The Promise of Change

Chapter 3



Summer passed into fall, such as it was in Florida. The flora remained green, the air continued heavy and warm, necessitating the steady hum of air conditioners, and the swimming pools still enticed their owners to dive in and splash around.

Sarah padded around her house in shorts and bare feet, picking up the mess that was strewn about. By nature and by nurture she was a tidy person, but she’d been so completely absorbed in her manuscript that she’d become the slob she never was in college.

She hadn’t done laundry in so long she’d feared she wouldn’t have anything clean to put on. As it was, she wore a pair of shorts with a hole in the crotch and paint stains on the seat.

But today that would all change. She’d finished the rewrite of her old manuscript, and was awaiting a return phone call from Sam, who’d been in a meeting when she phoned to tell her the news.

Remembering her father’s advice, she’d decided to seek Sam’s help. Sarah had no idea if her novel was any good, but she knew she could trust Sam to tell her the truth. Friends or not, Sam wouldn’t risk her reputation on a manuscript that sucked.

She tried to still the flutter of nerves in her stomach. She had so much riding on this. Not a gambling woman, this long shot she’d bet her career and her savings on would either make or break her. She knew the odds of getting struck by lightning were better than getting a first manuscript published, or even a second . . . or third.

But no matter the outcome, she tried to tell herself, she’d proven that she could do it. She could write a full-length novel. And not just once, but twice, if you counted both manuscripts. That had to count for something.

She still missed Alex. In the months since she’d left, she’d been tempted to call him, but she always stopped short.

She had to get her life in order. Figure out what it was she wanted, before she could be any good to anyone else. Which would likely mean Alex would be lost to her forever, and in all likelihood already was, but she was determined to accept this. Sort of.

The phone rang, making Sarah’s heart leap to her throat.

“Hello.”

“Hi, Sarah, it’s Sam.”

“Sam.” A hummingbird fluttered in Sarah’s stomach. “Thanks for calling me back. Do you have a minute?”

“Sure. What’s up? Did you change your mind about the job?”

“No, or rather I have changed my mind, just not about the job. About writing.”

Sam squealed on the other end. “Really? Great. Send me the manuscript. I’ll get it to our agent who handles historical romance—”

“Sam. Take a breath. It’s not the college manuscript. At least not anymore. I rewrote it . . . in the 21 century.” Silence reigned on the other end of the line, and panic socked Sarah right in the gut. “Sam? Is that bad?”

“No. Of course not. It just took me by surprise. Listen, send it to me via e-mail. I’ve got a transcontinental flight this weekend. I’ll read it on the flight and get back to you next week.”

“Okay. I’ll send it this afternoon. And Sam, you’ll tell me the truth, right? I mean, just because we’re friends doesn’t mean you can’t be brutally honest with me.” Well, maybe not brutally honest, Sarah thought, sugar coat it a little.

“Sarah, I’ll be honest, but remember this isn’t my genre. I’ll have to get it to Elizabeth Bouchier for her read. But I’ll let you know if I think it needs work before we go there.”

“Thanks, Sam.” Sarah hung up the phone and finally let her legs give out, slumping to the sofa. This was it. So why did she suddenly feel like a death row inmate who’d just lost her last appeal?



Sam turned on her laptop as soon as the flight attendant gave the all clear. She hated red-eyes, but oftentimes they were the only way she could wade through her gigabytes of electronic submissions. Unable to sleep on planes, the dark, quiet aircrafts provided her with uninterrupted reading time.

Clicking open Sarah’s manuscript, she chewed her lower lip, nervous for her friend. She knew that having one’s manuscript read was like standing naked on a street corner.

For writers, good and bad, allowing someone . . . editor, friend, or both . . . to read the words the writer labored over, anguished over, was deeply personal, soul-baring. Sam thought it was nothing short of brave. For that reason, she gave each submission the respect it was due.

Sarah had had such a gift for the language of the Regency Period, so Sam was surprised that she’d chosen to write a contemporary novel, and was a little concerned that Sarah wouldn’t be able to pull it off.

The American and the Aristocrat. Catchy title, she thought. She clicked on page one:

“It is a truth universally acknowledged, that a single female in possession of little fortune must be in want of a rich husband. A title didn’t hurt either.”

Good start, Sam thought, love the allusion to Jane Austen. Sipping on her wine, Sam settled in for what she sincerely hoped was a good read.



A fretful week passed with still no word from Sam. Sarah didn’t want to nag her about it. She was busy, right? And not just avoiding her. Maybe.

With the manuscript completed and no job, Sarah found herself at loose ends. The glut of nervous energy meant her house was spit and polished, her running shoes were worn out, and her legs toned from frequent endorphin-releasing runs, and her weeds were afraid to show their faces for fear of being yanked out of her garden by their roots. She’d had lunch and dinner with Ann and Becca so many times, that they, and their husbands, were probably sick of her.

It also meant she had more time for introspection, particularly where Alex was concerned. She often wondered what he was doing. Was he working on his next film? Had he mended the rift with his brother? Were the tabloids still dogging his well-heeled heels?

More importantly, did he have some glamorous super-model, actress, or entertainer on his arm, or worse, in his bed? Someone who could handle the heat of the limelight?

She frequently questioned what he saw in her, given his apparent penchant for illustrious, sophisticated women, and what Robert called his “playboy lifestyle.” Of course, from what she’d seen of his conservative brother, anything short of the priesthood would be deemed a playboy lifestyle.

The phone rang, startling her into awareness. She hadn’t realized she’d stopped in front of the French door with a load of laundry in her arms, and stood staring out at her garden.

Dropping the laundry on the sofa, she dove for the phone, thinking it must be Sam.

“Sam?”

“Er, no. Sarah, it’s Albert Cheswick.”

Mr. Cheswick? What could he possibly want? Dejected, Sarah said, “Hello, Mr. Cheswick. What can I do for you?”

“I was calling to ask if you were available for lunch tomorrow. We can meet wherever is convenient for you,” he continued, as if she’d refuse otherwise.

“Sure.” Even more confused, and not a little curious, she said, “We can meet at J.J.’s Grille on Park, if you’d like.”

“Okay, say around noon?”

“That’s fine. Mr. Cheswick, what is this about exactly?”

“Sarah, I don’t mean to be so secretive, but I’d rather discuss it in person.”

“Okay. I’ll see you tomorrow then.” She hung up the phone and plopped down on the couch. Had they found a problem with one of the legal matters she’d handled?

Maybe he needed some legal advice. But no, he probably had a team of lawyers who advised his accounting firm. He couldn’t be offering her job back. Impossible. The Bitchkrieg would never stand for that.

She’d just have to wait until tomorrow. Just one more thing she’d have to wait for. And whatever it was would be a surprise. Waiting and surprises. Neither of which sat well with her.