The Children(121)

Benjamin Crane was leaning against the front desk, his neck Hamptons red. The young receptionist he’d been flirting with was visibly relieved to see them coming.

“Hello, hello,” he called out heartily. “Hail the returning heroes!”

He put a fist out to Ennis for a bump. Ennis glanced at it, then away. Smile tightening, Benjamin moved on to Guin. “Lovely as always,” he said unctuously, turning a palm to cup hers. She smiled and gave him her left hand.

His recoil was slight but unmistakable. He pecked her briefly, above the wrist.

Guin had been to the offices of Hart & Crane many times. Walking through them with Ennis at her side was an entirely different experience. A hush followed behind them, heads turning. It was the quiet that follows the sweeping of a hawk.

“And here we are,” Benjamin said with relief, leading them toward, Guin noted, the good conference room. “Ready to embark on an exciting new chapter!” The laugh he unleashed was slightly unhinged. That of a horny cartoon wolf, dollar signs flashing in his eyes instead of hearts.

At the center of the table was an upscale spread. Salmon, fruit, bialys, beignets. Ringing it, a team of bright-eyed publishing folk, most of whom Guin had never met.

Then she saw someone she did recognize, and held an arm out to stop her brother from sitting. “Not her.” She pointed at Regina. “We’ve got our own publicist.”

Behind them, Fern said, “Hello, all. It’s good to be back.”

She’d hardened her look since quitting Hart & Crane to work for the Sharpes. Her black dress had Blade Runner shoulder pads. Her heeled boots pushed her well over the six-foot mark.

Regina cast a baleful glance at her former underling before addressing Guin. “Good to see you, too, hon. I know your terms. I’m sitting in today, that’s all.”

Wordlessly Guin turned to Benjamin Crane. Waited.

“Oh. Uh.” He shifted in his seat like a little boy caught in a lie, then reluctantly said, “Regina, would you mind . . . ?”

After an affronted beat, she rose. Imperious as a dancer, flush spreading from her neckline. She gathered her phone, her laptop, her notebook. She knocked over someone’s coffee, snapped, “Mop it up,” at the nearest twentysomething. Everyone watched in prickling silence as she made her slow way around the conference table and out the door, closing it hard behind her.

When she was gone Guin and Ennis sat, Fern beside them. Benjamin breathed an indiscreet sigh of relief and clapped his hands together.

“Okay! Well. First off, we want to say—oh.” He snapped his fingers at the assistant who’d led them in. “Javi, the champagne.”

As the assistant struggled to pop a bottle of cava, Benjamin went on. “We’re gathered here to celebrate a historic moment in the, uh, history of Hart & Crane. This is the kickoff meeting for the sixth and final—for now!”—he gave another wolfish laugh—“volume in the legendary Ninth City series. At last we have found our author for that elusive book six: our very own Guinevere. And! The book will be fully illustrated by celebrated artist Ennis Sharpe.”

He paused expectantly, looking at the siblings. Guin cleared her throat.

“We’re very excited,” she said. “To explore our mother’s phenomenal legacy.”

A flicker of suspicion crossed Benjamin’s face. It cleared quickly. “Edith’s children, her beloved muses, taking up their mother’s crown.” He shook his head in mock disbelief. “This will be an epic chapter in the story of Hart & Crane. As you know, my great-grandfather Milton Crane launched this publishing house in—”

“Stop talking,” Ennis said.

Benjamin did, out of surprise rather than compliance. His mouth stayed open.

“I don’t like you.” Ennis spoke slowly and clearly. “I don’t like your small talk or the way you are with women or how you snapped at your employee like he’s a dog.” He snapped his own fingers, twice. “Everyone in this room has worked hard to be here. Everyone but you. Which makes you the one person I don’t want to hear talking.”

The room was pin-drop silent. Most of Benjamin’s employees looked doggedly elsewhere, like bystanders to a subway fight. A handful watched with undisguised delight. Fern had told them a thing or two about Benjamin Crane. And she was the only one who dared to laugh, a dry sound that made Benjamin’s eyes click to hers, narrowing.

Guin leaned forward to divert his attention. “I’d like to hear from my editor. Laura?”

We want Laura Voss, Fern had told them. They’ll try to give the book to Oliver Casey. We’re not going to let them. He’s a massive egotist, he’ll leave his fingerprints all over it. Laura we can work with. She’s smart, she’s responsive, she won’t try to pull off a coup. She knows it’s your names on the book.

It played out as Fern anticipated. The spurned Oliver was an Addison DeWitt–looking fucker, moodily palming a yerba maté gourd at the end of the table. He’d given a derisive grunt when she spoke Laura’s name. Laura—half rising when called on, then settling back into her seat—was around Ennis’s age. Pale skin, large wire frames, a side-parted brown bob. Guin hadn’t met her in person before. She bit her cheek and thought, Misty of Chincoteague. Rollerblades. Montclair.

“It’s an honor to be working with you both.” Laura’s voice was lower and surer than she anticipated. Guin recalibrated: Fear Street, lacrosse team. Providence. “Guinevere, your sample chapters are,” she pressed her palms together and gave a little shiver. “Wonderful. Truly. I think at this point I should stand back and let you work. You clearly have a vision, I want you to be free to follow it. I’ll be here when you’re ready for a fresh pair of eyes, a brainstorming partner, whatever I can give you that’s useful.”