Summer by summer, p.25
Summer by Summer, page 25
He pinched the bridge of his nose. “Nah, we’ll have to make do. Not much choice. We can pull a couple of the maintenance guys. And please remind the staff not to talk about a flu going around. Okay, thanks. Be there in about fifteen minutes.”
“Sounds bad.” I took the last bite and rinsed my bowl in the sink, then reached for the manuscript resting on the counter.
“Hospitality biz. Never gets boring.” My dad was forty-five, and this morning he looked his years.
“I can help out.”
“Aren’t you writing today?”
“Not now. My daddy needs me.” I crossed the kitchen and dropped a peck on his cheek. “I’ve worked the buffet line before, it’ll be easy.”
He considered me for a long minute. “You sure?”
“Yeah, let me grab my bag.”
When I came back in the room, he had my book tucked under his arm.
I cocked my head and my hip.
One bright blue eye winked, sparks of mischief playing in his irises. “Just in case.”
“Dad, writer’s conferences don’t work that way. You don’t just go and dump armloads of manuscripts on literary agents’ laps.” What could I say? I loved him for what he was trying to do. But publishing was a business. I’d been doing my homework. Besides, I was a nineteen-year-old. What were the odds anyone would want my story? It wasn’t about that anymore, I reminded myself. It was for me. Just for me.
Breakfast was simple, with groups of people flittering through the banquet area helping themselves to coffee in gleaming silver urns, trays of pastries, and fresh fruit cut into a myriad of whimsical shapes. The entire hotel buzzed with an excitement I thought only I felt for the written word. Editors were tagged with orange badges that announced where they were from — so cool to me because I knew those publishing houses and had read their books. The literary agents’ badges were green.
“Are these real eggs?”
I glanced forward to find a sweaty little man staring at me. He pushed a pair of glasses up on his shiny nose. Through the glasses, his eyes looked too big for his head. “Uh, I . . . I think so.”
A small, wet mouth pursed into a pucker. “I have to know for sure. I have allergies.”
“Let me check.” I turned from him and spotted my dad in the corner of the room, overseeing. A motion of my hand brought my dad toward us.
“Can I help — ”
“Are these eggs real?” The little man cut my dad off and gestured with an open hand, his bottle-glass eyes unblinking.
My dad smiled, polite and professional. “They are actually from a mix. Very good, though.”
Bottle-eyes released a long, labored breath and crossed his arms. “I have allergies.” As if that explained the mysteries of the entire world.
“I’d be glad to have one of the chefs cook you a couple of folded eggs.” Such composure in the face of the man’s rudeness. Go, Dad. He really was great at his job. I wanted to punch the snotty guy in the nose. It wasn’t our fault he had allergies.
“No, that’s fine,” he said in a breathy voice. “I’ll just go across the street for breakfast.”
As he turned, Dad and I gave each other an almost imperceptible shrug. The man spun back around and pointed at me. “I would suggest better training for your employees.” The finger to the glasses again. “She should know what she’s serving.”
“Thank you,” my dad said. I watched the muscle in his jaw flex. Nobody picked on his little girl. It was good the guy was leaving.
We both bit our tongues until the man was out of earshot.
It was a moment before we realized someone else had paused in front of us. “Is he gone?”
The woman was kind looking, albeit a little harried until I told her, “He’s going across the street for breakfast.”
“Whew. That’s a relief.” Her hair fell past her shoulders in long waves that were neither brown nor blond, but her own personal shade somewhere in between. A deep-red alligator briefcase dangled from her hand. I wondered if it felt like my crocodile, but decided it was probably not real skin. It looked expensive enough, but a lot of people were anti-exotic leather these days. I knew I was.
She helped herself to the scrambled eggs.
“Do you know him?”
She reached across the banquet table and placed a croissant on her plate. “Not officially. He wants me to read his one thousand and ten-page manuscript.”
My eyes widened at the sheer volume. “One thousand and ten pages?”
She shot a glance behind her. “Says it’s so brilliant, it will change the world.” Her eyes sparkled with mischief, making me instantly like her.
When she stretched to get the butter, I grabbed the small dish and handed her the knife. My dad spoke up. “That’s a very long book, isn’t it, Summer? The one you wrote is only about three hundred pages, right?”
Heat crawled up my face. You didn’t just say that. “We have homemade apple butter — it’s a hotel specialty. Can I get you some? It’s really good on the croissants.”
Her eyes narrowed with an inquisitive stare, and then her effervescent smile returned. “That sounds like an odd combination, but yes.”
I started breathing again after walking away from them. There were stations of jelly and apple butter on each end of the buffet, but I walked to the farthest, trying to release the mortification. It didn’t go easily.
Her name badge said Kay Ballinger, and she wore the green name tag that labeled her as an agent. A literary agent, and my dad had just made the cardinal mistake. I wondered how many times she’d been approached by fathers saying things like, “My little girl wrote a book, and I just bet you want to read it. It’s probably going to be a bestseller. Hey, we’re doing you a favor by letting you have the first shot.”
Nausea swirled in my stomach. I placed my hand there, but the contents didn’t settle. I couldn’t stay away forever. After all, she was waiting on apple butter, so I gathered my courage and returned.
“I’m very pleased to meet you, Summer.” A smile. Her hand went out to shake mine. Oh, Dad.
“Thank you.” We shook hands and I pointed to her plate. “You don’t want that to get cold. Plus, your stalker will be back before too long.”
“Right!” She turned and shook my dad’s hand. “See you two tonight, then?”
My heart stopped.
“We’ll be there. And like I said, feel free to use that service elevator anytime you need to duck out of the line of fire. No one will say anything. If they do, just tell them Jerry Mathers told you to use it.”
She grinned. “I feel like I’ve been given the keys to the kingdom.”
He nodded. “Anything you need. Don’t hesitate to ask. The manuscript is at the front desk. I’ll call over so they know to give it to you.”
Black spots materialized in front of me as she walked away. Had I heard that right? Manuscript? My manuscript? Dad reached over with a steadying hand. “You gonna pass out, Baby Girl?”
I shook my head. My manuscript. She was picking up my manuscript.
“Close your mouth then. It looks like you’re trying to catch flies.”
Through the hazy swarm of people in front of me, I found his eyes. “I’m . . . not ready.”
“You’ve been polishing it for days. When will you be ready?”
“Never.” It was an honest answer. My heartbeat finally began to slow as I watched Kay Ballinger take a seat across the room and toss all that pretty hair behind her chair. The alligator bag found a spot on the seat beside her.
“This is how it works, sugar. Don’t worry. She knows it’s your first attempt. But when I told her who you were, she was intrigued. She followed you in the news just like half the country.”
“I’m really nervous.”
Dad’s arm came around and gave my shoulders a quick squeeze. “Nothing to be nervous about. She said she has a little down time before dinner. We’re meeting her after the banquet tonight. Around nine by the pool. I’ll reserve a back table at the tiki bar and let the staff know to deflect any interruptions.”
My eyes turned misty. “Dad, you’re the best.”
He hugged me and I hugged him back. Then he cleared his throat and took his post back at the corner, a giant smile lighting his face.
Kay Ballinger sat at the wicker tiki table, a stack of papers on her lap. A pen hovered above the pages, and when I realized she might actually be reading my book I got queasy all over again. She pulled a set of reading glasses from her face as we approached and dropped the pages on the table.
“Thanks for letting me take a look at this.” Her smile was genuine. Or practiced. Or genuinely practiced. I didn’t know for sure, but expected the ball to drop any second. She stood and shook my dad’s hand. “Your staff is fabulous, Jerry. They’ve been great. As far as your story, Summer . . .”
My heart geared for the worst as Dad interrupted her to excuse himself. Kay motioned for me to sit.
“I’m sorry my dad asked you to read this.” It’s all I could think and it popped right out of my mouth.
She flashed a frown. “He didn’t.”
I glanced over my shoulder where Dad disappeared into the small kitchen of the tiki hut.
“He told me who you were and that you’d written a book about the experience. I asked to see it.”
“Oh.”
“Honestly, Summer, I thought it might be possible to take the adventure and give it to a ghost writer. Often, when a celebrity wants to tell their story, a professional helps with the writing.”
My heart started the long sink into my feet. “But this one isn’t on that level?” It had to be worse than I thought. What was I thinking, writing a book without any formal training?
She chuckled. I failed to see what was so funny. “No. This one isn’t on that level.”
My nose tingled.
She leaned forward, trapping me in her gaze. “Summer! What I’m trying to tell you is I love it. There are a few technical things, of course, but the essence of the story, your voice, it’s all great. I tore through it.”
My eyeballs dried out, surprising because only a moment ago, I thought they’d be filled with tears.
“You should blink,” she said. “Or your eyes are going to stick like that.”
I obeyed and slumped into the chair. An agent. A real literary agent liked my book. “This is for real?”
“Real as it gets. I mean, it’s not fighting a live crocodile with a handmade spear, but yes. It’s real.”
“Wha — what happens now?”
She leaned back in the wicker chair. “Now, I offer you representation. If you agree and sign the contract, I get to work on selling this little jewel to a publisher. I have a few in mind who I think would definitely be interested. You may have revisions to do for me or them. Are you comfortable with that? It won’t be much for me though, as it’s pretty clean.”
“My English teacher said that too. She gave me a few suggestions.”
“Great. You understand about the revision process then.”
Stunned, I just kept staring at her.
“So, Summer, would you like to work with me?”
Beside me, I heard a small child squeal and jump into the pool. That’s what I felt like, like a little kid being catapulted into a giant body of water. “Yes. Yes of course.” Excitement burst inside my chest. “I have a literary agent.”
She nodded. “You’re the youngest client I’ve ever signed.”
My face clouded.
“Don’t worry. It’s good that you’re young. Gives the story even more punch. And my goodness, Summer . . . all you’ve been through.”
The tabletop rested beneath my fingertips. I moved my hand back and forth, feeling the grooves. “Do you think it could help people?”
She pressed a hand to my arm. “It’s very inspirational. Yes. I definitely think it could. I’ll be back in my office on Wednesday and will send over the contract.”
Dad stopped by the table. “Everything okay?”
I tried to look up at him with a sad face, but couldn’t do it. “I have an agent!”
He pulled me up and hugged me so hard it hurt my ribs.
We said our good-byes and drove home in silence. I was on top of the world. Or should have been. Something was missing, and I knew exactly what it was. Bray. Even though the agent loved my book, it still didn’t fill the void left by Bray’s absence.
I thought about him all the time when I wasn’t writing, and when I was, I was writing about him. I should never have left. I should never have let that stupid Katie win. Summer Mathers had faced an island and won the war only to be run off by a scrawny bleach blonde wearing too much makeup.
As soon as I got home, I’d call Bray. I had to tell him about the book anyway. He needed to be okay with our story being out there, and if he wasn’t, it wouldn’t happen. I wouldn’t put him through that. I’d have to tell my agent, thanks, but no thanks. After all I’d put Bray through, I owed him that much.
It was late when we got home, but I couldn’t wait to talk to him. I dialed Bray’s cell phone number, but he didn’t answer so I tried the house phone. A sleepy-sounding Sandra answered.
“Hi, Sandra. Sorry to call so late.” It was only ten thirty. But maybe she’d gone to bed early. “Can I talk to Bray?”
“He’s not here, Summer.”
Something in her voice. Something wasn’t right. “Is everything okay?”
“No, Summer. It’s not.”
My hands grew sweaty, palms gripping the phone tighter. I knew that tone. “What’s wrong?”
There was a long pause before she answered, and I could feel every bone of my body coming unhinged. Giant invisible hooks tearing into my flesh and pulling it apart. “Sandra, what’s going on?” Panic in my voice, closing off my throat.
“Bray is in the hospital. He’s in a coma.”
CHAPTER 20
Summer
I dropped to the floor, legs giving way beneath me, and landed with a thud. The accident, Michael’s accident roared through my system. I tried to form words, but my throat had tightened, making it almost impossible. “He . . . was in an accident?” I finally uttered.
“No. He had meningitis. Despite being vaccinated, they think he contracted it in Belize somehow.”
“Is he going to be okay?”
Another pause. “We don’t know.”
“Sandra, why didn’t you call me? I should be there.”
“We didn’t know what was happening at first. Then they had to determine if it was bacterial or viral, so they put him in isolation.”
My mind tried so hard to form around the idea of Bray in the hospital. “How?”
After a long exhale, she answered. “We’d been at home, and he’d just finished filling out his paperwork for school. He’s decided he wants to work for the US Forest Service. Bray loves to be outside. Anyway, he finished the paperwork and started complaining that he was nauseous. By the next day, he had a headache. His eyes were so sensitive to the light that I had to keep the shades closed. I thought maybe it was a migraine. He’d never had one, but I didn’t know what else would make him so light sensitive. When he started complaining his neck was sore, we took him to the ER. Luckily, the doctor on staff knew what it was. He took a sample of spinal fluid. Summer, can you come? I think he’d like to know you’re here.”
“Of course, I’ll leave tonight.”
“Wait until morning. We’re all beat, and I’m going to try to get some sleep. I’ll meet you at the hospital early tomorrow.”
“He’ll be okay tonight?”
“Yes. There’s been no change in four days.”
Four days. My lungs squeezed tighter and tighter. I didn’t want to wait until tomorrow. I wanted to leave now. I wasn’t going to sleep anyway. I hung up with Sandra and she sent me a text with the address to the hospital.
I flew through my room, packing a bag in record time, then told my parents. It was eleven thirty by the time I was ready to go. My dad argued about driving me there, but he was still in the middle of the conference. Mom had already promised to watch the neighbor’s kids tomorrow. She wanted to go with me but I told her I’d be fine. I wasn’t tired. My mom didn’t like to drive at night, so I would have been the one behind the wheel anyway. Finally, and knowing they were still warring with the whole our-daughter’s-an-adult-but-she’s-still-our-baby-girl thing, I convinced them to let me go alone.
I cried as I drove. It was ninety-nine miles from my house in Sarasota to the hospital in Naples. Tears kept me company most of the way. If anything happened to Bray . . .
Something already had happened to him, and I realized how stupid I was — how utterly stupid I was to let him go. I promised myself to never be stupid again. And if Bray would forgive me, if he could forgive me, I’d never let him go again.
I sneaked past the nurse’s station when I arrived.
Bray’s room was at the far end of the hall, so I entered silently and waited for my eyes to adjust to the darkness. I clutched a copy of my manuscript beneath my arm and felt myself squeezing it closer to my side as my eyes focused on him.
The room was private and filled with enough plants and flowers to make it less like a hospital room and more like a funeral home. And there he lay. Quiet. Flat on his back.
My throat closed.
What were they thinking? He wasn’t dead. Just sleeping. I scurried to the wall and flipped on the light, bathing the room in fluorescent hope. Bray didn’t flinch, didn’t move. Just stayed motionless, his body stretched out on the bed.
“Looks like I got here just in time,” I said, forcing the words through my cried-out throat. “Another day or two more and they’d confuse you with the garden.” My voice was hollow. Trembling words bounced off the walls and returned to me. Terror filled them, my attempts at cheer failing miserably.
I stopped at the head of Bray’s bed. A chair had already been pulled along the bedside, but I stood and stroked the hair from his brow.
