Page 31 of A Novel Summer
“Remember that debut author I told you about over lunch at Balthazar?” Claudia said. “She had an event canceled in Nantucket over the Fourth of July. Can you host her at the bookstore in Provincetown?”
“Sure,” Shelby said groggily, wondering if it was a mistake to schedule an author who might lure Claudia to visit town. Shelby didn’t want to see her again until she had the manuscript finished. Having her in town was the type of thing that could mess with her head at that delicate stage of writing. “Will I get to see you, too?”
“Unfortunately, no. I have plans that weekend. But I’ll be at your August event in Boston.”
That was fine with Shelby. By the date of her scheduled reading at the Boston Arts Club, she should have a first draft finished.
The skiff drew closer to Anders Fleming’s sailboat, an impressive white Beneteau. She admired the towering mast and sleek lines of the hull. The water taxi driver helped her onto the boarding ladder. She used her upper-body strength to climb, and once she reached the deck level, Anders Fleming himself was there with an outstretched hand to help her get her footing.
He looked different in person, older than his book jacket photo, but also more handsome. His brown hair, threaded slightly with gray, poked out from underneath a Cambridge University baseball cap. He wore a navy blue hooded waterproof jacket, trousers, and brown deck shoes.
“Thanks,” she said, making sure she was steady on her feet before shaking his hand. “Shelby Archer. Honored to meet you.”
“The honor is all mine,” he said.
Max Walder helped Duke aboard, and then Anders gave them a tour of the lower cabin with a table, a sink, and a comfortable wraparound couch.
“I’m afraid you might be chilly,” Anders said to her, and pulled a pilled hunter green cardigan with wooden buttons from a narrow closet.
“Oh—thank you,” she said, placing it over her shoulders.
“Shall we?” he said, leading the group back up the stairs to the deck. The sun peeked out from behind clouds, burning off the early-morning fog.
A woman was at the helm, someone she recognized from the boatyard but didn’t know personally. She wore a red windbreaker and a Helltown baseball cap and asked Anders if he wanted to stop at Long Point, a fifteen-minute sail. Long Point, the former site of a Civil War battery, was a 150-acre peninsula that attracted tourists looking for a perfect picnic spot.
They sat on benches, facing each other in pairs—Shelby with Duke, and Max next to Anders, who uncapped a thermos of coffee. He asked Duke about his work with Seaport Press, saying that small publishers were the lifeblood of the industry, “Saving us from a bleak hellscape of the corporate monolith that is publishing today.”
Shelby wasn’t so sure she agreed with that. She felt lucky to be published by a big corporate publisher. They were giving her a way to make a living doing what she loved.
“Well, I appreciate that, Anders,” Duke said. “It means a lot, coming from you. But I must admit, distribution is a real challenge.”
“Agreed. And more so every season,” Max said. “Do you know I had to explain to a bookseller last week who Anna Garréta is? I told him one of my fall debuts is like a current daySphinx, and he looked at me like I had three heads.”
“I mailed out dozens of copies of a debut mystery,” Duke said. “And not one store responded. Actually, that’s not entirely true. One store did respond: they sent me a form letter offering to donate the book to the local library.”
Max sighed in solidarity. They turned to Shelby.
“I can’t complain about publishing,” she said, almost sheepishly. “I’ve had a great experience with my imprint, my team. I feel very fortunate.”
“ANew York Timesbestseller right out of the gate. Fortunate? I think you’re being modest. That type of success only comes with talent and hard work,” Anders said.
Shelby felt herself blush. The sales of her book felt more like luck or good marketing than they did a barometer of her ability. She’d read countless brilliant books that published with little notice. “Well, thank you.”
“Are you working on something new?” he asked.
She nodded. “I’m writing a new novel, yes. But I’m here in town to manage the bookstore this summer. I’m friends with the owner. Actually, we’d be honored to host you at the store. For a reading...signing...whatever works for you.”
He slapped his knee and smiled. “Nowthat’sthe best offer I’ve had in a while.”
She smiled at him gratefully. He’d made it so easy for her.
“Well, that’s just amazing news. Our customers will be thrilled. You can put me in touch with your publicist to work out the details. I’m going to find a venue for the event because our store is small, as I’m sure you know.”
Anders waved away the suggestion. “You’ll never hear back from my publicist. Deal with me directly, please. We’re neighbors now.”
“I’d be happy to host a reading at my house,” Duke said, glancing at her in excitement.
She smiled at him, and a fragile hope filled her chest. Maybe by the end of the summer, Duke would not just forgive her missteps withSecrets of Summer, but also forget.
