Surfside Sisters(90)

“So you’d help a criminal?”

    Eloise laughed. “There you go, being dramatic again. Yes, I probably would help a criminal, but Al Maxwell is hardly a criminal. He’s an ordinary human being, with more money than most, but I’m sure right now he’s as confused and frightened as anyone who’s had a stroke. Anyway, Keely, it’s not about who he is. It’s about who I am.”

Eloise kissed Keely’s cheek and rose. “Must go. Good luck writing.”



* * *



—

Keely dove into her own routine. A long, exhilarating run. Quick shower. Yoga pants, T-shirt, and flip-flops on, and with a fresh cup of coffee, she closed herself in her room, opened her computer, and wrote.

As always when she wrote, time disappeared. When she heard a knock on the front door, it took her a moment to remember where she was.

She checked her watch. Almost noon. Jumping up, she flew from her room down the hall to the front door.

“Isabelle! Hi. Sorry to be so long answering. I was working. Come in.”

“I can’t stay long, I left Brittany with Mom.”

Isabelle held out the cardboard box. “Here it is. It’s a copy, so you can write all over it. If you want to, I mean. I mean, I’d love any and all comments.”

Keely took the box. “I can’t promise anything, Isabelle. I can’t promise I’ll like it, but more than that, I can’t promise that my agent will take it or even read it.” She grinned. “I feel like I’ve got a ticking bomb in my hands.”

Isabelle grinned back. “Then you’d better like it.”

“Look, I want to establish something. I’m in the middle of my own novel now. I want you to know I will not use anything from this.” She patted the lid of the box. “Except maybe ‘the’ and ‘and.’?”

    Isabelle made a sweeping motion with her hand. “Keely, I’m not worried about that. What I’ve written is so different from what you would write.” With a flick of her wrist, Isabelle checked her watch. “I’ve got to go. I’m taking Brittany to play time at the library. So, um…how long do you think it will take you to read this?”

“Probably weeks and weeks and weeks,” Keely teased.

“Keely!”

Keely broke into a smile. “I’ll read it as fast as I can,” she promised. And that was true. Keely couldn’t wait to read Isabelle’s book.



* * *



—

For the first time since she’d returned to the island, Keely didn’t focus on her mother. She didn’t coax her into getting dressed or prepare a healthy salad for lunch or even take the time to make a hair appointment for Eloise.

She sat on the patio, with the umbrella slanted to keep her in the shade, and read. She got up once to make iced coffee and another time to take a banana from the fruit bowl, but other than that, she read.

By early afternoon, she’d finished three-fourths of the book, and she’d had to force herself to go that far. Mike Reynolds had been right. What Isabelle had written wasn’t a book but a series of scenes. Some of the scenes were vivid and engaging, but many fell flat, and some were absolutely embarrassing. Several times Keely blushed at the obviously autobiographical content, especially when Annette—Isabelle’s fictional persona—interacted with Archie—Tommy’s fictional persona.

What was Keely going to say to Isabelle? Their newly mended friendship was so delicate, so fragile. Anything negative, even couched in the most constructive terms, could endanger their truce.

The next day, Keely phoned her agent.

    “My book is coming along nicely,” Keely told Sally. “You and Fiona were right. I needed to be here on the island to write it. Although I do have a problem.”

“And?”

“It’s Isabelle. My old best friend. She’s written a novel and she wants me to read it and tell her what I think, and what I think is that it’s not very good.”

“Okay, have her send it to me. I’ll give it a quick read. I’ll call her and be the bad guy. I’ve done that enough times, heaven knows.”

“Maybe you’ll like it. Maybe I can’t get into it because of all the history Isabelle and I have together.”

“We’ll see. The point is, I’ll deal with it. You work on your own book.”

“Will do.”



* * *



—

Keely knew the special torture of waiting to hear a reaction to a manuscript. Each minute waiting was a stab to the heart. So she picked up her phone and pressed Isabelle’s number.

“Hi, Keely!”

“Hi, Isabelle. Listen, I read your novel—”

“You did? What do you think? Do you like it?”

Oh, man, Keely thought, this will be like telling a child there is no Santa Claus.

“I did like it. I think—”

“What about the scene on the ferry? And the breastfeeding in public scene, do you think that was too much?”

“I liked it all,” Keely said firmly. “I think you should send it to my agent.”

“You do? Keely, this is so exciting! Oh, my God! I’m over the moon!”