Page 8 of A Novel Summer
Duke leaned over and said, “We need to warn Colleen.”
Seven
New YorkCity
One Month Later
Shelby waited outside the SoHo brasserie. Minutes later, a black Lincoln Navigator deposited Claudia on the corner of Spring and Broadway, and Shelby watched her cut through the crowded sidewalk with ease. Wearing her Manolos and a cashmere wrap, she dressed like a certain breed of successful woman who’d conquered Manhattan in the ’90s.
“Shelby,” Claudia said, giving her a hug. “How’s my superstar?”
The lunch was celebratory:Secrets of Summerhad hit theNew York Timesbestseller list.
“Oh, Claudia,” Shelby said. “I couldn’t have done it without you. I don’t even think it’s fully sunk in yet.” Reaching the bestseller list was a dream come true. Doing it with her first book was beyond anything she’d let herself imagine. But it was marred by the fallout in Provincetown.
She’d hurt her friend, and she didn’t know what to do about it.
The maître d’ greeted Claudia by name, leading them to a red leather banquette. The room was full of carved mahogany, with enormous brass mirrors, high tin ceilings, and antique lamps that gave the place a turn-of-the-century candlelight glow.
Claudia tucked the edge of her silver blond bob behind one ear, ordering a bottle of champagne. When it arrived, she made a toast.
“ToSecrets of Summer,” she said. “Your firstNew York Timesbestseller, but certainly not your last.”
They clinked their glasses together, but before Shelby finished taking her first sip, Claudia said, “So, how’s the new manuscript coming?”
That was fast. Her next novel,Guest Rooms, was about two competing bed and breakfast owners in Provincetown who banded together when a new modern hotel threatened both of their businesses. And it was taking forever to write.
“Great,” Shelby said. She didn’t want to admit she was behind schedule. Or that the fallout with Hunter was messing with her head. It was difficult to think about Provincetown every day, knowing that her best friend there hated her. Worse, there was nothing Shelby seemed to be able to do to make it up to her. She’d sent Hunter flowers, apology notes, and a dinner delivery from Liz’s Café. Hunter didn’t respond to any of it.
“I had drinks with your editor last night,” Claudia said. “She’s eager to get the next one on the calendar. She’d like to publish a book every summer.”
Shelby nodded. She knew this. Her editor planned for Shelby to be part of the ever-growing category of “beach books.” Shelby didn’t mind labels. One thing they didn’t teach her in grad school but that she’d learned from Claudia was that if an author didn’t know where their book would go on the bookstore shelf, a publisher wouldn’t know, either. And wouldn’t want to publish it.
“I’ll have some pages for you soon,” Shelby said.
“How soon?”
Shelby did a quick mental calculation. She had to finish the story arc and round out the characters a bit. She’d already put in half a year, and according to the legendary Stephen King, a first draft should only take three months. And who would argue with Stephen King?
“August 1?” she said.
“Great. Looking forward to seeing what you’ve got for me,” Claudia said.
The server appeared with their smoked salmon tartine and Belgian waffles. When he left them alone, Claudia leaned forward, elbows on the table.
“I know you’re busy, but I might ask for a little favor and have you do an ‘in conversation’ with a new author of mine. Her book pubs in July—a fabulous debut.”
“Oh?” Shelby said.
Claudia nodded. “She’s just out of Iowa.” The Iowa Workshop was the best MFA program in the country. “Her book is also set on Cape Cod—Martha’s Vineyard. It’s calledSummerset. Beach town, drama...you’ll love it.”
“Sounds like something I would write,” she said. Actually, it sounded like something she should have written already. Damn, she’d really fallen behind. She’d thought the second novel would be easier. But unlike most things in life, when it came to writing fiction, practice didn’t necessarily make perfect.
She looked across the table at Claudia, who was momentarily distracted by an incoming text. Maybe she should be more honest with her. Shelby didn’t have to pretend to be perfect. After all, Claudia had responded to her early draft ofSecrets of Summer, back when Shelby was just an unproven writer. Claudia had believed in her then. Surely, she could admit that she was struggling a little now.
“A friend of mine got mad at me for things I wrote in the book,” Shelby said carefully. “I used some real life details for the main character.”
Claudia refilled Shelby’s glass of Perrier. “I’m sorry you’re dealing with that, but it comes with success. I’ve heard all sorts of negative reactions from writers’ friends and family: they wrote about them, they didn’t write about them, this was true, this wasn’t true. It comes with the territory. You’re an artist. You have a right to draw inspiration where you find it. And like the saying goes—better to beg for forgiveness than ask permission.”
