Nineteen

I wiped my mouth after finishing every last bite on my plate at the banquet that night. The people at my table were chattering happily about the conference—who they met, what they learned, gossip they’d heard. Everyone knew the full story of Hanna’s kidnapping roughly ten minutes after we rescued her. Something to do with the celebratory haiku Garth had composed about it.

I let the noise from three hundred diners wash over me as I glanced around the room. Garth caught my eye and raised a glass of water in my direction. I wondered if it was artisanal, or at least free-range and cage-free. I raised my glass in return, relieved that everything had worked out.

All the East Coast faculty members had made it to the conference by the time the banquet started. The ones too tardy for their workshops either rescheduled or arranged times to meet with the writers who had requested appointments with them, either here in Portland or by phone the next week.

Even the food managed to be delicious. I spied Jerry standing near the kitchen with his hands behind his back and a self-satisfied grin on his boyish face as the wait staff scurried in and out.

I pushed back from my seat and dropped my napkin over my empty plate before crossing over to him. “You should be proud of yourself. Dinner was delicious.”

“Right?” Then he blushed. “I mean, thanks.” He leaned toward me. “I had help.”

“Clearly.” I swept my arm toward a waiter carrying a tray piled high with dirty plates.

“No. I mean, yes. But I want you to meet my Uncle Moe. You made me start thinking differently about my job here. I didn’t have to do what Chef did, even if I could. So I called Moe.” He held up one finger, and I waited until he returned with an older man wearing a trucker hat emblazoned with the slogan, Don’t make me burn your wiener. The man also wore a truly magnificent apron.

Uncle Moe noticed me staring at it. “I’m a Tactical Grill Sergeant.” He proceeded to give me a tour of the pockets of his camouflage apron. Six cans of beer—four full, two empty—in the ammo belt draped like a bandolier across his chest. Four sauce pockets with colorful bottles peeking out. Spice pockets packed with mysterious shaker tops. Tool pockets holding spatulas, tongs, long forks, and basting brushes. And an easy-to-reach squirt bottle on his hip that he explained was for flare-ups on the grill. His arsenal was easy to deploy as the situation warranted.

I wanted to find out more about Uncle Moe, but I remembered there was one detail I still didn’t know. “Why did the chef get fired?”

“Because all those people got food poisoning from him,” Jerry explained. “Chef was cutting corners for a long time. That lady in charge”—he indicated Viv in the back of the room—“made a complaint to corporate. She said it was a good thing she didn’t eat anything at the meeting or there would have been hell to pay—pardon my French. That won’t happen on my watch.”

“You mean—”

“Yep,” he said proudly. “I got a promotion.”

“Good for you, Jerry. Congratulations.”

Lily caught my eye and gave me the “okay” sign before climbing the three stairs to the dais.

“That’s my cue,” I told Jerry, pulling a nervous face.

“Good luck,” he said.

“I’ll need it.” I returned to my seat while Lily introduced me.

She ran through the list of my credentials and said many complimentary things, politely leaving out how I’d been questioned in the murder of my agent. “Please help me welcome the savior of this conference and all-around good egg, Charlemagne Russo.” She gave a gleeful sweep of her arm, and I rose from the table clutching both my phone and my printed notes.

Lily waited until I reached the podium and we shared a brief hug. She whispered, “You’re gonna kill ’em!”

I giggled nervously as I organized my notes. While the applause died down, I pushed the button on my phone and proudly noted 98 percent power. I set it to one side, smoothed my papers, and skimmed my title—ACHIEVE: Seven Things I Know About Writing—and the notes that reminded me what the acronym stood for.

My hands trembled, so I gripped the sides of the wooden lectern with both hands. The clapping slowly stopped and people shifted in their seats.

I looked at the packed room of writers sitting at banquet tables expectantly awaiting my words of writerly wisdom. Viv and Hanna stood at the back of the room with their arms around each other’s waist. Viv gave me an encouraging thumbs-up.

Clementine smiled at me and gave me a good-natured hurry it up gesture.

I glanced at my notes again, then lifted my eyes and grinned at the crowd. Shifting my weight, I jutted out my left hip. I let go of the lectern and leaned one elbow on it. “I’m not gonna lie. On Wednesday when I flew in, I was scared to death to give this speech, but a helpful stranger at the airport showed me a simple trick to organize my thoughts. But now, only three days later, that all seems like a lifetime ago. Isn’t it fascinating how we humans are capable of compartmentalizing our lives? We expand and contract to allow new information and experiences in. So tonight, after everything that’s happened, I want to step back into my writer’s box and talk about the seven things I know to be true about writing. I’m using an acronym, ACHIEVE, which you can use too.” I slid my notes and phone to the side. I didn’t need them. “A is for ability, to craft a story. C is for courage, to put yourself out there. H is for hocus-pocus—”

The audience laughed.

“We all know sometimes you need magic to make it all work right. I is for imagination, E is for editing, V is for voice, and last but definitely important, E is for earnings.”

A woman whooped her agreement and a man shouted, “That’s what I’m talkin’ about!”

I explained the seven ideas in more detail and included some helpful hints and funny anecdotes, with a generous dose of encouragement. I ended my speech by reminding them that it wasn’t so long ago that I sat where they sat, looking to launch my own career.

“If I can do it, you can do it.”

The room erupted in thunderous applause. I wiped a tear before Lily jumped to the stage to present me with a leather notebook tied with a pretty bow.

The next day, I walked through the Portland airport talking to Ozzi on my phone. I’d caught him up on everything after the banquet. Today was a bit more subdued, given my attendance at BarCon last night. People had wanted to buy me drinks. Lots of drinks. How could I refuse them that pleasure?

“So I’m through security and almost to my gate. Looks like the flight will be on time. You’ll be at DIA to pick me up?”

“Absolutely. Can’t wait to see you. I have a surprise for you.” He made some sexy noises in my ear.

“Is it ice cream? You know how I love that salted caramel swirl,” I teased.

“Correction. I’ll see you in Denver with two surprises. I love you, Charlee. I’m glad you’re safe.”

“Love you more. See you in three hours and fifty-two minutes.”

I dropped my phone into my bag and wandered around, looking for something to eat before I got on the plane. One kiosk looked interesting, but there was a man in line blocking my view of the menu board. He picked up his order and turned around. It was the man who’d helped me with the acronym for my speech.

“Sir Robin of Locksley! Pip, pip, cheerio, and all that rot.”

He frowned, then grinned in recognition. “Charlemagne Russo! Fancy meeting you here today.”

“What? No accent?”

“Nope. I’m just plain ol’ Ricky today. Too exhausted to pretend.”

“So I take it the wedding was fun?”

“A little too much fun.” Ricky rubbed his head with his free hand. “And it cost me a small fortune.” He tipped his head toward some seating nearby. “Care to join me?”

“Yeah, let me grab a sandwich.”

When I sat down, he said, “I’m dying to know. How did your speech go?”

“I don’t even know where to start.” I told him the entire story of the conference while we ate.

When I finished, he stared at me, stunned.

I laughed at the incredulous expression on his face. “The things we do for friends, right?”