Page 73 of Seven Days in June

BANG!

Ken’s been a wonderful husband. But five more minutes of this and I poison his LaCroix.

Cece perched atop her desk, her hostess brain whirring. She’d invite the usual suspects. She’d have to allow kids to come, to make it impossible for Eva to use the “no babysitter” excuse. It’d be fine; she’d corral them in a guest room with Shake Shack sliders, a babysitter, and the Disney Channel.

She’d call her girlfriend Jenna Jones to find her something fabulous to wear. Jenna was a former fashion editor who now hosted a ubiquitous YouTube style show calledThe Perfect Find. By virtue of her fashion-royalty status, she knew all the PR folks at all the fashion houses (even the small, indie-cool ones that Cece herself couldn’t get to). Jenna was Cece’s secret style weapon.

Yes, she’d call Jenna! If only she could remember where she’d put her phone. She couldn’t hear herselfthinkover Ken’s incessant banging.

Cece swept out of the office and across the floor to the dining room. The room was chaotic. The table was upside down on the floor, and Ken was crouched next to it, hammering a leg back into its socket.

“Ken. You. Are. Killing. Me.”

Dashing Ken, a.k.a. Billy Dee Williams Lite, pushed his glasses up his nose and asked, “Do the legs look even to you?”

With an extravagant exhale, she smoothed her dress and crouched down next to him. “Almost there.”

“Good,” he said, and continued to hammer away.

“Sweetheart, I’m going to hear that banging in hell.”

“You’re not going to hell,” Ken muttered, a screw jutting out from between his lips.

“Oh please. I own real estate down there,” she said breezily. Giving his shoulder a squeeze, she stood back up and resumed pacing. There was so much to do between now and tomorrow’s party.

When Cece hostessed, she did it from hersoul—with, she supposed, the energy most women her age poured into their children. But she’d never wanted kids. Books were her kids. They cuddled up with her at night, kept her warm, quieted her thoughts when her marriage seemed thin, her life choices felt pointless, or her job seemed stagnant. At brunch, Belinda had asked if she’d ever felt wild, deep love. What Cece didn’t know how to say was that she didn’t need it. She was happy not to feelanythingsuper deeply. The top level of life was enough for her. The beginning of the night, when there was the buzzing possibility of intrigue and drama—instead of the end, when everyone was wasted and weird and dark. Long ago, she’d learned that life could be bitterly disappointing if allowed. There were blows and stumbles, but your job was to stayinterestedin the world.

It was why Cece was so adept at sniffing out bestsellers. She’d read a manuscript once, and without giving it intense thought, without letting the words marinate, she’d know if it worked. Cece barely took a breath between reading the last page of a novel and convincing Parker + Rowe to buy it. And after forty bestsellers, no one doubted her instincts.

Not even Michelle, of the Chicago Robinsons (whom Cece had met at the Farm Neck Golf Club in the Vineyard when Sasha and Malia were just toddlers). At the 2017 National Congressional Black Caucus Conference, when Michelle divulged that she was conceptualizing a memoir, Cece didn’t need to hear the pitch. She knew the hook at first blush.

“South Side, darling,” she whispered into Michelle’s diamond-studded ear. “Make sure you give us South Side.”

“Really? You think people want to know about my childhood?”

“I don’t think, Shelly,” said Cece wisely. “I know.”

She also knew, instinctively, that there was delicious potential in Eva and Shane. They just needed…a push. Cece couldn’t wait to see what lusty magic her party would inspire—and she prayed that Eva would pour it into the pages of her new manuscript. She may be overCursed, but her fans weren’t, and their publishing house wasn’t. Eva had to deliver.

Just then, Ken chuckled at her from where he was sitting on their pristine amber-wood-paneled floor.

“What’s funny?” she asked.

“You’re plotting, Celia. I can tell.”

“I’m not plotting; I’m planning.”

He snickered to himself, the same screw sticking out of his mouth. “My nosy girl.”

Cece grinned. She was nosy, and she was his girl. Both were true, for better or for worse.

“Work on the left leg a bit more,” she said, then blew him a kiss and swept out of the room.

***

On the other side of Brooklyn, Shane was leaning into the doorway of Eva’s brownstone. He rang the doorbell twice—and nothing. Maybe she’d changed her mind. Now he was rethinking every life choice he’d made until this moment.

The sensible thing to do would be to leave. But what if she hadn’t heard the buzzer? No. He’d wait a while longer. He couldn’t go yet.

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