Page 27 of A Novel Summer
“Well, I’m working on that angle. What we really need is donations.”
Hunter’s stomach tensed. She sat straighter in her chair.
“I think you of all people know I have a pretty meager salary,” she said, trying to give him a graceful exit from the conversation. She still hoped he wasn’t asking what she thought he was asking.
He laughed appreciatively. “You’re getting paid in experience,” he said. “No, I meant your parents. I know they’re abroad this summer but maybe they—”
“No!” Hunter said. “I don’t ask my parents for money. Not like that. And I never will. So if that’s why you hired me this summer, I’m happy to resign right now.” Yet another person using her for the fortune. She never expected it from Duke, and it was like the breath had been knocked out of her. She pressed her hand to her chest to calm herself.
Duke’s face paled. “Of course that’s not why I hired you. And I didn’t mean any offense. Forget I mentioned it.”
Hunter blinked rapidly behind her sunglasses. She certainly wouldnotforget he mentioned it.
Twenty
Shelby met publisher Max Walder outside Liz’s Café on Bradford Street. He was a slender Black man who bore a strong resemblance to the actor Stanley Tucci. He wore wire-rimmed glasses and carried a spiral notebook and had a brown leather man-purse strapped across his torso.
“Great to meet you,” Shelby said. “I’m a big fan of your books.”
The host seated them outside at a table for two, and they arrived just in time because minutes later a line formed at the front door. Max pulled sunglasses from his bag and perused the menu.
“I haven’t eaten here since last summer,” Max said, then looked up, eyes narrowed, scrutinizing her face. “Have we met before? You look familiar.”
“We haven’t met. But I’m a novelist. I’m just helping out at the store temporarily.”
He snapped his fingers. “That’s how I recognize you. I saw your photo inPublishers Weekly. They featured your book in their Must-Have Beach Bag Books list. That’s you, right?”
Shelby shifted in her seat. “That’s me. But today—bookseller.”
Max ran through a short list of titles he guaranteed were “absolutely made for the Ptown readership,” and then a few that he said were a “stretch, but worth a copy or two just to broaden your offerings.” Shelby took notes, then wondered how many of their titles the store had ordered for the summer.
“Do you have anything publishing in July or August I should know about? Just in case for some reason Colleen missed it?” She doubted Colleen had missed anything, but wondered if there was an author or two she could somehow convince to stop by the store if they were on book tour.
“I know Colleen orderedHarvest Townby Jessup Crane andPlowbyDaryna Anichka—July and August respectively.”
“Would they visit Land’s End?”
“I’ll put you in touch with our publicist.”
“Thank you. I’m trying to expand our event schedule.”
Max snapped his fingers. “Where is my head? Anders Fleming is teaching here this summer. Just a thought...”
Anders Fleming was a Booker Prize–winning novelist. His last few books had published with Malaprop. It would be a coup to have him at the store. “I’d be honored to host him for an event. Could you ask him for me?”
“Does Land’s End have space for the crowd he’ll draw?”
“I’ll make sure it does,” Shelby said. Another reason to petition for beach use: if she didn’t get Anders Fleming on the calendar, it would just be a matter of time before Hendrik’s Books did.
“In that case, why don’t you join us sailing tomorrow? You can invite Anders to Land’s End yourself.”
She smiled. “I’d love that.”
“Excellent. Bring a friend if you’d like.”
The first person who came to mind was Duke. He loved to sail, and he loved to talk all things book publishing. Shelby felt hopeful. If she was able to do enough good that summer, no matter how small, it might make up for the very big thing she’d done wrong with her book.
Walking back to Land’s End, her phone rang with a call from her literary agency.
