Page 3 of My Ex-Best Friend's Wedding

“That’s for sure, Miz McKinnon,” I say with a smile. Sometimes March brings record snowfalls but it’s hard to argue with today’s pale-blue skies, thin white clouds, and mild breeze. Not to mention a high in the low sixties. We’ll have things mostly to ourselves until the season kicks off on Memorial Day weekend, something I will appreciate as a store owner and complain about as a full-time resident.

She returns the smile even though her eyes are red and swollen, and I imagine her forcing herself out of her cottage and into the stores simply to keep herself from crying.

“How’s the book coming?” She aims a friendly nod toward my laptop. We live in a very small town on a narrow barrierisland and it’s no secret that I’ve been working on a novel for a decade and a half and have never let anyone read a word of it.

“It’s coming.” I started this book even before my former best friend stole the idea we’d plotted out together and launched her publishing career with it.

I smile again and am careful not to let it turn into a sigh. You’d think I’d be over Lauren’s theft of “our” novel by now, but it’s not easy to see someone you once loved not only living your dream, but succeeding at it on a level you never imagined. Sometimes I practically reek of jealousy. I mean, I wouldn’t trade Rafe and Lily or my family life for anything—at least not on a good day. But I’ve had plenty of years to wonder if it really had to be either/or.

“I have a hankering for something exotic,” Mrs. McKinnon says. “What have you got for me today?”

We spend a lovely hour together browsing through the shelves. She chooses a Mary Balogh, Deborah Harkness’sA Discovery of Witches, and the fifth in Jim Butcher’s The Dresden Files. Like I said, she’s an equal-opportunity reader.

We talk about the next book club meeting at the store and then she stays to chitchat until I lock up. It’s clear she doesn’t want to go home, and I feel terrible when I finally have to usher her out onto the sidewalk. I’ve got to hit the grocery store and pick up Clay’s shirts at the dry cleaner. Lily’s dress is ready at Myrna’s Alterations. And then maybe I’ll run over to the Sandcastle and visit with Kendra for a bit.

Sometimes I don’t want to go home, either.

Two

Lauren

T-minus 24 hours to forty

New York City

My agent, Chris Wolfe, takes me to The Palm Court at The Plaza for the champagne tea the day before my birthday. Somewhere between forty and fifty, she’s small and stocky with a strong chin, a no-nonsense manner, and no patience whatsoever for anyone who doesn’t bring their A game, which is fine with me. She was a huge step up from my first agent, who was the only one willing to take me on when I was a struggling waitress/blogger/occasional ghost writer/aspiring novelist. In traditional publishing it’s all about trading up—in the beginning you take virtually any deal you can get at a major publishing house and then do everything humanly possible to convince them to get behind you. The more books you sell, the more valuable you become and the more options you have. The same is true with agents, the gatekeeper’s gatekeeper.

The trellis-patterned carpet is plush beneath our feet as we’re led to our table. There are no windows, but the restored stained glass ceiling and strategically placed palm trees give the elegant space a bright airiness. It’s a bit kitschy, but we toasted my first six-figure deal here and have been toasting milestonesand occasions here ever since. Today we’re celebrating my birthday, but even before she air-kisses my cheek I know that she has news to impart and that news is not good. As if turning forty tomorrow doesn’t suck enough.

Normally, Chris’s poker face is world-class. I’ve seen her stare down titans of publishing and threaten to walk when we had nowhere to go, but I’ve been with her long enough to know her tells. She’s smiling when our glasses of champagne arrive, but her eyes are too focused and there’s a tiny crease between her brows that I’ve seen only a handful of times.

“So, how are things?” she asks.

“Good,” I say automatically because I’m determined to be positive about my looming date with old age—at least in public. But I watch her face carefully as I say it because all writers, regardless of their level of success, are appallingly insecure. “They are good, right?”

Chris blinks. Which in anyone else would be a shriek of panic.

“Oh God. What is it?” My jaw tightens to hold back the whimper that threatens. “I knew I shouldn’t have agreed to do that anthology.”

A little voice in my head shouts,Mayday! Mayday! We’re going down!!Without bothering to toast we both finish our champagne.

“No, it isn’t that. Well, not exactly.” She hesitates again. “But they were relying on your name to sell that book. And the numbers weren’t even close to what was anticipated.”

I’m getting older by the minute and it’s possible that new gray hair is sprouting. I’m in no mood to pry news I don’t want to hear out of her. “And?”

“And neither isRip Tide. In fact, there’s been a decided dip in sales over the last two reporting periods. A cooling, if you will.”

Our eyes meet. Without discussion her hand goes up. The waitress hurries over and refills our champagne glasses. I remain silent as I wait for Chris to finish. It’s not as if I don’t watch mynumbers—all writers do. Given online sales rankings and the author portals set up by publishers that supply sales figures on an almost daily basis, it’s almost impossible not to have a decent idea of how things are going. But I’m always on deadline, and I’ve discovered the hard way that nothing shuts down my imagination faster than fear. So I try not to check too often, and I’ve developed an aptitude for denial. I continue my silence and add a raised eyebrow when the waitress departs.

“There’s been a general falloff in women’s fiction over the last eighteen months. You’re not the only one who’s lost readers.”

Lost them? Where did they go? Siberia? And am I really supposed to feel good about not being the only loser?

“What is Trove planning to do about it?” This is, after all, supposed to be my publisher’s issue. I’m supposed to write the books, they’re supposed to market and sell them. Hitting the big lists is something of a self-fulfilling prophecy. Once you’ve done it a time or two in a big-enough way it can become almost automatic. The thrill gives way to expectation. Everyone forgets that it can stop at any time. There are plenty of once-huge names that aren’t anymore. And I’m not anywhere near ready to go quietly into that good night.

“Well,” she says with a sigh. “They don’t think it’s marketing. They think you may have lost some of your focus. That you may be just kind of going through the motions.” She swallows and manages not to drop her eyes.

“So I just have to write a better book and everything will be fine?” I can hear the anger and panic in my voice. When I was first starting out publishers would put almost nothing behind a debut and then blame a lack of sales on the author. I’ve seen what they can accomplish for an author when they want to and I’ve been fortunate enough to be on the receiving end of their largesse for almost long enough to have forgotten what being overlooked feels like. My readership has been growing for so long I’ve let myself forget that anything that can get bigger can also shrink.

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