Surfside Sisters(91)
“Wait, Isabelle, that doesn’t mean she’ll take it. Or that she’ll take it without wanting changes.”
“I know, but—”
“Isabelle, you have to be prepared for disappointment.”
“I thought you said you liked my novel.”
“Yes, I did. I do. But Sally’s opinion is the one that counts.”
Isabelle went quiet. Keely envisioned Isabelle’s lower lip sticking out in a childish pout.
“Do you want Sally’s email?” Keely asked. “I’ve already told her you were sending her something.”
“Yes, please. And thank you, Keely, for reading the book. It’s just that…I suppose I was counting on you being wild about my novel. I thought you’d want to get together with me and go over every scene and tell me which ones were so great and which needed work, like we did when we were kids.”
Keely rubbed her forehead. If she spoke the truth, she’d say that no rewrites could turn this gushy memoir into a novel. But she was beginning a renewal of her friendship with Isabelle. She didn’t want to derail that.
“We could do that, Isabelle, but it wouldn’t matter. Sally’s the one who matters. If she makes suggestions, you should take them. She’s the pro. Now get a pen. I want to give you her email address.”
Isabelle took the address. “Keely. I’m scared. What if she doesn’t like it?”
“You’ve got to prepare yourself for that. Not everyone will like your novel. You should be checking out other agents. I know writers who’ve sent their books to dozens of agents before getting signed. You’ve got to grow a thick skin.”
“I suppose,” Isabelle said.
“Let me know what happens.”
“I will. And thanks.”
* * *
—
Keely pushed back her desk chair and walked to the window, staring out at the perfect summer day. Years ago, she and Isabelle would be in the Maxwells’ back garden, constructing a fort out of old blankets and cardboard boxes, and now that Keely remembered it, Isabelle also had a playhouse in the backyard, a real playhouse, made to resemble a Victorian mansion, with a door that opened and window boxes with flowers and inside, two child-size chairs, a rug, and a table set with a toy tea set. Often they would pretend to run away from home to live in the fort they built. Or they would pretend they were poor waifs living in their hovel, eating dandelion leaves and suddenly they were discovered by their real parents and taken to live in the Victorian mansion, where they had tea and cupcakes, real cupcakes baked and frosted by Mrs. Maxwell.
Isabelle and the other Maxwells had no idea how much Keely longed to have a big house just like theirs, a wonderful Victorian full of children. In those long ago days, Keely had been full of envy. Pangs of remorse stung her at the thought of how much of her life she had lived in envy.
And now? Now she still loved the house. It would always be the house of her dreams. But she was grown up. And there were many houses in the world.
Her phone buzzed.
“Keely! I emailed her! Sally Hazlitt! Your agent! She emailed right back, said she’d heard about me from you, and I should email her the novel! Listen, I want you to come over right now and be with me when I send it. I’ve put some champagne in the freezer and we can open it and celebrate!”
“Wait wait wait!” Keely warned. “This is not the time to celebrate, Isabelle. Sally might reject it. Or she might sign you but no publisher will buy it. Don’t be rash.”
“So you don’t want to drink champagne with me?”
“Isabelle, it’s not even noon.”
“Fine. Come over anyway and be with me when I hit the Send button. Then we’ll have tea. Plus, I want you to meet Brittany and see our little home.”
Keely took a deep breath.
“Tommy won’t be here, if that’s what you’re worried about. He never gets home until after five.”
“Well…” Keely checked her watch. Her morning of writing time was gone, anyway, and all she could think about was Sebastian. “Okay. I’ll be over in about fifteen minutes.”
She quickly showered and pulled on a loose sundress, slipped her feet into flip-flops, and—just in case Sebastian came by—put on mascara and lipstick and blush.
As she drove from her house to Isabelle’s, she thought the car was like a living creature moving by instinct and memory to its lair. She could have biked to Isabelle’s house with her eyes closed. But she was nervous, too, not just because she hadn’t really liked Isabelle’s novel, but because it was going to be weird to be in the home Isabelle shared with Tommy.
She parked on the street and walked up the driveway to the garage. The steps to the apartment were at the back of the house, and Keely headed that way. She climbed the stairs. She knocked on the door.
“Keely!” Isabelle threw the door open and hugged Keely. “Come in.”
The last time Keely had seen the garage apartment, it had been a kind of hideout for Sebastian and his college buddies to crash in during the summer. Futons, sleeping bags, and men’s underwear and socks had covered the floor. The bathroom had been disgusting.
Now the large open space was clean and bright and shining. The walls were a pearl gray with marshmallow white trim, the floor carpeted wall to wall in a slightly darker gray. Beautifully framed mirrors hung in strategic spots to reflect the light and make the place appear larger. Doors led off to two bedrooms bright with light from the windows, and Brittany’s room was cheerful with pastel colors. At the back of the living room was a state-of-the-art kitchen and a table with four chairs and a high chair, and in the high chair sat Brittany. Almost a year old, Brittany was obviously Tommy Fitzgerald’s child. She had glossy black hair and huge dark eyes and a natural, unaffected charm.