“Fine.” Queenie sighed, reaching for a pair of menus from the hostess stand. “But for the record, I think you’re crazy.”
Wade trailed behind as Queenie led them to a dimly lit corner table. He held out Christy-Lynn’s chair before settling across from her. “I’m a client?” he asked with raised brows.
“I needed to set the record straight. She tends to go off the rails when there’s a good-looking guy around.”
“You think I’m good-looking?”
He had opened his menu, so that only his eyes were visible, but she could tell by the tiny creases at the corners that he was smiling. She fought a smile of her own as she spread her napkin in her lap. “Don’t beg for compliments. It isn’t attractive. Now let’s decide what we’re eating so we can get to work.”
Wade grunted. “All work and no play—”
“Makes Wade a better writer,” Christy-Lynn finished primly. “Let’s do the crab dip. It’s delicious.”
By the time dessert arrived, she had checked off most of the large ticket items on her notepad. Across from her, Wade sat pushing a bite of cheesecake around his plate, his face stony. She wished she could read him better, but he had a way of closing down that made it impossible to guess his mood.
“Look, I know no one likes negative feedback, but it’s part of the gig. And I’m not saying it isn’t good. Quite the opposite, in fact. You have a wonderful voice, fresh and clean, stripped down but still evocative. And the story mechanics are strong in the beginning. The problem is your main character. I haven’t read all the pages you gave me yet, but as a reader, I’d have probably put the book down about halfway through. I just . . . stopped caring.”
“Wow.” Wade put down his fork and looked at her. “I really am a client.”
Christy-Lynn felt a pang of sympathy. She wasn’t used to dealing with writers face-to-face. Her clients were spread from Nova Scotia to Scotland, which meant she gave most of her feedback by e-mail or phone. It was different when you had to look someone in the eye and stomp all over their heart’s work.
“Come on,” she said, trying to keep it light. “You didn’t really ask me to read it so I’d fawn all over you. You wanted to know what wasn’t working, and I’ve told you—or at least given you my opinion. And it’s not like any of it’s fatal. You just need to know your characters better. Do a little psychoanalyzing.”
Wade glowered over his wineglass. “On my characters or myself?”
“Sometimes it’s the same thing.”
“You think I’m Vance?”
“I have no idea who Vance is based on or if he’s based on anyone. In fact, all I know about him is he’s an angry guy with a past, and anyone can write that guy. Tell me where he’s vulnerable. Show me what makes him bleed. Because if he doesn’t bleed, no one’s going to care if he gets the girl.”
Wade was quiet as he signed for the check, leaving Christy-Lynn to wonder what he was thinking. Was he nursing a bruised ego? Digesting what she’d said? Already pondering how he might apply her suggestions? Judging by his grim expression as they made their way to the lobby it could be all of the above—or none.
After the close atmosphere of the restaurant, it felt good to step out into the cool night air. They were quiet as they crossed the parking lot, feet crunching on the pea gravel, shoulders brushing occasionally.
“You’re quiet all of a sudden,” Christy-Lynn said when they reached the Rover. “I can’t tell what you’re thinking, but I hope you’re not miffed because of anything I said in there.”
“No,” he said, stuffing his hands in his pockets. “I’m not miffed. I’m just trying to figure out if it’s worth the trouble. Maybe Simone was right. Maybe it’s all just a big pipe dream.”
“It isn’t a pipe dream, Wade. The book has real potential. In fact, with a little tweaking, you might really have something.”
“I can’t tell if you’re being a friend now or an editor.”
She smiled at that. “One doesn’t necessarily preclude the other. And I meant every word. Just show your readers that there’s more to Vance than anger. Give them some layers to peel back. Show the chinks in his armor. He can be mad as hell at the start of the book, but at some point, we need to see that there’s a way out of all that darkness.”
“And if there isn’t?”
Christy-Lynn was fumbling in her purse for her car keys. The sudden gravity in his tone made her look up. “There’s always a way out.”
“You say that like you believe it.”
She looked up through her bangs to meet his gaze. “I have to. Otherwise you don’t have a book—or a life.”
“Was that for you or for me?”
She shrugged. “Both, I guess. The other day Missy said something that got me thinking. She said the word never represents all the doors we keep closed, that when we say never we close ourselves off from the hope that things can ever be different.”
Wade tilted his head to one side, studying her in a way that made her want to look away but made looking away impossible. She felt rooted to the spot, paralyzed by something she could feel but not name. Finally, he reached up to brush a stray lock of hair from her eyes, tucking it behind her ear.
“Are there things you’d like to be different, Christy-Lynn Parker?”
His touch was warm and unsettlingly familiar, and for an instant, Christy-Lynn felt one of Missy’s closed doors nudge open. But it was a door almost certain to lead to heartache—for both of them. She took a step back and would have taken another if she wasn’t already pressed against the car door. “Please . . . don’t do this. Don’t try to get in my head and figure me out. I promise you, it isn’t worth it.”
“It was just a question.” He was standing so close his voice seemed to vibrate in her chest. “Do you know the answer?”
She sighed, dropping her head. “Sometimes it just is what it is, Wade. There are things we can change and things we can’t. The key is knowing the difference.”
“Wait. Weren’t you the one just lecturing me about the word never? Maybe you should take your own advice.”
“Actually, it was Missy’s advice. I was just thinking out loud.” Christy-Lynn glanced about helplessly, wishing there was some way to escape without making a fool of herself. The longer they lingered, face-to-face in the nearly deserted lot, the more vivid the memory of their brief kiss became, stirring impulses she didn’t dare trust. She cleared her throat, fidgeting with her keys. “Look, I need to get home. It’s getting late, and I’ve got a ton of e-mails to answer.”
Wade took a quick step back. “I did it again, didn’t I?”
“Did what?”
“Pushed you. Scared you. I didn’t mean to.”
She shook her head, smiling sadly as she unlocked the door and slid behind the wheel. There was no way to explain what she was feeling. It was like standing at the edge of a cliff, longing, inexplicably, to hurl herself off, knowing she’d never survive the fall. She wasn’t cut out to be the other half of anything, no matter how tempted she was—and she was tempted.
“You didn’t scare me,” she said, reaching for the door handle. “I scared me.”
“Wait!” Wade grabbed the door before she could pull it closed. “I don’t know what that means.”
“You don’t have to know,” she said, letting the smile slip. “As long as I do.”
FORTY-ONE
Sweetwater, Virginia
August 9, 2017