Page 2 of The Words We Lost

My skin prickles in remembrance as SaBrina’s voice snaps me back to the present. Back to this meeting in which I’m failing to pitch a book I’ve never read. Back to this life I built from scratch after the one I wanted was washed out to sea.

“This”—SaBrina holds up Cece’s last novel—“this is the kind of golden goose we’re after, folks. Stop searching for a trendsetter and start targeting the genres and readerships that are eager for a comeback. Cecelia Campbell’s fans have been champing at the bit since her last book left them hungrier than ever.” Her statement slices through me. “Your job is to find an established author who can fill the shoes Cecelia Campbell left behind.”

“That’s not possible,” I fire back with the confidence of an editor who never could have imagined consulting a grief therapist about her declining comprehension of the written word. “Cece was a prodigyof the pen.” The same quote forever memorialized on her headstone. “Her instinct for story and mastery of prose isn’t replaceable—not by any author, in any genre.”

A reverent hush descends over the room, and my right hand curls tighter around the ring still cupped into my palm. For the first time since SaBrina’s takeover after our beloved Barry Brinkman took his position on the board, SaBrina actually appears chagrined. Her gaze shifts uncomfortably around the room. But unlike whatever cutthroat work environment she’s tried to shape us into, we aren’t some heartless crew of ladder-climbing monkeys. The authors we sign at Fog Harbor Books San Francisco have always been more than names on contracts. And Cecelia Campbell was certainly so much more than an author to us all.

“Well, of course not. I’m not suggesting she can be replaced,” SaBrina backtracks. “But Cecelia’s colossal fanbase, loyal as they’ve been to her series—albeit an incomplete series—are still ravenous for comparable content. They want angst and danger, intrigue and adventure, and most of all, they’re craving an original high-stakes romance promising to entertain multiple generations in the same household. That’s what her books offered the world.” She holds outThe Twist of Willslike Rafiki holds baby Simba inThe Lion King. “It’sourjob to give them the fiction they want. It’sour jobto stir the coals Cecelia’s imagination ignited with her record-breaking saga.” She studies the group of us, then locks eyes with me once again. “And short of locating her missing final manuscript, it’s our job to carry her legacy forward by bringing the world more of what her voice gave us—addictive storytelling.”

There are a few murmurs of agreement, but I can’t bring myself to join in. SaBrina may be a pro when it comes to persuasive speeches, but she can’t possibly have any real understanding of the legacy Cece left behind for the few who knew her best. In the lull that follows, I remind myself that today can’t be about Cece’s contribution to the publishing industry or even about the plummeting bottom line Fog Harbor Books is desperate to recover from in light of theincomplete Nocturnal Heart series. Today has to be about proving to SaBrina that I’m still an editor who can pitch a book worthy of a contract and—

The conference door bumps open, and Chip, my ever-faithful assistant, drips his way across the threshold. Even with his half-drowned appearance, his prep-boy grin and teddy bear brown eyes steal the room’s attention. He fists several paper towels as he makes his way toward the empty chair to my left. He dabs his face and hair, all while his loafers slog a path across the gray carpet squares. Astoundingly, the cross-body messenger bag at his waist appears unscathed from whatever drama he’s encountered on his commute to work.

Chip bows his head low before issuing his regrets with the impeccable manners of a kid whose given name is Chadwick Knightly Stanton the Third. “Please forgive my tardiness, Miss Hartley.” The corners of his eyes crinkle at SaBrina before he scans the rest of the group. “My back tire went flat about ten blocks east, which caused me to miss the BART by a whopping six seconds. And you may not believe it by looking at me now, but I was actually successful at dodging the worst of the rain with my bike until a delivery truck found a puddle as deep as the bay and decided to give me a test swim.” He gestures at the splattering of mud displayed on his tan pants from hip to ankle and takes full advantage of the comedic interruption he’s causing. I’ve only known two people in my life who can shift the mood of a room in less than thirty seconds: Chip and Cece.

He glances over at my lit iPad. “I hope I didn’t miss too much discussion about this dual-time proposal. I happen to be a huge fan.” He gives me an affirming gaze. “When Ingrid told me it had the grit and intrigue ofYellowstoneand the tension and romance ofOutlander, I couldn’t wait to read it for myself. The deep-seated family connections and betrayals throughout the historical thread adds a palpable, page-turning punch, as does the twist in the great-granddaughter’s story. When she took that DNA test in order to receive her inheritance only to find out she’s actually related to hergreat-grandfather’s rival . . .whew.” He shakes his head, laughs. “I might have let a few choice words slip. And that was all before I realized how networked this author is—I’m sure Ingrid told you about the documentary being made of Jespersen’s own great-aunt and uncle? She’ll be a featured narrator.” His grin is huge as he unveils what I’d failed to remember. “Couldn’t ask for a better marketing plan than a simultaneous documentary and book release.”

For the millionth time since Chip was assigned to our department, I’m floored by his ability to command a room and deliver exactly what that room needs to hear most. He may only be four years my junior, but his exuberance for life often makes me feel thrice his age.

SaBrina’s lips twist into something resembling amusement and, at least for a moment, the conference room curse seems to be broken as several editors begin to comment on aspects they enjoyed about my—Chip’s—proposal as well as the sample chapters he provided them. With his timely jog of my memory, I’m able to add what I hope is valuable feedback to the discussion. If only my reading speed and comprehension could be jogged as easily.

Clearly satisfied with his performance, Chip drops his chin onto his fists and smiles in a way that only serves to highlight his innocent and enviable perspective of the world.

After our pitch earns the covetous stamp of approval to be pushed through to the publication board, I will my body to release the nerves it’s been harboring since last month’s uncomfortable meeting. Only SaBrina’s gaze continues to linger.

For the next hour and a half, she continues to eye me with unnerving interest, and it’s a struggle to track the storylines my colleagues pitch to the group. Chip comes to my aid multiple times, seamlessly pulling me into conversations as if the two of us have discussed each editor’s proposal at length prior to this meeting.

At the wrap-up, relief comes in the form of a full breath as I gather up my belongings to make a quick exit on a quest to find Chip and fill him in on what he missed before he granted me yet another career-savingstay of execution. I’m guessing he’s in the hallway sorting out his lunch offers for the day. If Fog Harbor had a yearbook, Chip would be votedMost Popular Lunch Companion. Ironically, the only person he’s interested in lunching with is the elusive, pink-haired barista in the lobby coffeeshop he’s been pining after for months.

I’m halfway across the carpet squares toward the exit doors when SaBrina says, “I think there are a few things you and I need to discuss, Ingrid. I’ll plan to stop in for a chat when I return from my lunch meeting.”

My blood cools to a thick sludge inside my veins, and I rotate in her direction. “After lunch as in...today?”

“Were you planning on going out?” There’s no challenge to her question as she knows the answer already. I eat lunch at my desk. I don’t have time not to.

“No.” I work a polite smile onto my lips, reminding myself that I’ve earned my place here. Despite the devastation of the last year, I’m still a good editor. “But if there’s something more on the dual-time you’re wanting, I’m happy to send it off to you as soon as I’m back in my office. I can get you the market analysis you requested and more on the family’s documentary—”

“There’s absolutely nothing I need from your pitch today or any other day that I can’t get from Chip.” Her words hit their intended target with the accuracy of a marksman whose patience has finally paid off. “Keep your schedule open this afternoon.” She zips her laptop into its case, slips the satchel strap over her shoulder, and smiles a grin that fills in the blanks of my overtaxed brain.

My execution hasn’t been pardoned after all.

2

The second I’m clear of SaBrina, Chip pops out from around the corner like an over-friendly puppy who matches me stride for stride down the long hallway. “On a scale of one to cataclysmic, how bad was it?”

“You mean before you arrived in need of a bath towel?”

“Yes, sorry about that by the way.” He laughs easily. “But on the bright side, your stalling skills have greatly improved!”

“I wouldn’t be so sure about that.” Anxiety churns low in my gut.

“Why not?” he asks, obviously noting the change in my tone. But before I can elaborate further, his mud-spattered slacks steal my focus. He tracks my gaze and winces. “I know. Of all days for Eugenia to blow a tire. If she wasn’t made of hollow aluminum and rubber, I’d swear this was some kind of jealous prank.” His sigh is smothered in mock annoyance. “Correct me if I’m wrong, but this look doesn’t exactly scream you-won’t-regret-saying-yes-to-a-date-with-me, right?”

“Ah, Chip.” Suddenly, I understand the reason behind the extra polish to his attire choices and the hint of cologne I detected from him in the conference room. “Today was the day you were going to ask her, wasn’t it?” I offer him a sympathetic shake of my head. “Do you have a change of clothes?”

“Not unless you count Trevin offering me a pair of unwashed gym shorts.”

I scrunch up my nose. “I definitely do not count that.” Trevin from the IT department might be a great guy and all, but borrowed gym shorts aren’t the way to impress a girl bent on playing hard to get. “I vote you wait for a clean pair of pants.”

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