After my disastrous five-year relationship with Justin, however, I wasn’t jumping back into the dating pool anytime soon—only real pools, with plenty of chlorine, and of course a tiki bar nearby.
“I wonder what kind of food we’re going to get at this thing tonight,” Frannie fretted. “I mean, they don’t even have a bagel shop on this island. No bagels! Can you believe it? Not that the bagels would be any good if they did have them. You can only make good bagels with New York City tap water. Everyone knows our tap water is the safest and best-tasting in the entire—”
“Fran, will you stop?” Saul rolled his eyes in loving frustration at his wife. “I’m sure the food will be perfectly fine.”
“I don’t know, you might be right, Mrs. Coleman.” Bernadette always enjoyed baiting Frannie. “Since this place is an island, I suspect they serve a lot of fresh fish here. But who knows what’s in the water. Given all the cruise ships, there might be—”
Frannie looked pale. “Oh, God. I’m sticking to chicken. Oh, no, wait, I saw some chickens running around loose on the street! Why do they have chickens roaming around loose on the streets here? What kind of place allows chickens to run around loose on the streets?”
“Well,” Bernadette began to explain, “on the tour I took earlier today, they said it’s because when grocery stores with refrigeration finally moved to the island, the residents released the chickens they used to keep in coops in their backyards for eggs and Sunday dinner, and since then, those chickens have—”
“Stop.” Frannie held out a hand. “I don’t want to know any more.”
“Hey, everybody.” Garrett Newcombe strolled into the lobby. He’d changed out of the Batman shirt and cargo shorts he’d been wearing at the airport into khaki pants and a blue button-down, which was a step up.
But he was still wearing flip-flops, and also clutching the swag bag we’d all received in our hotel rooms.
“Hi, I’m Garrett Newcombe,” he said unnecessarily, since he had on his author badge. We were all wearing them, as we’d been directed to by the festival staff. “Of the Dark Magic School series?”
“Oh, Garrett!” Frannie beamed. “Our grandson loves your books! I’m Frannie Coleman, and this is my husband, Saul. You might know him better as the author Clive Dean.”
Garrett’s jaw dropped, his gaze laser-focusing on Saul. The name Clive Dean had a tendency to do that to men (and some women) of a certain age. “Oh, Mr. Dean. This is truly an honor. Your books are what inspired me to become a writer, sir.”
Saul beamed and reached out to shake the hand Garrett had extended. “Oh, isn’t that great? That’s always nice to hear.”
I had to give Garrett credit for that one. He couldn’t have said anything more perfect to Saul.
But then he ruined it by adding, “Maybe your grandson would like this.”
Then he reached out and drew a coin from Frannie’s ear. He didn’t seem to notice that as his hand neared her face, Frannie ducked instinctively, as I had, leaning away from him.
“Ta-da!” he cried, presenting the coin to her. “An official Dark Magic School number eleven commemorative guild piece! I’m sure your grandson will love it.”
“I’m sure,” Frannie deadpanned as she dropped the “guild piece” into her purse. Frannie disliked being touched by strange men as much as I did, even strange men who claimed to love her husband’s books.
Her husband, however, was delighted. “Hey, that’s really neat, Garrett!” Saul cried. “Show me how you did that.”
“Aw, I can’t, Mr. Dean.” Garrett winked at the rest of us. “A good magician never reveals his secrets. But stay tuned. I’m going to perform a trick at tomorrow night’s dinner that’s going to knock everybody’s socks off.”
Saul chuckled. “Neat!”
I made a mental note to stay as far away as possible from tomorrow night’s dinner. I’d had about as much “magic” as I could take in a twenty-four-hour period.
Frannie appeared to be thinking the same thing, since she sidled up to Bernadette and me to whisper, “What is wrong with this guy?”
“Hmmm-hmmm.” Bernadette pretended to fuss with a strand of her purple hair. “From what I hear, quite a lot.”
I pretended to fuss with my own hair. “Like what?”
“People say he’s a player.”
Frannie and I glanced at each other, then at Garrett, then burst out laughing.
“For real,” Bernadette insisted. “The rumors were all over Novel Con last year. A bestselling male author was hitting on female fans.”
That caused both of us to quit laughing. “What?”
“It’s true. Whoever the guy was, he apparently had a real way with the ladies.”
I stared at Garrett as he pulled a coin from Saul’s ear, giving him a slow-motion demonstration of his trick. “Well, it couldn’t have been Garrett. Look at him. He’s wearing flip-flops to a donor dinner.”
“True. But you could see how to an inexperienced, impressionable young woman, he might seem … impressive.”
I still couldn’t believe it. If there was one rule in the publishing business—besides not to plagiarize—it was that you never, ever slept with fans.
Oh, it was all right to socialize with them, as long as you kept things on a strictly professional basis. I’d had many lunches and even a few dinners with Kitty Katz fans, sometimes because they’d won a meal with me at a charity auction or occasionally because they or their parents had reached out in some way—a reader who was ill or depressed or simply needed a dose of Kitty love or advice, something I was always happy to give. Even at my lowest points this past year and a half, I was able to throw on some lip gloss and get in a cab or online and try to make one of my adorable Kitty Klub members feel better.
But there was never any physical contact except maybe the briefest of hugs, especially if they were underage. That was Professional Writer 101.
“How did I not hear anything about this?” I demanded. “I was at Novel Con last year, and no one said a word about it to me.”
“No, you weren’t,” Bernadette said. “You were at Novel Con the year before last. You skipped it this year, remember? And you wouldn’t have heard about what happened there because lately you’ve had your own drama to deal with.”
I nodded, unoffended. Nothing she was saying was untrue. The Nicole Woods scandal and subsequent fallout with Will had kept me off anything except my own social media pages for months. I hadn’t wanted to read anything publishing related. And following quickly on the heels of that had been my breakup with Justin and all of Dad’s medical drama.
“But I was at Novel Con this past year with Saul,” Frannie said, “and I didn’t hear a word about any of this.”
“It was mostly on Twitter,” Bernadette said.
“Oh, Twitter.” Frannie rolled her eyes. “No wonder we didn’t see it. Our son handles all of Saul’s social media for him. But are you sure it was him?” She glanced at Garrett distastefully. “He’s hardly Chris Hemsworth or Evans or whoever that Chris is all you girls always seem to be talking about.”