Beach Thriller(8)

“She’s always there,” her mother had said, her voice bolder, firmer this time.

Holly snapped back to the present, returning to Serena, almost forgetting the question about her mother. “No, it’s only me, I’m alone. My mom—she passed away recently.” Holly felt the familiar lump form in her throat. She cleared it with a hard swallow. “I’m going to live here for a while, fix up the cottage…”

Serena’s hand reached for Holly’s. “I am so sorry to hear that,” she said, her eyes brimming with sympathy. “I wish I had known. I would have come for the services. Carol was such a dear friend for many years.”

Holly remembered Serena’s visits from her younger days. She and Anna would titter at the silly predictions the young psychic gave their mother over coffee or dinner at the cottage. Their grandfather thought it was all nonsense as well. But Serena had been a kind, steady presence in her mother’s life, and for that they were all grateful. Carol carried a deep loneliness after the loss of her husband, and Serena’s friendship had been a healing salve during their summers in Beauport.

Serena gave Holly’s hand a reassuring squeeze. “She’s here with us in spirit. I hope you believe that.”

Holly returned a forced smile—she did not believe it. “Thank you. You meant a lot to my mother. I miss her every day, and I sometimes wonder if she’s watching over me, the way she believed Anna did.” Holly paused, hoping to escape the flood of emotions that threatened to overwhelm her. She looked out the window at the sparkling ocean in the distance and changed the subject as smoothly as she could. “So how’s business? I’ve come to Beauport hoping it’ll be a good place to work—get some inspiration for a new novel.”

“Oh, there’s no shortage of inspiration in this beautiful town,” Serena said. “What are you working on?”

Holly’s reluctance to share the dire turn her career had taken clashed with a compelling urge to tell someone—anyone—about her recent conversation with her agent, Dan Bishop.

She’d given Dan her first draft of The Ashford Orchard Chronicles. The book wasn’t where she wanted it to be. The grandmother’s character needed fleshing out; her backstory about the affair with the itinerant apple picker wasn’t quite working. And the conflict with the middle daughter, trapped between a desire to appease her mother by staying at the farm and a wish to follow her dreams to the West Coast, could be weightier. But she liked how the characters leapt off the page, how the sisterly bond felt real, with pieces of it pulled from Holly’s experiences with Anna. She’d hoped Dan would be able to rush a deal with her publisher, knowing full well that speed went with publishing like patience did a toddler.

Unfortunately, Dan’s reaction was worse than Holly had anticipated. Her publisher wasn’t serious about re-upping at all.

“It’s not the book, Holly—it’s the sales record,” Dan had said over the phone. “They don’t want to insult you with an offer that doesn’t match your acclaim.”

“My acclaim?” Holly was aghast. “Have you ever tried to eat acclaim, Dan? It’s deficient in almost every macronutrient. What the hell were they offering?”

Holly heard the number and gasped. “Holy hell, I’m dead.”

“There’s not a writing career out there that’s traveled in a straight line,” Dan assured her.

“King. Grisham. Roberts. Their lines seem to always go up.”

“You can reinvent,” he said.

That was agent code for writing something with murders or bodice-ripping protagonists, which had never been Holly’s cup of tea. She didn’t need to reinvent—she needed a backer with deep pockets, someone who believed in her talent. Too bad that someone wasn’t her publisher.

“Dan, please, last year I was Patron of Letters for the Virginia Literary Awards—that’s a big honor. And I got long-listed for a PEN American Center award only a few years ago. That should be worth something.”

“It would be if you’d won.”

Ouch. That hurt, but Holly worked with Dan for his honesty, not his tact. He had a point. People loved winners, and Holly was always an “almost” when it came to the big awards. She’d been long-listed also for a Massachusetts Book Award and an Andrew Carnegie Medal for Excellence, none of which she’d won. She could call herself Holly Long-List, like a pirate.

“What can we do, Dan?” Holly had asked. “I need money—stat.”

“Try writing something that sells,” suggested Dan, which had sent Holly’s blood pressure skyrocketing.

“I do that with every book,” she said. “I wouldn’t want my name on the cover of something I didn’t think was worth purchasing.”

“Holly, I’m not talking about your skill,” said Dan. “I’m talking about your approach. Maybe it’s time you told a more … I dunno, universal story. Something geared toward the masses.”

“How about a book about learning mindfulness from a cat?” suggested Holly.

Dan’s voice brightened. “Yeah, that, but it’s already been done. Meow Mindfulness—it’s flying off the shelves. Have you read it?”

“Fuck, Dan. I know all about it. Hell, I own a copy. I was joking. And besides, it’s not really fiction, even though it is fiction.”