Married men. Men who didn’t want to be stepfathers. Men who had absolutely no money, or who had lots of money and family members all too willing to whisper gold digger.
Men who didn’t understand her aspirations to be on stage, and men who were too insecure to share the spotlight.
She was saddled with kids when she was little more than one herself, but even after everything she went through, she kept her heart open. She was an optimist and a romantic, just like Libby. I expected my sister to fall in love a dozen times over, be swept off her feet over and over again for decades, but instead she fell in love with Brendan at twenty and settled down.
I, meanwhile, had approximately one romantic bone in my body, and once it shattered and I pinned myself back together, I developed a rigorous vetting process for dating. So neither Libby nor I have need for our old-fashioned Hepburn nights. Now they’re an excuse to be lazy, and a way to feel close to Mom.
It’s only six o’clock, but we change into our pajamas — including our silk robes. We drag the blankets off the bed in the loft and down the iron spiral staircase to the couch and pop in the first DVD from the Best of Katharine Hepburn box set Libby brought with her.
I find two speckled blue mugs in the cabinet and put the kettle on for tea, and then we sink into the couch to watch Philadelphia Story, matching charcoal sheet masks plastered to our faces. My sister’s head drops against my shoulder, and she heaves a happy sigh. “This was a good idea,” she says.
My heart twinges. In a few hours, when I’m lying in an unfamiliar bed, sleep nowhere to be found — or tomorrow, when Libby sees the lackluster town square for the first time — my feelings might change, but right now, all is right in the world.
Anything broken can be fixed. Any problem can be solved.
When she drifts off, I pull my phone from my robe and type out an email, bcc’ing every real estate agent, landlord, and building manager I know.
You are in control, I tell myself. You won’t let anything bad happen to her ever again.
My phone chirps with a new email around ten p.m.
Ever since Libby shuffled up to bed an hour ago, I’ve been sitting on the back deck, willing myself to feel tired and nursing a glass of the velvety pinot Sally Goode, the cottage’s owner, left for us.
At home I’m a night owl. When I’m away, I’m more like an insomniac who just mixed a bunch of cocaine into some Red Bull and took a spin on a mechanical bull. I tried to work, but the Wi-Fi’s so bad that my laptop is a glorified paperweight, so instead I’ve been staring into the dark woods beyond the deck, watching fireflies pop in and out of view.
I’m hoping to find a message from one of the real estate agents I reached out to. Instead CHARLIE LASTRA is bolded at the top of my inbox. I tap the message open and barely avoid a spit take.
I would have preferred to go my whole life without knowing this book existed, Stephens.
Even to my own ears, my cackle sounds like an evil stepmother. You bought the Bigfoot erotica?
Charlie replies, Business expense.
Please tell me you charged it to a Loggia credit card.
This one takes place at Christmas, he writes. There’s one for every holiday.
I take another sip, contemplating my reply. Possibly something like Drink any interesting coffee lately?
Maybe Libby’s right: Maybe Charlie Lastra was secretly as charmed as the rest of America by Dusty’s portrayal of Sunshine Falls and planned a visit during publishing’s annual late-summer hibernation. I can’t bring myself to broach the subject.
Instead, I write, What page are you on?
Three, he says. And I already need an exorcism.
Yes, but that has nothing to do with the book. Again, as soon as I’ve sent it, I have to marvel-slash-panic at my own unprofessionalism. Over the years, I’ve developed a finely tuned filter — with pretty much everyone except Libby — but Charlie always manages to disarm it, to press the exact right button to open the gate and let my thoughts charge out like velociraptors.
For example, when Charlie replies, I’ll admit it’s a master class in pacing. Otherwise I remain unimpressed, my instant reaction is to type, “Otherwise I remain unimpressed” is what they’ll put on your headstone.
I don’t even have the thought I shouldn’t send this until I already have.
On yours, he replies, they’ll put “Here lies Nora Stephens, whose taste was often exceptional and occasionally disturbing.”
Don’t judge me based on the Christmas novella, I reply. I haven’t read it.
Would never judge you on Bigfoot porn, Charlie says. Would entirely judge you for preferring Once in a Lifetime to The Glory of Small Things.
The wine has slipped one Jenga piece too many loose from my brain: I write, IT’S NOT A BAD BOOK!
“IT’S NOT A BAD BOOK.” —Nora Stephens, Charlie replies. I think I remember seeing that endorsement on the cover.
Admit you don’t think it’s bad, I demand.
Only if you admit you don’t think it’s her best either, he says.
I stare at the screen’s harsh glow. Moths keep darting in front of it, and in the woods, I can hear cicadas humming, an owl hooting. The air is sticky and hot, even this long after the sun has sunk behind the trees.
Dusty is so ridiculously talented, I type. She’s incapable of writing a bad book. I think for a moment before continuing: I’ve worked with her for years, and she does best with positive reinforcement. I don’t concern myself with what’s not working in her books. I focus on what she’s great at. Which is how Dusty’s editor was able to take Once from good to outrageously unputdownable. That’s the thing that makes working on a book exciting: seeing its raw potential, knowing what it’s trying to become.
Charlie replies, Says the woman they call the Shark.
I scoff. No one calls me that. I don’t think.
Says the man they call the Storm Cloud.
Do they? he asks.
Sometimes, I write. Of course, I would never. I’m far too polite.
Of course, he says. That’s what sharks are known for: manners.
I’m too curious to let it go. Do they really call me that?
Editors, he writes back, are terrified of you.
Not so scared they won’t buy my authors’ books, I counter.
So scared they wouldn’t if the books were any less fucking fantastic.
My cheeks warm with pride. It’s not like I wrote the books he’s talking about — all I do is recognize them. And make editorial suggestions. And figure out which editors to send them to. And negotiate the contract so the author gets the best deal possible. And hold the author’s hand when they get edit letters the size of Tolstoy novels, and talk them down when they call me crying. Et cetera.
Do you think, I type back, it has anything to do with my tiny eyes and gigantic gray head? Then I shoot off another email clarifying, The nickname, I mean.
Pretty sure it’s your bloodlust, he says.
I huff. I wouldn’t call it bloodlust. I don’t revel in exsanguination. I do it for my clients.
Sure, I have some clients who are sharks themselves — eager to fire off accusatory emails when they feel neglected by their publishers— but most of them are more likely to get steamrolled, or to keep their complaints to themselves until their resentment boils over and they self-destruct in spectacular fashion.
This might be the first I’m hearing of my nickname, but Amy, my boss, calls my agenting approach smiling with knives, so it’s not a total shock.