and noon talk shows around which the book signings were scheduled. Unable to shake her sense of disloyalty to Tanya, Faye, and Mallory for taking the credit for their work, she evaded questions about her writing process and regimen. But by the time she reached Houston she’d learned how to sidestep these issues. After her sixth interview, she began to develop pithy sound bites that earned her even more exposure. She was tired but still thrilled. The bruises on her arms began to fade and the guilt began to lessen. Her belief in herself and her work grew.
“This is a very unusual reaction for fiction from a relatively unknown author,” Dana said, noting the standing-room-only crowd at an independent bookstore in Louisville on their final morning together. Dana would be flying back to Atlanta; Kendall would fly on to Chicago for a signing later that afternoon and tomorrow’s Kristen Calder Show taping.
“Fiction’s such a subjective thing and very hard to promote,” Dana said. “But all of these women can relate to the friendship that’s central to the story. It’s a real celebration of ‘sisterhood.’ I know that was the hot button that clinched the Kristen Calder appearance. I can’t tell you how sorry I am to be missing it.”
“I wish you’d come with me.” Kendall couldn’t believe how attached she’d become to Dana. She’d served as confi dante and security blanket. She’d known when to keep Kendall company and when to give her space. And she knew all the best restaurants in every town they’d been in.
“I’ve got to get back. I’ve got an author to meet tomorrow. And you’ll have your friends there,” Dana said, referring to Mallory and Tanya’s plan to fly in early the next morning so that they and Faye could be at the taping.
The very thought of The Kristen Calder Show made Kendall’s stomach churn. Keeping the local reporters and interviewers at arm’s length had been easy, but Kristen Calder was another story. She had the staff and resources to delve into anything she chose.
Enough, she chided herself. The talk show host had no reason to hunt for anything, no motive to suspect Kendall had anything to hide. Kendall was not a James Frey who had written fiction and marketed it as the truth. She just had three ghostwriting friends who’d insisted on helping her. It was a victimless crime. No one, including the public, was being hurt.
Still the
knowledge that she was being less than honest left her uncomfortable and unable to completely enjoy her success. Her insides wobbled like Jell-O when she hugged Dana good-bye at the Delta ticket counter and headed to the gate for the flight to Chicago.
That morning Lacy Samuels woke in Cash Simpson’s bed for the first time. Intellectually she was somewhat surprised that she’d finally ended up there, but her body had no qualms. It was doing its own little happy dance over all the attention it had received.
Her body’s gratitude notwithstanding, Lacy knew that Cash was not her “Mr. Right.” He was too old for her, too sophisticated, and possibly too sexually talented. But she’d decided somewhere between the second and third orgasms he’d given her that there was no reason on earth he couldn’t be her “Mr. Right Now.”
He moved closer, trapping the heat from their last bout of lovemaking between them. His warm breath brushed her ear. “Come here.” He turned her in his arms and drew her up against him, burying her face in the breadth of his chest. His erection teased against her inner thigh. “I’ve got something for you.”
“Why thank you, kind sir.” She smiled as their lips met and felt a quickening inside as he rolled her back into the mattress and fit himself on top of her. Afterward she lay with her head in the crook of his shoulder, completely sated. Her body’s dance slowed, allowing her brain to kick in—funny how they seemed unable to work in tandem.
Lacy swung her legs over the side of the bed and sat up, eager now to get moving. “I need to go home and pack.”
“That’s right,” he said as he rolled out of the other side of the bed. “You don’t want to keep Kristen Calder waiting.”
He looked tousled and unbelievably attractive as he stepped into his discarded jeans. His eyes could only be called “bed-roomy.” Lacy sighed. If it ended today, it would have been worth it.
Cash shrugged into a T-shirt while Lacy pulled on last night’s skirt and top. She still couldn’t believe Hannah had arranged for her to go with Cindy and her boss to Chicago.
Outside Cash hailed her a cab and put her in it, then leaned in the open window to give the cabbie Lacy’s address and a wad of bills. “Call me when you get back,” he said, kissing her good-bye.
Lacy smiled and waved as the cab pulled away. But she was already thinking about what she’d take with her. And whether she’d have time to pick up her favorite blouse from the dry cleaner.
Now Lacy sat at her desk, her overnight bag packed and ready on the floor of her cubicle, reliving the night with Cash and anticipating the trip to Chicago.
Jane was in, but since the sales meeting when she’d realized Lacy was under Hannah Sutcliff’s protection, she’d begun communicating primarily via e-mail and intercom, keeping personal contact to a minimum. This suited Lacy just fine.
Not so fine was how thoroughly Jane had cut Lacy out of the loop on Sticks and Stones. Despite her role in getting Kendall Aims’s book noticed, Lacy saw nothing of what came next: not the revision letter, not the copyedits, not the galleys, not the favorable reviews. Nothing. In fact, Lacy had had to beg Cindy Miller for an ARC, an advanced reading copy, which had been raced through production so they could be sent out for review.
Lacy had read it in one long night and been forced to admit that Jane’s editing had taken a great book and made it even greater. She simply couldn’t understand how such a gifted editor could be so scornful of writers. Not to mention such a failure as a human being.
The intercom on her desk squawked and Lacy jumped.
“I want you in here!” Jane’s voice reverberated through the cubicle and beyond, wiping out the Cash Simpson sexual highlight reel that had been playing in Lacy’s head. She rose reluctantly and picked up a yellow pad.
“Now!”
Reminding herself that she was no longer completely de fenseless and that if Jane could have fired her she would have done so by now, Lacy speed-walked to her boss’s office.
The door was open. Before Lacy was all the way in, Jane began to speak.
“I just got a call from Brenda Tinsley,” Jane said, an odd smile on her lips. “Sticks and Stones has hit the New York Times list.” The smile turned taunting. “Just as I knew it would.”
“Oh, my God!” Lacy yelped with excitement as the news sank in. She wanted to hug someone—anyone—as long as that someone wasn’t Jane Jensen. Who had apparently decided to pretend she’d expected this all along.
Lacy pushed aside her irritation at Jane’s ridiculous claim and held tight to her excitement. Hitting the Times list was a pinnacle achieved by a very small percentage of authors, and it was a status symbol that once attained, never went away. No matter what happened after this, Kendall Aims’s name would forever be followed by the words, “New York Times Bestseller.”
“I’m going to call and let my author and her agent know,” Jane said, making sure Lacy felt the jab. Lacy couldn’t fathom how the woman could claim credit for the success of an author she’d tried so hard to bury. Nonetheless Lacy felt as if she’d won a gold medal. She could hardly imagine how Kendall would feel.
But Jane seemed more interested in Lacy than Kendall.
“Hannah may be protecting you at the moment,” Jane said. “But no matter how many TV tapings they send you to or how many times you sleep with Cash Simpson, you’ll never last. You’re too big a Pollyanna to survive in publishing.”
Lacy’s blood began to simmer in her veins. She wanted to rip the smirk off her boss’s face, wanted to tell Jane exactly how many times she’d slept with Cash Simpson and describe in detail each and every one of the resulting orgasms.
“Is that right?” Lacy met her boss’s malicious gaze head on. She didn’t flinch or shrink back. The truth was that Jane was the one who’d screwed up. Where did she get off belittling and threatening?
“So you don’t think the fact that I recognized something special in a book you couldn’t be bothered to read fits into this conversation somewhere?” Lacy asked. “Or that so many of your . . . colleagues . . . couldn’t wait to show you up might be a sign that you should look for a new field to go into?”
Jane smiled. Or maybe it was more of a gloat. “I’m not going anywhere. I just finished editing a New York Times Bestseller.” She paused to let the taunt sink in. “Though I sincerely doubt she’ll ever hit the list again. Kendall Aims happened to write the right book at the right time. Sticks and Stones doesn’t even read like her work. Maybe someone should look into how such a mediocre talent suddenly developed such an amazing command of differing points of view!”
Lacy’s blood came to a full boil. Jane Jensen was like a cancer that grew by spreading itself over everyone and everything. Lacy was tired of being afraid of her, tired of listening to her negativity, tired of taking her abuse. Every positive thing that had happened since Lacy had started at Scarsdale had happened in spite of Jane, not because of her.
Lacy stepped forward so that she crowded Jane’s space. Lacy was taller and bigger and, as far as she was concerned, she had right on her side. “You’re a gifted editor—I saw what you did for Kendall’s manuscript—but I’ll never understand your hostility and your disdain for the people around you.”
Lacy was on fire with righteous indignation; she wasn’t sure she could stop the words spilling out of her mouth; she wasn’t even sure she wanted to.
“Bottom line,” Lacy bit out, “I’d rather be a Pollyanna than someone too . . . too . . .” She caught herself at the last minute and swallowed back the ugly words she’d been about to hurl. “. . . too cynical to do her job!”
And with that Lacy turned on her heel and marched out of Jane Jensen’s office without being dismissed. At her desk, she worked out her aggression rewriting the rejection letters. Instead of rejecting the prisoners’ manuscripts, she heaped praise on their work and told them to contact her personally to discuss possible publication. She signed each letter with a flourish, making sure the name Jane Jensen was legible on each one and adding Jane’s direct phone line. T
hen she walked them down to the mail room personally so she could be sure they went out.
36
The only reason for being a professional writer is that you just can’t help it.
—LEO ROSTEN
Kendall and Faye had left Chicago O’Hare International Airport and were speeding north on I-294 toward Faye’s home in Highland Park when Jane Jensen reached Kendall on her cell phone to tell her that she was now a New York Times Bestseller.
Once she’d determined that it was not a prank call, Kendall started to cry.
“What is it?” Faye asked, clearly shocked by Kendall’s tears. “Are you OK? Did something happen to the twins?”
Kendall shook her head, but she couldn’t stop crying. The enormity of what had happened hit her like a physical blow, sucking the air from her lungs and clogging her throat with emotion.
“You’re starting to freak me out!” Faye’s gaze was locked on Kendall rather than the highway. Even in her emotional stupor, Kendall realized this was not good, but she was struck dumb by the impossibility of what had happened.
“Are you feeling sick? Should I drive you to an emergency room?”
Kendall shook her head again as a great swell of happiness arose within her. Then she was laughing and crying. Her sobs were loud and choking things, but the joy was trying to break through, too.
The dream she had dreamed for years and finally given up on had actually come true. She, Kendall Aims, had a book on the New York Times Bestseller List.
“What’s happened?” Faye demanded as they exited and began to work their way eastward. Street signs flew by, but Kendall didn’t even try to read them. “If you don’t tell me right now, I’m going to stop right here in the middle of Deerfield Road until you do.” She pulled to a stop at a red light as if making good on her threat. “I’m not kidding, Kendall. What’s going on? You have to tell me right this minute.”