Finding Mr. Write, page 19
He was reading the program when an older woman walked in, headed straight over, and pointedly looked at his book.
“Mr. Remington, I presume,” she said.
While her tone seemed sharp, she smiled when he looked over. He tried to read her name tag, but it was facing backward, intentionally or otherwise. Daphne had meant to find out who else he was on the panel with, but they’d both forgotten. Now he realized that was an inexcusable oversight.
“I started your book on the flight,” the woman said.
Yep, definitely inexcusable. He should not only have checked out his co-panelists but at least tried their books.
He opened his mouth and then shut it.
She smiled. “Not going to ask me how I like it?”
“I was, and then realized that’s awkward. If someone likes it, they’ll say so. Otherwise, I should just smile and say thank you.” He smiled. “Thank you.”
“Good call. Never ask someone how they liked your book. Yours is good so far. I like the dog. And the girl, obviously. I’m reserving judgment on the boys. I’m not sure if they deserve her, and I’m quite sure she doesn’t need them.” She paused. “That is to say, she doesn’t need their help. Their companionship is another thing. Everyone needs that.”
“They do.”
“Be prepared to hear all about the boys from readers, though.”
“I am.”
He glanced at her name tag again, as if it might have miraculously flipped over.
She noticed it and flapped a hand. “Damn thing.”
He saw the name. Blinked. Read it again. “You’re… you’re Tara Palmer?”
“Let me guess. You have a sister who read my books when she was young?”
“No, I mean, yes, she did. But I did, too. Well, one of your series. When I was sick and ran out of books.” He made a face. “That sounds bad. I mean I started the series when I raided her room for books, and then I swiped the rest, until she caught me and accused me of bending the spines. So Mom had to buy me my own set. It was the one about the girl who wanted to be a blacksmith and could sing to animals and had a wolf…” He stopped, inhaling sharply. “I’ll stop gushing now. Sorry about that.”
“Ah, right. You’re the Canadian. Always apologizing about things that don’t require apologies.”
“Which definitely includes gushing to an author about their books,” said a voice. Another man walked in. A little older than Chris. Bald. Black.
As the newcomer embraced Tara, Chris snuck a glance at his name tag. Dwayne Foster. He recognized the name from Christmas gifts he’d bought a preteen cousin. Dwayne wrote middle grade, mostly sports themed.
Okay, two fellow authors down. Two to go.
He was glancing around for the young woman, hoping to entice her over now that it wasn’t just one creepy dude paying too much attention to her. Then the curtains parted, and a man walked in. White. Maybe late fifties. Dwayne murmured, “And that is my cue to go. Have fun.”
As the older man looked around, the staff member appeared and told them all to head onto the stage and take a chair. They filed out. The young woman whose name Chris hadn’t gotten zeroed in on the farthest chair. Dwayne took the next one. Chris realized that put him in the middle, and he stepped back, motioning for Tara to take it.
“No,” she said, “that one’s clearly reserved for the guy sitting on top of the New York Times list.”
Chris still hesitated, but Dwayne gestured for him to sit there, so he awkwardly lowered himself into the seat. Then he turned for his first look at the audience, which was…
Full. Every seat was full, and people stood along the back.
Yeah, that’s what you get when you’re on a panel with Tara Palmer and Dwayne Foster.
He was so not prepared for this.
“I believe you are in my seat,” a voice said.
Chris almost scrambled up. Then he saw who it was—the older author who’d come in last.
Tara tapped Chris’s leg as if to keep him from rising. “No, Bruce. He’s in his seat.”
Chris checked the man’s name tag. Bruce Buck. He didn’t recognize the name.
“That is my seat,” Bruce said. “As the—”
“—oldest guy here?” Dwayne said.
Bruce scowled at him. “Author with the longest career.”
Tara cleared her throat.
“The most prestigious career,” Bruce added.
Dwayne choked on a laugh, and Chris decided he really liked Dwayne. And he did not like Bruce Buck.
The woman on the end spoke up, her voice almost too soft to be heard. “Mr. Remington’s book is number one on the Times list right now. He should sit there.”
When Chris looked over, she smiled shyly and fluttered her fingers in a wave.
“Did he tell you that?” Bruce snapped. “He’s lying. I read the lists every week. Jeff Kinney is camped out on middle grade, and on the Young Adult it’s some girl whose name I can’t pronounce.”
Tara pronounced it perfectly, but Bruce ignored her.
Someone from the staff whispered, “Five minutes. Take your seats please,” but the authors ignored him.
“Mr. Remington’s book is on the adult list,” said the young woman on the end.
Bruce scowled. “This is a panel for children’s books.”
Tara took the book from Chris’s hand and passed it over. Bruce examined the cover. Frowned.
“The protagonist is a teenager,” Chris said. “It’s definitely YA. I’m not sure why the publisher insisted on marketing it as an adult book.”
“Because the adult market is bigger and more prestigious,” Tara said. “And as a man, you can get away with it.”
“As a white man,” Dwayne added.
Bruce rolled his eyes. “Oh, don’t start that nonsense.”
“Dwayne’s right,” Chris said. “It makes a difference.” He glanced at Dwayne. “Sorry.”
“Because your publisher gave your book a better shot at success?” Dwayne said. “Not your fault. I’d take it, too.”
“He’s Canadian,” Tara said. “Ignore the unnecessary apologies.”
Bruce looked up from reading Edge’s front flap. He snapped the book shut and sniffed. “Zombies? Of course. Anyone could hit the list with that nonsense.”
“Then why don’t you write it?” Tara said. “Been a while since you hit a list, hasn’t it, Bruce?”
“My books win awards.” He looked at Chris. “A word of advice, young man. If you want to be taken seriously, you need to write seriously. Take my latest novel.” He held up a book. “The subject matter is both serious and timely. It’s the story of a young woman from the projects, who becomes pregnant after a rape.”
“The projects?” Dwayne said. “Please tell me you don’t actually call it that.”
Chris looked at the book, which showed a teenage Black girl on the cover. Bruce’s hand partly obscured the author’s name.
“Oh,” Chris said. “You have a cowriter? I’ve always thought that seemed interesting. How did you do it?”
Bruce only stared at him.
“Ask it louder,” Dwayne said. “He’s hard of hearing.” He raised his voice. “Zane wants to know who cowrote this with you. Or is it written from personal experience?”
Tara laughed. The young woman at the end had her fist in her mouth stifling her own laughter.
It was then that Chris realized there was no cowriter.
Before he could think of anything to say, Bruce glared at them all. “If you are referencing that nonsense about writing outside your own experience, I am a novelist. Writing outside my experience is what I do, and you cannot censor my right to express myself creatively.” He jabbed a finger at Edge. “He also wrote about a teenage girl.”
“Not the same thing, though maybe it should be.” Dwayne cast an apologetic look at Chris. “No offense.”
“None taken.” Since I didn’t write it. “It’s a valid point. Maybe we can discuss that on the—”
“You will not discuss that on the panel.” Bruce jabbed a finger perilously close to Chris’s face.
“You okay if we bring it up?” Dwayne murmured to Zane. “Not to put you on the spot.”
“No, go ahead. Like I said, it’s a valid point, and I’m happy to hear opinions on it. I am new at this, after all.”
“All right,” the staff member said from the mic at the end of the row. “If Mr. Buck will please take his seat, I think we’re about to start.”
“Let’s get ready to rumble.” Dwayne grinned, and every author—except Bruce—grinned back.
CHAPTER FIFTEEN
DAPHNE
That was a bloodbath.” Chris looked dazed as Daphne led him toward the signing. “Here I was, expecting a nice sedate panel. I mean, it’s authors, right? And then… that.”
“A little intense?”
“I thought Bruce was going to challenge me to a duel. And I was barely even talking. It’s like I was the only one he saw up there.”
“The only direct competition.”
“As the only other white guy? Wow.” He shook his head. Then he gave her a sidelong smile. “It was kinda fun, though. Did I do okay?”
“You did great. You fielded the questions about writing from a female point of view perfectly. I know that was awkward.”
“Only because the actual author is female. But that will be out soon. And then you’ll have to deal with Bruce.”
“Oh, I suspect Bruce and I won’t travel in the same circles very often. Also…” She cleared her throat. “I may have missed the first bit of the panel, being in a fangirl daze when I realized who was sitting beside you. You probably don’t know who Tara Palmer is, but—”
He swung to face her. “Author of A Smith’s Song? With the most amazing canine companion ever?”
“Tika the wolf?”
His eyes rounded. “Of course! That’s where you got Tika’s name from.”
“I think I’ve read every book she ever wrote. Three times. Maybe four.”
“You and Gemma both. So, help me with some protocol. If an author is on a panel with another author they admire, is it considered bad form to ask them to sign a book?”
“Not if you buy it and line up with everyone else.”
“I’m definitely buying it. One for me and one for Gemma. And Dwayne’s latest for my cousin, who loves his stuff. And Amy’s book, too, which sounded great.”
“I read it last winter. So good.”
“Then we need two of those, three of Tara’s, one of Dwayne’s—”
“Three of Dwayne’s. Nia has a niece and nephew that age.”
“Two of Amy’s, three of Tara’s, three of Dwayne’s, and none of Bruce’s.”
“Screw Bruce.”
Chris laughed, and Daphne’s phone buzzed. It was Sakura reminding her about the signing.
Daphne: Zane in tow. On our way there now.
Sakura: I’ll be done in twenty minutes. I’ll come over to help.
Daphne: We’ll be fine. Catch your breath. We can meet up after.
In twenty minutes, Daphne expected to be done and lined up for the other signings. Zane was a new author after all. Amy’s book had been out longer and had been on the NYT list plus won awards. Bruce was a known entity, and she and Chris might not want his books, but he’d be busy enough. Tara and Dwayne would definitely be busy.
And Zane Remington… Well, hopefully, they wouldn’t make him sit at an empty table after his short line was gone. Daphne had seen that when she haunted bookstores. Authors—sometimes even names she knew—valiantly manning an empty signing table while people asked directions to the restrooms. She always bought a book.
A young woman in a staff T-shirt met them. “Mr. Remington? I’ll be your line attendant. Oh, and I see you brought your…”
The woman trailed off, letting Chris fill in the blank, and Daphne was vaguely flattered that she didn’t jump to the conclusion Daphne was clearly only his assistant.
“Daphne,” he said in his Zane voice. “My Daphne, my indispensable D, my right hand, my partner in crime. This afternoon, she will be playing the role of my assistant.”
The woman’s look said she was kinda hoping for a bit more clarification on their relationship, and Daphne bit her cheek at that. But it was a good answer, one that didn’t pin her into any role.
“I’ll be flapping books for him,” Daphne said. “And making sure his Sharpies stay fresh.”
“Flapping books?” Chris said. “Do I even want to know what that means?”
The woman smiled. “She means opening them to the signing page for you. Did I hear that this is your first signing?”
“It is. Please tell me I have at least a couple of people waiting.”
“Uh…”
Chris surreptitiously squeezed Daphne’s forearm. “That’s quite all right. It’s a new book by a new author. We will dream of the day when the lineups are so long that ice is required for writer’s cramp.”
He smiled down at her, and her knees wobbled. He hadn’t said the day “he’d” have a lineup. He hadn’t said “he’d” need ice. That was for her. A wish for her.
Damn it, Chris, could you be less sweet? Please? So if I do realize you haven’t been flirting with me, I can at least say you weren’t “all that” anyway?
Except he was all that.
Damn him.
The woman cleared her throat, and Daphne realized she was probably staring up at Chris like a lovelorn teenager.
“Your table, Mr. Remington.”
Daphne reached for a chair. Then she looked up and…
“A couple of people” did indeed stand in front of Zane’s table. Behind them, the queue stretched until it was lost in the tangle of the crowds.
“This must be someone else’s spot,” Daphne said.
At the woman’s frown, she realized that sounded insulting to Chris.
“I mean, is this his?” she quickly said, and added a lie: “I’d asked for sparkling water for Zane.”
“Still water is fine,” Chris said. “I don’t think I’m going to get time to drink it anyway. If this is my book…” He tapped a copy of Edge propped on the table. “Then it’s definitely our spot.”
She stared at the lineup. “I…”
“Let me see about getting you that ice for your hand. I think you’re going to need it,” the woman said, smiling at Chris. Then she hurried off.
“D?” Chris whispered in Daphne’s ear as she stood there, still convinced people were in the wrong place. He took her hand and squeezed it. Then he whispered, “Congratulations.”
Tears filled her eyes. She squeezed his hand back and pulled out the chairs for them to get started.
CHRIS
Chris leaned against a tree, cradling his wrists. “Now I know the real reason you hired me. You write an amazing book that everyone wants signed, and someone else has to sign it.” He shook his wrist. “Oww…”
“Hey, you aren’t the only walking wounded.” She lifted her fingers. “Two paper cuts from flapping books.”
“Ouch.” He took her hand, lifted it, and kissed her cut fingertip. “Better?”
Her cheeks reddened, and he realized how much he loved that about Daphne. She was tough and capable, but her emotions were easy to read, from her embarrassment to her worry to her delight.
After Sakura showed up, Daphne had slipped away to join Tara’s line. He’d been lucky enough to spot her when she reached the front, blushing but glowing, too. She’d hurried back and held out the signed books with the biggest grin.
Now, when she blushed, he kept hold of her hand, running his thumb up her palm as their eyes locked—
“Well, that’s done,” Sakura said as she walked over. “Oh! Whoops.”
Sakura started to retreat, but Daphne backed up fast, breaking Chris’s hold.
“We were just comparing war wounds,” Daphne said, waving her hand. “Paper cuts.”
“Yep, those hardcover jackets can be sharp. Okay, then, so we have about thirty minutes. Do you want to relax while I find something for you to eat? There are usually some decent food trucks. I’ll bring it to the green room.”
“There’s food in the green room, right?” Daphne said.
“Nibbles.”
“We’re fine with that. You can wander if you like or join us and get off your feet for—”
Sakura’s phone buzzed. She looked down and her lips moved in a curse. She tapped back a text. A pause. More furious tapping as exhaustion and frustration settled over her features.
“One of our authors needs me,” she said. “He’s on in an hour, and he forgot his proof of admission, and the staff can’t find him on the list, so he’s threatening to turn around and go back to his hotel.” A text dinged in. “Oh, look, another author needs me. She just finished her panel and can’t find her signing spot. Cat herding. I swear this job is nothing but—”
Sakura looked up quickly. “Sorry. That should have been in my inner voice.”
“No worries,” Chris said. “They don’t pay you guys enough for this.”
“Don’t pay you enough, period,” Daphne said. “Which is why we’ve had four publicists already.”
Sakura gave a tired smile. “You mean we aren’t just feckless Gen Zs who don’t want to work and don’t understand the concept of company loyalty?”
“Loyalty is earned… after the bills are paid,” Chris said. “Daphne and I were wondering why we kept getting new publicists, and she found the explanation online in some blog interviews. Between the cost of New York and current rates of inflation—” He stopped, realizing he was channeling Accountant Chris. He cleared his throat. “And we’re delaying you from putting out fires that need putting out.”
“Go,” Daphne said. “I’ll make sure Zane is fed for his stock signings, and I’ll sneak a doggie bag into my purse for you.”
Sakura thanked them and hurried off.
Daphne set her watch timer. “Thirty minutes to find the green room, eat, and ice your wrist.”
“My wrist will be fine.”
