Page 10 of Slow Burn Summer

“Smoke and mirrors, you mean,” she said, testy because he sounded like a politician trying to persuade her that his party’s underhand dealings were par for the course.

“Publishing is no different from any other business in that sense,” he said. “Fluid, always evolving. It needs to stay dynamic to survive. At the end of the day, people want to read brilliant books, so everyone wins.”

“It’d certainly be a tragedy if no one else ever got to read this,” she said, resting her fingers on the blank book cover. “Is there anything I need to know about the actual author? Anything they’d like me to include when I talk about the story?”

Charlie paused while their food was delivered to the table, making easy conversation with the waiter as the various dishes were served. Kate watched him closely, trying to discern if he’d deflected her question to give himself time to think of a convincing answer.

“The only thing you need to be sure of is that the author doesn’t want to be involved at all,” he said once they were alone again. “Not in the PR, not on the cover, not at all.”

“Okay, I get it. Well, I don’t, obviously,” Kate said. “Because if I’d written this, I’d be shouting about it from the rooftops with a megaphone.”

He looked at her levelly over the rim of his glass. “You did write it, remember?”

She picked up her cutlery. “I wish I had. I tried to write a novel before Alice was born, but life kind of got in the way, as it does.”

“Or maybe it gets in the way for people who let it, who don’t want it enough?” he said.

She put her knife and fork down again. “I’m not sure that’s entirely fair,” she said, feeling judged. “Or maybe it’s fair for men, but not for women who’re trying to juggle work and little kids and home life. Trust me, spare time is spent sleeping.”

He let her words sit in the air between them as he loaded his plate.

She didn’t retract or soften them; he wasn’t a parent, but that didn’t mean he couldn’t understand how all-consuming it could be. She changed the subject instead, flipping the spotlight onto him.

“Was following in your father’s footsteps always your long-term plan?”

“Not exactly. Not at all, in fact.” He sighed, putting his water down in favor of his wineglass. “Life doesn’t always go to plan, though, does it? My father was very much a roll-with-the-punches kind of guy. I’m trying his approach on for size.”

The guarded expression on his face suggested there was a lot more to that conversation he didn’t feel inclined to share.

“Right. And how’s that going for you?”

“Up and down.”

“It sounds as if we’ve both found ourselves traveling down unexpected tracks,” she said, offering him an in if he wanted one. Finding out what made Charlie Francisco tick was high on her priority list, because earning her trust had gotten a whole lot harder since the Richard debacle.

He raised his glass and touched it to hers, awareness of her subtle attempts at digging reflected in his dark eyes.

“And now you’re all alone at sea, clutching a metaphorical door and hoping for rescue,” he said, seesawing the emphasis right back onto her.

“Fiona must think I’m a loose cannon,” she said. “The connection between my brain and my mouth goes on the blink sometimes, words come out of their own accord.” His fork stilled midway to his mouth and she jumped in before he could ask the obvious question hovering on his lips. “In unscripted situations, I mean. It never happened when I was acting, obviously. I’d like to plan for all possible Kate Dalloway conversations in advance, so I’m prepped and ready for anything.”

“Dalloway?”

She’d said it so often in her own head as to not remember she hadn’t floated it officially. “What do you think?” She helped herself to spring greens and creamy mash.

“Kate Dalloway…” he said. “Let me think on it? It needs to feel natural, almost invisible, given the circumstances.”

Would it have killed him to just say yes?

“You really don’t remind me of your father very much at all,” she said, laying her cutlery down.

He narrowed his eyes a fraction. “Is that a good or a bad thing?”

Ideas and energy had crackled in the air around Jojo Francisco. He was a morning sunrise to his son’s midnight sky. If therewere stars in that sky, Charlie was doing a good job of obscuring them.

“Neither, it’s just an observation.”

“They’re big shoes to fill,” he conceded, then after a beat added, “or maybe you’re remembering him through rose-colored glasses. Your opinion of him might have been different now you’re…older.”

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