Thank You for Listening(17)
“Ooh. Clever lass. And what kind of books do you edit?” She sighed, debating whether she truly wanted to go down this road. Nick interpreted the sigh differently. “Are you about to bore me now? What are they? Technical manuals? Microbiology textbooks? Something horribly dry, like that wit of yours?”
“The opposite, actually.”
“Can’t say I’ve ever heard of a wet read.” He took another sip of wine.
There was nowhere to go but straight ahead. “I edit Romance novels.”
He nearly did a spit take. He swallowed roughly and choked out, “Grand.”
Their steaks appeared. Food, yes. Food was a good idea. She’d lost track of how much she’d had to drink.
“Jaysus,” Nick murmured, cutting into his steak, “you are a curious one. Where on earth did you come from?”
“East Virginia.”
He laughed and pointed his steak-tipped fork at her. “So, let me get this straight.” He popped the bite into his mouth and groaned lasciviously. The sound did not go unnoticed. “By Romance novels, do you mean . . . oh, who’s your man with all the movies? The Notebook guy.”
“Nicholas Sparks. No. He writes love stories.”
“Love. Romance. What’s the difference?”
Sewanee was kicking herself already. Why? Why had she done this? “So, there’s Fiction, right? Love stories are fiction.”
“I’ll say,” Nick said wryly.
Sewanee laughed. “Just remember: you asked. So, under the umbrella of Fiction, there’s Women’s Fiction. Usually written by women, about . . . life. You can win, you can lose, you can die. You know, real, human things universal to everyone.”
“Then why the hell’s it called Women’s Fiction?” Off Sewanee’s pursed lips, Nick nodded. “Right. Sexism. Continue.”
“Then there’s Romance. There has to be two things for Fiction to be considered Romance.”
“Is there going to be a test later, because I don’t have a pen.”
“One: there has to be a happy ending. Boy gets girl, boy loses girl, boy gets girl back. Usually some groveling is involved. The beast is tamed, all obstacles are overcome, true love finds a way.”
“A fairy tale.”
“Exactly,” Sewanee murmured, thinking briefly of the panel earlier today. Which somehow felt like a decade ago. “In fact, there’s an acronym for it. HEA.”
“Happily ever after?”
Sewanee smiled and took a bite of steak. “Who needs a pen?”
Nick chewed thoughtfully. “Are they popular, these Romance novels?”
“They make up about thirty-five percent of all fiction sold.”
He snapped his head back. “I should be publishing Romance novels! Know any good editors?” He glanced at his plate. “This steak, by the way.”
“It’s obscene.”
“It’s a testament to your company I’m even talking right now and not dragging this off into the corner like a feral hyena.” Sewanee laughed and took another decadent bite. “And what’s the second thing? About Romance novels?”
“It has to be about two people falling in love.” Sewanee paused, remembering some of the books she’d recorded as Sarah. “Well, actually, now it can involve more than two people. But it has to be about love.”
Nick thought about this. Tapped his empty fork on his plate. “How’s that different from a love story in Women’s Fiction?”
“The HEA.”
“Right. So, Women’s Fiction can’t end happily?”
She was so out of her depth here. She whirled her hand, reached for her wine. “The lines are blurred–it depends. It’s about marketing. Mostly.” She had no idea if that was true.
“That’s it?”
“Well.” She swallowed. “Also. Usually–not always, but almost always–I mean, it’s what the genre’s known for, but usually . . .” Now he was peering at her. “There’s sex. On the page. Lots and lots of page sex.”
“Ohhhhhh.” He elongated the vowel to the point of absurdity. “Smut. Trash. Filth. Heaving bosoms. Throbbing members and the like.”
“We’ve stopped using euphemisms in the last thirty years, but–”
“The kind of books your spinster aunt wraps in a paper bag and tucks away in her nightstand drawer?”
Sewanee shook her head. “You’d be surprised who reads these books.” She took another sip of wine. “You know who should read these books? Men. If they really wanted to understand what makes women tick.”
Nick wiped his mouth with his napkin. “Or we could just ask. What makes you tick, Alice?”
Sewanee cycled through possible replies in her head, all sarcastic. Then she stilled. She didn’t have an answer. It had been too long to know. So she deflected. “What makes you tick?”
“Curiosity,” he answered without hesitation. “I don’t understand people who stop. Who go, I’m good right here, no more for me, ta. You know that parable, the bloke dying of thirst who goes to the well?”
“And won’t risk looking into it to see if there’s water, because he couldn’t live with the disappointment?”