Surfside Sisters(95)

As Keely dried her hands, her mind was already framing the next scene in her new novel. She wanted to get back to her mother’s house where her laptop lay waiting. This was the way her mind worked, ambushing her with important new information when she wasn’t near her computer. She took out her phone and dictated some sentences and emailed them to herself. They’d be waiting on her computer at home.

    “I’m off now, Mom,” she said, peeking into the dining room where her mother and Al seemed to be in some kind of conversation.

Eloise waved goodbye.

Keely stepped out into the bright hot day, and as she walked to her car, her phone rang.

“Keely, can you come over here a minute?” It sounded as if Isabelle was crying.

“Um, can it wait? I’ve got—”

“Please.”

“Sure. I’ll be right there.”

She ran up the stairs to Isabelle’s apartment and found Isabelle siting on the sofa, tears streaming down her face.

“Honey, what’s wrong?”

Isabelle waved her hand at her computer. Keely went to the table, woke the computer, and read the email there. It was a pleasant but definite rejection of Isabelle’s novel by Sally Hazlitt.

“Oh, sweetie.” Keely sank down on the sofa and put her arm around Isabelle. “I’m sorry. But remember, that’s only one agent, and there are dozens out there.”

“But she took your book!”

“Yes, and she’s one agent. One. You need to buck up and send off multiple submissions to other possibilities. I’ll look through the list with you. And in the meantime, did you google a list of young adult agents?”

Isabelle lifted her head, sniffed, and pushed her hair back from her face. “No. I didn’t. Because a young adult book doesn’t seem as important as an adult novel.”

Keely removed her arm and gawked at her friend. “Isabelle Maxwell Fitzgerald. You don’t even know what you’re saying. If anything, young adult books are much more important than adult books.”

    Isabelle directed a suspicious glare at Keely. “Do you mean that?”

“Of course!”

“Then why don’t you write young adult books?”

“Because I wouldn’t be any good at it. Isabelle, you should go where your talent is leading you.”

Isabelle sighed. “Okay. Maybe you’re right.”

“Come on. Let’s google YA agents and select a few.”



* * *



—

An hour later than intended, Keely entered her own house. It was quiet and shadowy, all curtains and blinds closed to keep out the sun. She poured herself a glass of iced tea, turned on her room air conditioner, whose steady hum insulated Keely from other noises, and curled up on her bed to read Isabelle’s YA novel.

At some point, she heard her mother come in, rustle around in the kitchen, and go out again. Keely didn’t even call hello; she was entranced with the book.

She finished the book at five. Sally was probably still in the office. Keely punched the Sally button on her keypad.

“Hi, there,” Sally answered. “What’s up?”

Sally was all about not wasting a minute of time.

“Isabelle has written a dynamite young adult novel. She’s sending it around to YA agents. I’d love it if you could recommend it to a few good agents.”

“Oh, good grief, Keely, I don’t have time for this.”

“Sally, this book is extremely good. Amazing. I could hardly put it down.”

“Fine. I’ll see what I can do. But I’m not promising anything.”

“Thank you, Sally. Really. This means the world to me.”

“Then hurry up and finish your book.”

“I’m on it.” They disconnected. Keely took a moment to think how far she’d come, how much her life had changed, that she had an agent and was working on her third book. A kind of courage swept through her. She picked up her phone and called Gray.

    “Hi, Keely.” His voice was deep and calm.

“Hi, Gray. I’m calling to tell you that—” She took a moment, not wanting to blurt it out. “I’m going to marry Sebastian. It’s official. I have his ring. My mother knows and his family knows. So I thought, well, that I should tell you, too.”

“I see. Well, Keely, I appreciate your calling. I wish you well.”

Keely almost laughed. He was always so formal. Yet she was grateful for his kind response and she guessed his formality acted as a shield for his emotions.

“Thank you, Gray. I wish you well, too.”

She clicked off, slipped her phone into her pocket, and realized suddenly that she was very hungry. She’d read Isabelle’s book all day without stopping. And her brief conversation with Gray had somehow lifted a burden from her. She felt light. She felt like her true self. She went into the kitchen and opened a can of pickled beets—one of her favorite foods—and stood eating them over the sink, so she wouldn’t stain anything. Now and then, she burst out laughing.



* * *



—

In June, the days flipped past like a flock of butterflies—vibrant with color but too fast. Families with children returned for the summer. College kids worked as waiters alongside year-round employees. The super wealthy attended galas but otherwise stayed secluded in their compounds with their many staff venturing out on errands. Ferries brought over countless vacationers while private jets streaked to the airport.