Page 26 of The Christmas Spirits on Tradd Street
Jack stopped in front of the grandfather clock, staring at it as if it might still be holding on to secrets. “I didn’t get to speak with him—justhis assistant. She said my agent’s taking early retirement; he’s already gone. She said I would be given the option of working with another agent inside the agency or I could find my own.”
If Rebecca had known bad news was coming, then there was only one place she could have heard it. I pushed the thought from my head, unwilling to go there, and swallowed, tried to put on a relaxed smile. “Well, that’s good news, isn’t it?”
He turned around and looked at me with wild eyes. “No—of course it’s not. A literary agent is not the same as a real estate agent. They’re not interchangeable.”
I stood quickly, my temper pushing aside my attempt at being the rational adult. “Excuse me? I’ll have you know that not every real estate agent is the same....”
He held up his hand. “I know, I know. I’m sorry. That’s not what I meant. I wanted to say that it’s a personal connection between a literary agent and an editor and the writer. There has to be a strong belief in the writer’s abilities for them to be able to work together. I can’t just be handed off to someone who doesn’t know anything about me or my books. Like Desmarae, my new editor. Did I tell you that she actually suggested we should aim for a younger audience with this book—the same book that she still hasn’t read the first chapters of yet so she has no idea what it’s about—and ask Kim Kardashian for a cover blurb?” He slapped his palm against his forehead so hard it left a red mark.
“Oh, Jack.” I moved to his side, reaching up to touch his shoulder, hard and tense beneath my hand. “I’m so sorry. I know this is all sudden, and unexpected, and certainly not welcome when you’re trying to finish your book. But maybe this will be a positive change. Maybe your new agent will be even more enthusiastic and energetic. And will be happy to tell Desmarae exactly where to put her Kim Kardashian blurb.”
Jack frowned. “He or she might have to wait on that—first I need someone to tell Desmarae that we can’t wait another year before publication, which is what she’s telling me now. Apparently, they’re revisiting their publishing schedule and my previous slot has been given to a historical erotica series.”
“But—”
“I know. We need the money. I’ve already spoken with my publisher directly, who was less than receptive to my idea of keeping me where I’m scheduled, so I’m hoping my new agent—whoever that’s going to be—will have better luck.”
“Do you think...” I paused, ready to suggest grabbing the children and taking them for a walk. It was procrastination, sure, but playing with the children was always such a stress reliever, and it was certainly easier than figuring out what we should do.
He quirked an eyebrow. “Were you going to ask me if I think it’s a coincidence that Rebecca knew before I did?”
Our eyes met. “Because there’s no such thing as coincidence,” we said in unison.
“Exactly,” Jack said. “And I don’t have a doubt in my mind that Marc is behind this somehow.”
I didn’t want to agree, even though I had a sinking feeling that he was right. It was just too awful to think about right now. I distracted myself by looking at the red mark on Jack’s forehead. Touching it gently with my thumb, I said, “Does it hurt?”
His eyes met mine, and a little spark passed between us. He nodded. “A little.”
I stood on my tiptoes and kissed it.
“It hurts here, too,” he said, pointing to his cheek.
Without question, I placed my hands on his shoulders and reached up to give him another kiss, feeling the bristles of his beard tickle my lips. I stepped back. “Better?”
“A little. It hurts here, too.” Jack pointed to his mouth.
Pulling him closer, I happily obliged, ignoring the nagging thought that he was distracting me for a reason. His arms wrapped around me, his hands snaking under my blouse as he pressed me into him. I felt his fingers unfastening the hooks on my bra as he trailed small kisses across my cheek until he reached my ear. His hot breath fanned the bare skin on my neck as he whispered, “I think I need a little stress relief right now.”
“Me, too,” I whispered back, my hands fiddling with the button on his jeans.
There was a slight clearing of a throat behind us, and we both dropped our hands like teenagers caught in the backseat of the parents’ sedan. We turned to see Greco standing in the entranceway, his head nearly touching the top of the molding. I’d forgotten that he was supposed to be at the house, taking inventory of the furniture in Nola’s room and the attic to see what he could reuse or salvage for the redo.
“Sorry to interrupt,” he said, looking around the room at everything but us. “I can come back at a more convenient time.”
“No, no—it’s perfectly fine,” I said, smoothing my blouse and skirt, hoping that at least one of the hooks in my bra was still intact.
Greco smiled at a spot over our heads. “If you have a moment, I wanted to show you something upstairs.”
I groaned inwardly, wondering if he’d found a skull hidden under a floorboard or a human femur behind loose wainscoting. In my world, anything was possible. I feigned a relaxed smile as Jack and I followed the designer up the staircase, going over all responses to whatever it was he wanted to show us that would placate him enough so he wouldn’t quit.Why, yes, I do believe that looks like an ax mark in the back of that skull you found in the air duct. That Nola—such a prankster!
I realized Greco was speaking and I shut down my inner voice.
“The architectural details in this house, including Nola’s room, are really quite spectacular. And the antiques are top-notch. Not that I don’t appreciate the business, but except for a few cosmetic changes, I don’t think there needs to be the kind of massive redo we originally spoke about.”
Jack and I exchanged a glance. Clearing my throat, I said, “Well, when Nola moved in a few years ago, my mother-in-law did a refresh of the room with new fabrics and wall colors. The bed was here—it’s too big to be moved unless we cut a hole in the wall and lower it with a crane into the back garden, in which case my house-hugging friend would throw me in the marsh with a cinder block attached to my ankle.But we added an antique desk Jack’s mother found in the attic here, along with a few occasional pieces.”
“Like the jewelry chest?” he asked, a small hitch in his voice.
