Page 110 of Surfside Sisters

“Think about it,” Keely replied flirtatiously, because he’d wakened her this morning by gathering her in his arms and making love to her. “Sit down. I’ve got bacon and eggs ready for you.”

It was a pleasure to have so many people in the room, talking and laughing. Or maybe it was simply that she was over-caffeinated by her fourth cup of coffee, but this sunny morning seemed especially fine. When they all went off to work, Keely sang as she did the dishes.

Joe Garcia came and left. Her mother arrived, kissed Keely’s cheek, and went in to see Al.

As Keely dried her hands, her mind was already framing the next scene in her new novel. She wanted to get back to her mother’s house where her laptop lay waiting. This was the way her mind worked, ambushing her with important new information when she wasn’t near her computer. She took out her phone and dictated some sentences and emailed them to herself. They’d be waiting on her computer at home.

“I’m off now, Mom,” she said, peeking into the dining room where her mother and Al seemed to be in some kind of conversation.

Eloise waved goodbye.

Keely stepped out into the bright hot day, and as she walked to her car, her phone rang.

“Keely, can you come over here a minute?” It sounded as if Isabelle was crying.

“Um, can it wait? I’ve got—”

“Please.”

“Sure. I’ll be right there.”

She ran up the stairs to Isabelle’s apartment and found Isabelle siting on the sofa, tears streaming down her face.

“Honey, what’s wrong?”

Isabelle waved her hand at her computer. Keely went to the table, woke the computer, and read the email there. It was a pleasant but definite rejection of Isabelle’s novel by Sally Hazlitt.

“Oh, sweetie.” Keely sank down on the sofa and put her arm around Isabelle. “I’m sorry. But remember, that’s only one agent, and there are dozens out there.”

“But she tookyourbook!”

“Yes, and she’soneagent. One. You need to buck up and send off multiple submissions to other possibilities. I’ll look through the list with you. And in the meantime, did you google a list of young adult agents?”

Isabelle lifted her head, sniffed, and pushed her hair back from her face. “No. I didn’t. Because a young adult book doesn’t seem as important as an adult novel.”

Keely removed her arm and gawked at her friend. “Isabelle Maxwell Fitzgerald. You don’t even know what you’re saying. If anything, young adult books are much more important than adult books.”

Isabelle directed a suspicious glare at Keely. “Do you mean that?”

“Of course!”

“Then why don’tyouwrite young adult books?”

“Because I wouldn’t be any good at it. Isabelle, you should go where your talent is leading you.”

Isabelle sighed. “Okay. Maybe you’re right.”

“Come on. Let’s google YA agents and select a few.”

—

An hour later than intended, Keely entered her own house. It was quiet and shadowy, all curtains and blinds closed to keep out the sun. She poured herself a glass of iced tea, turned on her room air conditioner, whose steady hum insulated Keely from other noises, and curled up on her bed to read Isabelle’s YA novel.

At some point, she heard her mother come in, rustle around in the kitchen, and go out again. Keely didn’t even call hello; she was entranced with the book.

She finished the book at five. Sally was probably still in the office. Keely punched the Sally button on her keypad.

“Hi, there,” Sally answered. “What’s up?”

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