A novel summer, p.14
A Novel Summer, page 14
“Do you mind waiting until help arrives? I just want to make sure no one comes by first and messes with it,” Shelby said to Anders.
“Not at all. Do you think it’s injured?”
She eyed the helpless animal. Sometimes the seals, or sea turtles, or dolphins were ill or injured, and sometimes it was just the tricky geography of the coast. The Cape was shaped like a hook encircling Cape Cod Bay, which made navigating back to open ocean challenging.
Minutes later, Doug MacDougal appeared on the dunes carrying a large duffel bag and a banana box. “Hey there, Shelby!” He gave her a wave and began roping off the perimeter.
She turned to Anders. “You met him at your book reading. His girlfriend owns the bookstore.”
“Such a small world out here.”
Justin appeared right behind Doug with a first aid kit. Very small world.
“We can go now,” she said quickly.
“Well, we can’t leave now. This is the interesting part,” Anders said. “Who was it who wrote, ‘In the eyes of an animal, we find a reflection of our souls’?”
She didn’t know. But she did know that it was Carrie Bradshaw from Sex and the City who said, “Sometimes we need to leave our exes where they belong—in the past.”
Justin took the lead on giving the turtle a cursory examination.
“Good eye,” he called out to her.
“Oh, yeah. Well, thanks for coming to help.”
“It’s my job,” he said, looking at Anders.
“Oh—Justin, this is Anders Fleming.”
“We met at the book reading,” Justin said evenly, glancing up from his crouched position.
“That’s right,” Anders said, a look on his face like he was putting pieces together. “You were there with Kate from Hendrik’s Books.”
Justin nodded. “Thanks again for the call,” he said to Shelby, punctuating the conversation by turning his back to them. He conferred with Doug before they slowly and carefully lifted the stunned animal.
“Let’s go,” she said, touching Anders’s arm. He put his arm around her. They walked back towards their beach blankets. She felt the heat coming off his body, and her own stirrings of attraction. “I think I’ve had enough of the great outdoors for the night,” she said, looking up at him.
He stopped walking and turned to face her. His intelligent gray eyes had just the faintest crow’s-feet in the corners. “I hate to see our evening end so soon.”
She reached for his hand. “Who said anything about ending the evening?”
* * *
“I’ve always wondered about this house,” Shelby said when they reached the landmark East End Victorian where he was living for the summer. She’d passed by it many times.
“Fine Arts Work Center arranged it for me. It’s quite lovely,” he said.
The kitchen was small but welcoming, with granite counters, blue-gray backsplash tiles, and a white vertical-board island where he opened a bottle of New Zealand sauvignon blanc and a California pinot noir.
“A friend brought over the red last night so I can’t vouch for it,” he said. “We have the white for backup.”
He handed her a glass of the red. “I’m sure it’s fine,” she said.
“I have to admit, the first time I visited Northern California I expected everyone to be practically guzzling wine,” he said, pouring her a glass.
“But they weren’t?”
“No. Everyone seemed far more interested in cannabis.” He waved his hand dismissively.
“Not a weed enthusiast?” she said.
“Over a sublime cabernet franc? No. And if we must debate that, I need to fortify myself first. Cheers.”
She laughed. “I suspect that’s a debate I’d sorely lose.”
It felt easy to be around Anders. Partly, it was because he was a writer and so they already had a shorthand. But more than that, he seemed so comfortable in his own skin, so sure of himself. Not just sure of himself, but sure of his place in the world. Shelby could tell he wasn’t the type of man to be threatened by an ambitious woman.
“Shall we venture out to the veranda?” he said.
He led the way, carrying the bottles of wine while she took care of their glasses.
It was almost dark out, just a thin ribbon of light on the horizon. The back porch overlooked a small yard bordered by a hedge of white hydrangeas. They sat on a wicker sectional and he moved a bunch of throw pillows out of the way.
“So,” he said, crossing his legs and looking at her intently. “We haven’t talked much about our respective works in progress. Is that by design?”
“Not at all,” she said. Though maybe it was a little, on her end. She wouldn’t trade writing beach books for anything, but she was sure he’d never read one and probably wouldn’t find her novel compelling. “What are you writing?”
He nodded, sipped from his glass, then set it down on a wrought iron side table.
“A challenging project. My editor is pushing me to aim for a younger readership.”
“Really? Why?”
He lit a cigarette. “We must keep with the times or risk becoming mummified, creatively speaking. And financially speaking. The sad truth is that awards don’t necessarily translate to sales.”
“Well, if they don’t, what does?”
He held up his phone and rolled his eyes. “Videos of people dancing around their living rooms talking about books, apparently.” He put the phone down on the table next to his wine. He leaned closer to her. “I apologize. Let’s not be boring, talking shop on a gorgeous summer night.”
A breeze rustled through the tree branches, bringing with it the smell of jasmine from a nearby garden. A small animal rustled in the hedges, and the air felt electric, the way it did before a storm. Maybe being near Anders just made her senses seem heightened.
“No,” she said softly. “Let’s not be boring.”
He took the wineglass from her hands. She felt a flutter in her stomach. Seconds ticked by, or maybe minutes. Time did that funny thing where it seemed to stop or at least, bend.
And then he kissed her.
Thirty-One
There was no such thing as a typical day in the office at the Center for Coastal Studies. It was one of the things Justin liked best about his job. That morning, he headed to the Wellfleet office to map out the data for red tide contamination over the past decade. The lethargic sea turtle they rescued last night seemed like a classic case of red tide poisoning, but they still couldn’t say for sure.
He’d done triage on the animal, found some swelling in its joints, and now she was on antibiotics and resting comfortably while they waited for test results. They named her Ladyslipper, after a type of shell that they’d accidentally scooped up along with her. After the office, he’d stop by the marine animal rehab facility to check on her.
Doug said he’d give him a lift, and Justin planned to meet him at his apartment before eight. But he only made it halfway down his street when he spotted his mother making a beeline for his house. She was dressed in her kitchen uniform: New Balance walking sneakers, black capri pants, and a red-and-white Lombardo’s T-shirt.
He stopped walking.
“Ma, what’re you doing here? Is something wrong?”
“You tell me,” she said, out of breath by the time she reached him. “Why aren’t you answering your phone?”
He patted his pocket. It was right there.
“I didn’t know you called.”
“You ran off last night and then I never heard from you again.”
He couldn’t argue with that. When he got Shelby’s call, he dropped his credit card on the table and apologized for having to leave. Kate stood to leave with him. But Carmen waved her back into her seat.
“Stay. Eat. Just because Justin has to run, there’s no reason the rest of us can’t eat.”
Kate had given him a trapped look, but he just kissed her on the cheek and whispered, “I owe you one.”
He never followed up with his parents. He had, however, immediately called Kate when he drove back from Wellfleet. She’d been understanding about the work emergency. But he could tell now from the look on his mother’s face she wouldn’t let him off quite so easily.
“We had a stranded sea turtle. Sorry about that. But I can’t talk now. I’m meeting Doug to drive out to Wellfleet.”
His mother frowned. “You could have told me about the Fourth of July ahead of time. I felt a little blindsided. Your father, too.”
Justin sighed. It was too much to hope that she’d let that slide.
“I’m sorry, Ma. I should have told you.”
“After you left, I made sure Kate understood it was a family tradition to be together on the Fourth, thinking she might change her mind. But she didn’t seem to get the hint.”
“Well, you’re the one who always told me relationships are about compromise.”
Her eyes narrowed. “And how is she compromising for you?”
There was really no talking to his mother when she was in a mood. She was annoyed with him; she was judging Kate. But he loved her and he knew she meant well and so he texted Doug he’d be five minutes late.
“Mom,” he said, walking closer and putting an arm around her. “Kate’s out here all summer so we can spend time together. Trying out a new location for Hendrik’s is a compromise. A big one.”
Carmen waved a finger at him. “So is that why you denied Shelby beach access? To give Kate’s store an advantage?”
Justin stepped back. Where did that come from? “No, Mom. It was an impartial decision. I vetoed the beach access because it’s not what’s best for the larger community.”
“You want to talk about community? We’ve been friends with the Millers your entire life. Land’s End Books has been part of this town for eighty years. I love you, but you’re on the wrong side of this one. And I’m very disappointed if Pam and Annie’s business suffers because of your unresolved feelings for Shelby.”
“I don’t have feelings for Shelby.” He ran his hand through his hair. “Mom, I have work to do. Again, apologies for running off last night. And I don’t want to sound harsh, but I’m a grown man with my own life.”
Carmen reached out and patted his cheek. “And like it or not, no matter how old you are, I’m always going to have something to say about it.”
She turned and walked in the other direction. He shook his head, and watched her go.
* * *
Shelby leaned on the bookshop counter with a yawn. She wasn’t just exhausted; she was guilt ridden over not writing before work. It was the price she paid for spending the night with Anders. If it weren’t for her deadline, it would be worth every minute of exhaustion. But she needed to be more disciplined. She had time for exactly two things: working at the store and writing her book. That was what the summer was all about, and it was important to remember that.
Mia walked in, dragging a box that had been delivered to the front stoop.
“This is our Ann Brashares order,” she said. “The movie theater is playing a revival of Sisterhood of the Traveling Pants, and Colleen planned a whole table.”
Pam and Annie were always creative with their display tables, like the “blind date with a book” displays on Valentine’s Day or putting historical fiction front and center if a new period drama was streaming. She was happy to see Colleen continuing the tradition.
“Fantastic. By the way, did you read that ARC I gave you from HarperCollins? Was it great?”
“I didn’t read it yet,” Mia said.
“Oh, okay. Well, if you don’t have time, feel free to just bring it back to the shop. I’ll take a look.” She didn’t want to overburden Mia, and besides, there was something else she wanted to ask her to read.
The idea came to her that morning in the shower. She was writing her new book so fast she didn’t have perspective on whether or not the story was working. She thought about asking one of her friends from the city to read what she had so far, but she was embarrassed to show them something so rough. Maybe hitting the New York Times bestseller list should have made her more confident, but it had the opposite effect. She imagined showing the draft to someone, that person telling her it was awful and wondering how, really, she’d ever had a bestseller in the first place. But she’d feel less anxious about showing the manuscript to someone who wasn’t in her incestuous little publishing orbit. And she thought of Mia.
She thought, also, she could ask Anders to read the manuscript. Although, he might not be comfortable doing so after their night together. She valued his opinion enough not to take any notes too personally. But she understood, too, that it was a complicated dynamic. They’d discussed the idea of early reads. Anders admitted he only felt comfortable letting interns or “underlings” read his rough drafts.
“Underlings?” she’d said. “What does that mean?”
“Just readers or writers who aren’t peers. Does that make me terribly insecure?” he’d said. The comment surprised her. If Anders Fleming, with all his bestsellers and accolades didn’t feel confident in the first-draft stage, how could she expect to?
“Not at all,” Shelby said.
“I’ll tell you something: the only time you should worry about your first draft is when you don’t think it’s absolute rubbish.” That made her smile. She decided to write it on a Post-it and stick it on her laptop.
Still, her first choice would be to give the manuscript to Mia.
“Mia, feel free to say no, but I was wondering if you might have time to take a look at the first draft of my manuscript so far.”
“Me?” She stopped unloading the book delivery.
“Well, yes. I know you read everything, and I trust your opinion. I’m only halfway done, but I’m just too close to it to tell if it’s working. And it would be so helpful to get some perspective before I get much further.”
Mia appeared daunted by the request. It was like Shelby had asked her to scale the Pilgrim’s Monument.
“But if you’re too busy, I completely understand,” she said quickly. “It was just a thought.”
Shelby had meant it when she said feel free to say no, but deep down she felt a little offended. When she’d been in high school, she would have been thrilled to read a work in progress by an author. Even in college, she would have dropped everything. She couldn’t help but wonder if it was personal.
It reminded her that the only one who wanted her in town was Colleen. Everyone else was merely tolerating her. It hurt, but then, she’d brought it on herself. It seemed like things were going better, it appeared on the surface like good things were happening—that maybe in some small ways she was redeeming herself. But that was wishful thinking.
It was fine, really. She’d fulfill her promise to Colleen, finish her novel, and then she’d be able to get back to her real life.
“Okay,” Mia said. “I’ll read your book.”
“Really?” Shelby said, relieved. “Oh, that’s great, Mia. I really appreciate it.”
Mia smiled weakly. She thought about what Carmen asked of her, and realized maybe Mia did need someone to talk to. That something was bothering her. Or maybe Mia just didn’t want to go to college. Lots of people didn’t, and they found their path. She was surprised that Carmen and Bert, having raised their children in an unconventional place, would have such a conventional view of education. But then, they were very hard-working people, and she knew from Justin how they’d instilled the value of doing the right thing even when it was hard. Maybe they thought Mia’s attitude towards college came from fear. And maybe they were right.
“Is everything okay? In life, I mean?” Shelby said.
“Sure,” Mia said. “Why?”
“Oh, I don’t know. I just remember heading into senior year was stressful. College applications, all that.”
“Yeah, well, I don’t want to go to college. So I’m not stressed about it.”
Shelby nodded. “Got it. So what do you think you want to do?”
“Exactly what I’m doing now.” She cocked her head to the side, as if finding it difficult to understand the question.
“Right,” Shelby said. “You know, I worked here every summer during college. And then the summer before grad school. You can do both.”
“I don’t want to do both.” She pulled her headphones over her ears.
Okay. She wouldn’t push the issue. It was time to quit while she was ahead.
Thirty-Two
Hunter sat across from Anders in his bright, airy kitchen. He leafed through his manuscript, reading the pages she’d annotated, glancing up every now and then to comment. Hunter felt nervous, as if he were evaluating her work instead of the other way around.
“This is very thorough, Hunter. I appreciate it. You’re a skilled editor.”
She beamed. “Thank you. Well, it’s easy with such brilliant material to work with.”
It was true. Reading Anders’s new manuscript made the Seaport Press slush pile all the more discouraging. She was never going to find a career-changing novel in Duke’s submissions. They weren’t all bad; they were just...small. Niche. Nothing jumped out as a novel that would make a splash in the marketplace. Her idea of finding a diamond in the rough and shining it up to make a name for herself seemed more and more like a fantasy. Seaport would never be anything more than a placeholder for her. She could justify taking a summer to work at a small Cape press, but the narrative would grow stale by the fall. She had to either find the proverbial needle-in-the-haystack manuscript, or she needed a Plan B. And soon.
“I’m wondering,” he said, “does the Katarina character read authentic to you? Since you’re roughly the same age...the same generation.”
