Page 30 of Kill Your Darlings

Yes, mobile librarian Greta Merriweather’s romantic interest was a professional magician by the name of Michael Cassillas.How the hell Mike earned a living doing magic tricks out in the middle of the Adirondacks was the greatest mystery of the series.

“I know, and gosh, that would have been fun,” I told them.“But maybe what you could do is write a little bonus novella and put it on your website, so that fans of the series can see that Greta and Mike did get their Happy Ever After.”

They looked so absolutely blank, I wondered if they evenhada website.

Truthfully, I’d never been a big fan of Greta Merriweather.I’d inherited Greta and the Dove sisters from Daniel Millbrook, who’d inherited them from his mother, our founder, Ethel Millbrook.Greta was Daniel’s idea.The sisters were longtime family friends.They’d been schoolmates of Ethel, and Millbrook had been publishing their brand of cozy mystery for more than fifty years.They didn’t have an agent to represent their interests, but until the merger with W&W, it hadn’t mattered.

Now it mattered.

Fortunately, our drinks arrived before the tears began to fall.For the ladies, small glasses of chilled Lillet Blanc over ice with a twist of orange.For me, Hochstadter’s Rock and Rye.

The ladies sipped cautiously.

“It’s very nearly a sherry,” Connie said approvingly.

“It’s very nearly a cocktail,” Gwen muttered.

I said, “It’s always hard to say goodbye to old friends, but it’s alittleexciting to start a new chapter, right?”

“No,” they cried in unison.

I winced.

“Does Millie know about this?”Gwen demanded.

I was saved from answering by the arrival of our smoked salmon rosettes on cucumber rounds.

The Doves dug in to the hors d’oeuvres, debating with each other as to whether the salmon was indeed Scottish or came from Maine, while our server patiently waited to take their lunch requests.I opted for the Niçoise salad.Eventually, the ladies settled on the quiche of the day—a rich, custardy number with mushrooms and Gruyère—and agreed to share a plate of grilled asparagus with hollandaise.Oh, and the salmon, in their expert opinion, was in fact from New Zealand.

The server raised her brows at me, and departed.

With these pressing matters attended to, I tried to steer the Doves back to business.

“There must be other stories you’d enjoy writing, don’t you think?Other worlds you’d like to explore through fiction?”

“We’ve put our heart and soul into Greta and the people of Sugarcoat Inlet.”

“Every character is like one of our own dear neighbors.And Greta and Mike arefamily,” Connie said.

“And our readers feel the same,” Gwen insisted.

Yes.Their readers did feel the same.The problem was, their readers were dying out faster than the unfortunate visitors to Sugarcoat Inlet.Greta’s demo was a small one and shrinking fast.

The modern cozy was funny and snappy and sharp.The characters were diverse, their challenges more real world.The Bookmobile & Beyond Mysteries were none of these things.

I said cautiously, “You know, if you’re simply not interested in writing anything else, there’s no shame in choosing to retire.”

They’d had a good run, and after all, they had to be in their mid-to-late seventies.At least.

“Retire!”they chorused in horror.

“We can’t afford toretire!”Gwen exclaimed.

“It isn’t just the money,” Connie put in.“Writing is our…our…purpose.It gives our lives meaning.”

“Exactly,” Gwen said.“It’s ourraisin.Our…raisin d’ours.”

“Raison d’être,” I said automatically.

---