“Fine,” I said. “Okay.”
But the truth was, in that moment I was the one who was regretting many of my life choices … especially the one where I’d agreed to come to Little Bridge Island in the first place.
The Moment by Will Price
Never in my life had I seen a woman more beautiful. I’m not talking about the conventional kind of beauty. She was no movie starlet, starving herself to fit into the fashion of the day. Her beauty was the kind that came from the inside, shining through those blue eyes with wit and intelligence. The warmth of her smile could light up a cityscape. The fact that she smiled often, and in my direction, was enough to make me realize how lucky I was … until I remembered what I’d done.
When she found out, she would never smile again … at least not at me.
CHAPTER SIX
We weren’t late for the author bus, mainly because instead of drying my hair, I opted for pulling it back into another ponytail, not caring whether anyone noticed if it was wet. Then I raced down to meet Bernadette.
“Now, that’s what I’m talking about.” Her gaze traveled approvingly up and down my black palazzo pants and matching black top. “I don’t think anyone will be able to tell you’ve spent the past year suffering from crippling anxiety, depression, and low self-esteem.”
“You forgot writer’s block.”
“Wait, what? You’re not writing anything?”
I shrugged. “Not anything I’m getting paid for. Kitty Katz number twenty-seven was due last year and all I can seem to write instead is either an apocalyptic Sense and Sensibility or a book about a girl whose mother dies of cancer, leaving her to be raised alone at age fourteen by her scatterbrained musician father who never managed to save a dime for his retirement.”
“Okay,” Bernadette said. “Kinda bleak, but I’d read both.”
“Thanks, but no one else seems to want to. Rosie’s been sending them out, and they’ve gotten rejected everywhere. They’re not Jo Wright enough, apparently.”
“How can something written by Jo Wright not be Jo Wright enough?”
“Oh, you know. Upbeat.”
Bernadette burst out laughing. “People think you’re upbeat?”
“Well, people who only know Jo Wright, author of Kitty Katz, Kitten Sitter, not Jo Wright, the person.”
“Oh, I get it. Once you’re known for writing a certain thing, it’s hard to market you if you write something totally different.”
“Exactly. I guess I kind of understand what they mean. The Kitty Katz books are known for cheering readers up. I wouldn’t want to write something that bums people out.” Like the drivel that came out of Will Price’s way-too-handsome head.
“I don’t think you could possibly write something that bums people out.”
“Oh, I don’t know. I’ve been in a pretty dark place lately.” Thinking of ways to murder Will Price, for instance.
“You could try getting those other books published under a different name,” Bernadette suggested.
“Yeah, but then I’d have to build a whole new social media following under that name.”
“And create a whole new website,” Bernadette said with a sigh.
“And get new author photos.”
“Which you need.” Bernadette tugged on my black ponytail. “But I get it. So much effort.”
“Right. I might as well just stick to Kitty, even though the well seems to have gone dry.” Unless Little Bridge Island worked its magic.
Too bad there was no such thing as magic.
We began heading toward the hotel’s foyer, where we could see through the open French doors that other authors were gathering to wait for the bus that would take us to the event.
“Do you think your writer’s block is because of what’s going on with your dad—the fact that he isn’t doing so well but refuses to accept help—or because of what that idiot Price said about your writing?” Bernadette asked.
I gave her the stink eye. “Are you trying to psychoanalyze me? Because I think you should know that as a lifelong Manhattanite, I already have a therapist.”
“Of course you do. I was just wondering.”
“Who knows? I hope it’s because of what’s going on with my dad. If it’s because of what Will Price said, then what kind of professional does that make me, that I could be so easily thrown off my game?”
“That kind of thing would throw anyone off their game. He said it about you to the New York Times, for crying out loud.”
I kicked at a fallen leaf on the pathway. “Well, I’ve always prided myself on my professionalism.”
“You are a professional. He’s the one who—”
“Let’s drop it. Look, I’m getting better. I’ve stopped mainlining M&M’s. I’m not eating cookie dough for breakfast anymore. I even managed to get off the couch and get a pedicure before I left the city. See?” I lifted the hem of my palazzos to show her my toenails twinkling out from a pair of black platform slides.
“Black polish.” Bernadette laughed wryly. “Of course.”
“I know, right?” I gave her an evil grin. “To contrast with my upbeat personality.”
“There they are!”
As soon as we entered the lobby, an older white man dressed all in black, just like me, rushed toward us. I recognized him immediately as a globally popular horror writer with whom I’d attended numerous events before.
“We were looking all over for you!” Saul Coleman (not the name under which he wrote) appeared anxious. “Where have you been? The author bus just pulled up!”
“Oh, stop fussing, Saul.” Saul’s wife, Frannie, a petite brunette who looked as elegant as if she’d stepped from the pages of Vogue, came over to kiss us both on the cheek. “Jo, Bernadette, it’s so good to see you both.”
“It’s wonderful to see you, too.” I squeezed Frannie’s expensively ringed fingers. “You look great.” To Saul, I said, “Sorry we’re late. I took a dip and had to change.”
“A dip?” Saul’s eyes widened, as did those of his wife. “You went in the pool?”
Frannie tightened her grip on my hand, drawing me closer and then dropping her voice to a whisper. “I can’t believe you went in the water, Jo. Haven’t you heard about the flesh-eating viruses you can get in Florida?”
“I’m pretty sure those are only in lakes,” Bernadette whispered back. “But I’ll double-check with Jen if you want me to.”
“Would you?” Frannie glanced suspiciously at the woman working behind the front desk, who’d been extremely sweet and helpful to me when I’d checked in. “You can just never be too sure in the tropics. Even the bugs can kill you. Dengue, Zika, West Nile—it never ends!”
Bernadette and I exchanged knowing grins. Like me, Frannie was a lifelong New Yorker, but the Hamptons were about as far as she’d willingly go out of the city.
But because Saul adored her and always wanted her by his side, she bravely accompanied him to all of his book events. Their marriage was, like Bernadette’s, one I envied.