Chapter 3

The following Monday, I was on the phone with my mom. Her flight back to Florida was the day before, and I hadn’t seen her since I ran out of Kleinfeld to “rescue” Nicholas. She didn’t know I was the damsel in distress who required rescuing.

“It was very selfless of you to give up your big day for Nicholas. I hope he appreciates it,” she said.

“Of course he does, Mom, but there’s more to it.” My mom adored Nicholas, but she hadn’t forgotten the previous year, when I showed up in tears on my parents’ doorstep in Boca Raton after a failed attempt to reignite the spark between Nicholas and me during his business trip in Florida. I knew she was concerned Nicholas was back to his old habits of putting career advancement before our relationship. I couldn’t bring myself to confess the lie Nicholas had concocted to get me out of the bridal shop, but I needed to take some of the blame off him. I also thought she should know I wasn’t as torn up about cutting the appointment short as she thought. “The truth is I wasn’t having as much fun as I imagined. I think eight was a crowd.” I explained how overwhelmed I felt with everyone tossing out their opinions and never once asking what I wanted. I laid most of the blame on Natalie and Erin. I swallowed down my guilt as I waited for my mom’s response.

“Oh, sweetheart, I’m sorry. I suppose we all got carried away and were living vicariously. You know what? There are many bridal shops in Boca Raton and neighboring towns, and believe it or not, they don’t only cater to the over-seventy crowd. Why don’t you pick a weekend and come down? It will be just the two of us. Your dad and I will pay for your flights.”

My limbs tingled with warmth at her words. “It’s a date.” I looked up from my phone into the dark blue eyes of my boss, Rob. “I need to get back to work. I’ll call you later.” We said our goodbyes and I hung up. “What can I do for you?” I asked Rob.

“How about your job?”

Typically, a question like this from your boss would be accompanied by beads of sweat forming on your forehead while your chin trembled in fear. But I knew better, and the quiver of Rob’s lips was confirmation he was teasing me. “Whatever you say, Daneen,” I said, referring to a former attorney in our department who didn’t think a lowly secretary like myself deserved Rob’s loyalty, Nicholas’s affection, or even to breathe the same air as her. By some miracle, condescending Daneen had found another law firm to bless with her skills and probably another poor assistant to torment, but Rob liked to imitate her to get a rise out of me. There was no denying I lacked passion for my day job, but Rob knew my devotion to Pastel Is the New Black and my writing career never got in the way of my work assignments. He fully supported my publishing dreams, and I suspected he’d prefer to work with a less-than-enthusiastic me than a more motivated anyone else.

“Can you do a mail merge for me? I sent you the documents.” The jesting portion of the conversation was clearly over.

I nodded. “You got it, Boss Man.”

By the time I completed Rob’s task, it was time for lunch. With my e-reader tucked into my purse and my laptop in tow, I headed to the firm’s cafeteria, ready to dive into my latest novel for the blog. The book was the second in a series about a wedding planner. When I got to the scene where a bride was trampled by her overzealous bridesmaids, I put the e-reader aside—way too close to home—and checked my personal email instead. There was a new one from Felicia. My idealistic side imagined my literary agent was writing to tell me a film company was interested in optioning the movie rights to A Blogger’s Life. The realist in me wasn’t holding my breath, and knew it was more likely she was asking the status of my standalone sophomore novel, Love on Stone Street. My two-book deal was based on a proposal of the second book, and I was well aware of the clause in my contract stating the manuscript had to meet with the publisher’s approval in order to move forward.

  

Hi Kim,

I hope you’re well and adapting to your new role as a published author. I thought you’d like to see the attached. I spied someone reading A Blogger’s Life on the subway today!

I have some news from the publisher. It seems Sadie has resigned from the company and you’ve been assigned a new editor for Love on Stone Street. Her name is Melina Rhodes. She’s an ace editor who’s been in the business for almost two decades. Don’t be alarmed, but she’s more old school than Sadie and doesn’t have much experience with chick lit. I’m not worried and you shouldn’t be either. You got a starred review from Publishers Weekly with A Blogger’s Life and I’m confident you’ll wow Melina the same way. You should be hearing from her soon, if you haven’t already.

Felicia

  

Choosing to focus on the positive news first, I downloaded the attachment and squealed when I saw the picture of a young woman reading a paperback of A Blogger’s Life. I couldn’t tell which line of the subway it was since the advertisement above her seat, for the School of Practical Philosophy, was popular on all of them. I sent the photo to Nicholas, my parents, Bridget, and Caroline with only the phrase, “A dream come true.”

I bounced a curled knuckle against my mouth as the news of Sadie’s resignation sunk in. We’d worked so well together on A Blogger’s Life. Like Felicia, Sadie had loved my writing style, and her edits served to make the book stronger, tighter, and funnier without threatening my voice. I was crushed to lose her on my team and more anxious than ever about my second book.

I rolled my shoulders and watched my fellow employees enter and exit the cafeteria. I considered my day job a necessary evil to pay my bills. It was a pit stop on the way to what I hoped would be a full-time writing career. Having an editor who “got” me was a big part of making the dream a reality. Felicia’s warning that Melina didn’t have much experience with chick lit didn’t inspire confidence and, instead, made me even more determined to add a more serious or sad plot line to Love on Stone Street. I’d devoted my life’s work to squashing the claim that chick lit was dead, and I’d jump into the murky waters of the East River naked before I went Benedict Arnold on the genre. No book heroine of my creation would be dealt a tragic blow like cancer, but I could probably wreak some havoc on some secondary characters without being tried for treason.

According to the time on my watch, I had fifteen minutes left of my lunch hour, and every sixty seconds counted when writing a book. I clasped my hands together, intertwined my fingers, and stretched my arms out in front of me. It was time to go deep.