Noah
Dear Scarlett,
I miss you, my love. The sound of your voice over the telephone doesn’t compare to holding you in my arms. It’s only been a few weeks, yet it feels like forever since I was reposted. Good news, I think I’ve been able to secure us a house close by. I know the moving has been hell on you, and if you decide you’d rather stay near Constance, then we can adjust our plans. You’ve given up so much for me already, and yet here I am, asking you to do it all over again. I promise when this war is over, I will make it up to you. I swear I’ll never put you in the position to sacrifice for me again.
God, I miss the feel of your skin against mine in the morning
and the sight of that beautiful smile when I walk through the door at night. Right now, it’s only Howard welcoming me, though he’s not here much since meeting a local girl. Before you ask, no, there are no local girls for me. There’s only a blue-eyed beauty who holds my heart and my future, and I’d hardly call her local, since she’s hours away.
I can’t wait to hold you in my arms again. Love,
Jameson
The rhythm pounding through my earbuds matched the beat of my feet against the pathways through Central Park as I wove in and out of the meandering tourists. Friday of Labor Day weekend had them out in full force, fanny packs and all. It was humid today, the air sticky and thick, but
at least it was full of sea-level oxygen.
My mile time had sucked the entire week I’d been in Colorado. I’d mostly stayed around seven thousand feet while researching in Peru, minus the times I’d gone climbing, but Poplar Grove’s elevation had been twenty- five hundred feet higher. Had to admit, though, despite the brutal lack of oxygen, the Rocky Mountain air had felt lighter, easier to move in, too. Not that Colorado beat New York in any other department. Sure, the mountains were beautiful, but so was the Manhattan skyline, and besides, nothing could compare to living in the very heartbeat of the world. This was home.
Only problem was, my head wasn’t here, and hadn’t been since I’d flown back more than two weeks ago. It was split down the middle between World War II Britain and modern-day Poplar Grove, Colorado, even sans oxygen. The manuscript ended at a crucial turning point in the plot, where the story could either descend into cataclysmic heartbreak or rally back from the depths of doubt to reach a love-conquers-all climax that would turn even the surliest bastard into a romantic.
And while I was normally content to play the surly part, Georgia had stepped in and stolen my role, leaving me the uncharacteristic romantic. And damn, did this story demand it. The letters between Scarlett and Jameson did, too. In the middle of a war, they’d found the real thing. They couldn’t even bear to be separated for longer than a few weeks. I wasn’t sure I’d ever been with a woman for more than a few weeks at a time. I liked my space.
I hit mile six and was no closer to understanding Georgia’s asinine demand than I was when I’d left her house two weeks ago or understanding the woman herself. Usually, I ran until my thoughts worked themselves out or a plot point came to me, but just like every other day for the past two weeks, I slowed to a walk and ripped out my earbuds in pure frustration.
“Oh, thank God. I thought you—” Adam gasped. “Were going. For a seventh, and I. Was going to. Have to drop out,” he managed to say between heaving breaths as he caught up beside me.
“She doesn’t want it to have a happy ending,” I growled, killing the
music pumping through my phone.
“So you’ve said,” Adam noted, lifting his hands to the top of his head. “As a matter of fact, I think you’ve mentioned that almost every day since you got back.”
“I’m going to keep saying it until I can wrap my head around it.” We reached a bench near a fork in the path and stopped to briefly stretch, as was our routine.
“Great. I look forward to reading it once you do.” He braced his hands on his knees and leaned over, drawing in gulps of air.
“I told you we should run more often.” He only joined me once a week. “And I told you that you’re not my only writer. Now when are you
sending the Stanton portion of the manuscript? This thing is a tight turnaround.”
“As soon as I finish it.” A corner of my mouth lifted. “Don’t worry, you’ll have it by the deadline.”
“Really? You’re going to make me wait three months? Cruel. I’m wounded.” He slapped a hand over his heart.
“I know I sound like a kid, but I want to see if you’re able to tell where Scarlett’s writing leaves off and mine begins.” I hadn’t felt this excited about a book in the last three years, and I’d written six during that time. But this one…I had that feeling, and Georgia was tying one hand behind my back. “She’s wrong, you know.”
“Georgia?”
“She doesn’t understand what her great-grandmother’s branding was. Scarlett Stanton is a guaranteed happy ending. Her readers expect it. Georgia isn’t a writer. She doesn’t get it, and she’s wrong.” One thing I’d learned over the last twelve years was not to screw with readers’ expectations.
“And you’re so certain you’re right because what? You’re infallible?” There was more than a hint of sarcasm there.
“When it comes to plotting? Yes. I’m comfortable saying I’m pretty fucking infallible, and don’t start on me about my ego. I can back it up, so
it’s more like confidence.” I leaned into a stretch and smiled.
“Hate to check your confidence, but if that was the case, you wouldn’t need your editor, would you? But you do need me, so you’re not.”
I ignored the obvious truth in his argument. “At least you read my book before suggesting changes. She won’t even let me tell her my idea.”
“Well, does she have one?” I blinked.
“Did you ask her?” He lifted his brows. “I mean, I’d be happy to offer some suggestions but, since you haven’t even shown me the existing portion yet…”
“Why would I ask her? I never ask for input before something is finished.” It ruined the process, and my gut instincts hadn’t failed me yet, anyway. “I cannot believe I actually signed a contract giving someone who’s not even in the industry final approval.” And yet I’d do it again just for the challenge.
“For having dated as much as you have, you really don’t understand women, do you?” He shook his head.
“I understand women just fine, trust me. And besides, you’ve had what?
One relationship in the past decade?”
“Because I married her, jackass.” He flashed his wedding ring. “Screwing your way through New York isn’t what I’m talking about. The milk in my fridge is older than the length of your average relationship, and it’s not even close to the expiration date. It is harder to truly know and understand one woman than it is to charm your way through a thousand nights of a thousand different women. More rewarding, too.” He checked his watch. “I need to get back to the office.”
The thought made me shift uncomfortably.
“That’s not true. The relationship part.” Fine, the longest relationship I’d had was six months, involved a lot of personal space, and had dissolved the way it had begun—with mutual affection and an understanding that we weren’t going the distance. I saw no reason to emotionally entangle myself with someone I couldn’t see a future with.
“Okay, let’s clarify. I don’t think you understand Georgia Stanton.” Adam smirked, leaning into a calf stretch. “Have to admit, it’s fun watching you struggle over a woman who doesn’t automatically fall at your feet.”
“Women don’t fall at my feet.” I was just lucky that the ones I was interested in usually felt the same way. “And what’s not to get? From where I stand, this is a case of publishing royalty becomes wife of a Hollywood elite only to be thrown over for the younger, newer, pregnant model and goes home with her millions to sign another deal that makes more millions.” Was she mouth-wateringly gorgeous? Absolutely. But it also felt like she was being difficult just for the fun of it. I was starting to see that dealing with Georgia might be more challenging than getting the book actually written.
“Wow. You’re so far off the mark, it’s almost funny.” He finished stretching and stood, waiting for me to do the same. “You know much about her ex?” he asked with a head tilt and poignant stare.
“Sure. Damian Ellsworth, the acclaimed director, and resident of Soho, if I’m not mistaken.” I stopped at a food cart and bought us two bottles of water. “Always given me a slimy, creepy vibe.” I was confident, but that guy was a pompous prick.
“And what’s he most known for?” Adam questioned after he’d thanked me and twisted the top off his.
“Probably The Wings of Autumn,” I guessed as we continued our trek, freezing as it hit me.
Adam looked over his shoulder, then paused. “There it is. Come on.” He motioned me forward, and I found my footing.
“Scarlett never sold her movie rights,” I said slowly. “Not until six years ago.”
“Bingo. And then she only sold ten books’ worth of rights for almost no money to a brand-new, no-name production company that’s owned by…”
“Damian Ellsworth. Fuck me.”
“No thanks, you’re not my type. But do you get it now?” We reached the edge of the park and threw our empty bottles into the recycling before
merging onto the crowded sidewalk.
Ellsworth was more than a decade older than Georgia but had only managed to get his foot through the Hollywood door… Shit. It had been right around the time they’d gotten married.
“He used his marriage to Georgia to get to Scarlett.” Asshole.
“Seems like it.” Adam nodded. “Those rights rolled out the red carpet for him, and he still has five of those movies left to make. He’s set. And once it was clear the trips to the fertility clinic weren’t working out, he found someone else.”
My head snapped toward Adam as my stomach soured. “They were struggling to have kids and he knocked up someone else?”
“According to Celebrity Weekly. Don’t look at me like that. Carmen likes to read it, and I get bored when I’m soaking my legs in the bathtub. Legs you continually put through the ringer, I might add.”
Damn. That was a whole other layer of screwed up. She’d started the man’s career and he hadn’t just cheated; he’d emotionally, publicly annihilated her. “It’s becoming clear why she isn’t about the happy endings right now.”
“And the worst part was that she was part owner of the production company, but she signed it all over in the divorce,” Adam continued as we crossed the street. “She gave everything to him.”
My brow furrowed. That was a shit-ton of money. “Everything? But he’s at fault.” How was that fair?
Adam shrugged. “They were married in Colorado. It’s a no-fault state, and she gave it up willingly, or so I read.”
“Who does that?”
“Someone who wants out as quickly as possible,” he noted. We crossed the final street, bringing us to the block my publisher’s building was on, but Adam stopped in front of the one next door. “And, since all but a sliver of Scarlett’s estate goes into a literary trust earmarked for charity work, those millions you mentioned aren’t exactly Georgia’s. I know you like your research trips, but you should Google more often.”
“Holy shit.” My stomach dropped at just how wrong my assumption had been.
He clapped my back. “Feel like an ass now, don’t you?” he asked with a grin.
“Maybe,” I admitted.
“Wait until you realize that the book you’re finishing isn’t listed in the literary trust—”
My gaze whipped over to his.
“—and she still asked Accounting to wire that entire advance to her mother’s account,” he finished with a smirk.
“Okay, now I feel like a jackass.” I ran my hands down my face. She wasn’t even getting paid for this deal.
“Excellent. How about one more? Follow me.” He walked us inside the office building. The foyer was vaulted to at least the second floor, and escalators lined the edges before the elevator banks began, leaving the center open to display a massive vertical glass sculpture.
It started deep blue on bottom, reaching out in wisps of waves that bubbled at the edges as though breaking on an unseen beach. Rising higher, the blue morphed into aqua before the edges lost their rough, foam-like texture. Then aqua became dozens of shades of green as the glass reached out with swirls—branches, narrowing as the sculpture grew taller, until it peaked at twice my height.
“What do you think?” Adam asked with a shit-eating grin on his face. “It’s spectacular. The lighting is ingenious, too. Shows off the color and
artistry.” I glanced sideways at him, knowing this little detour had to mean something.
“Look at the placard.” That grin was still going strong.
I moved forward and read the tag, my eyes widening. “Georgia Stan— What the hell?” Georgia did this? I looked up at it with fresh eyes, and even I could admit my jaw dropped a little.
“Just because she’s not a writer doesn’t mean she’s not creative.
Humbled? Just a little?” Adam moved to stand at my side.
“Just a little,” I said slowly. “Maybe a lot.” My attention dropped to the placard again, noting the date. Six years ago. Coincidence or pattern?
“Good. My work here is done.”
She hadn’t just gone to art school. She was an artist. “She won’t listen to me, Adam. She’s hung up on me both times I’ve called. I’m trying to get this thing plotted out so I can dig into it, but the second I start in about the ending, it’s dead on the other end. She doesn’t want to collaborate; she just wants it her way.”
“Sounds like someone else I know. How much listening have you done?” he challenged. “It’s not just your book this time, buddy; it’s hers, too, and for someone who loves primary sources, you’re ignoring the one right in front of your face. She’s your resident expert on all things Scarlett Stanton.”
”Good point.”
“Come on, Noah. I’ve never known you to shy away from a challenge. Hell, you seek them out. Pick up the phone and use that legendary charm to get your foot in the proverbial door. Then get to listening, buddy. Now, I have to shower before a meeting.” He headed toward the revolving door.
“I’ve already tried the charm!” And it got me exactly nowhere, which was professionally annoying and personally…well, frustrating, especially considering the way I was still drawn to her from more than a thousand miles away.
“Not if you’ve only called twice, you haven’t.”
“How did you even know this was here?” I called across the foyer. “Google!” He gave me a two-fingered salute and disappeared out of the
building, leaving me with the proof that I hadn’t been the only creative genius in Scarlett’s office that day.
Then I started my research—not on the Battle of Britain but on Georgia Stanton.
…
I glanced between my phone—which lay harmlessly in the middle of my desk—and the phone number I’d scrawled on the notepad beside it. I was a week closer to my deadline, and though I’d plotted out what I felt was the right path for the characters, I hadn’t started writing. There was no point if Georgia was just going to demand that I change it all.
Use that legendary charm…
I dialed the number, then turned to stand at the massive windows lining my home office, looking down at Manhattan as the phone rang. Was she going to answer? That particular worry was a first for me when calling a woman, not because picking up was a given but because I’d never really cared.
Ask about her grandmother. Ask about her. Stop yelling in her general direction and start treating her like a partner. Just pretend she’s one of your college friends and not someone from work or someone you’re interested in. That had been Adrienne’s advice, followed by a sarcastic quip that I’d never had a partner in my life because I was a control freak.
I hated when she was right.
“Noah, to what do I owe the honor?” Georgia answered. “I saw your sculpture.” Way to ease into it.
“I’m sorry?”
“The one of the tree rising out of the ocean. I saw it. It’s stunning.” My grip tightened on my phone. According to the internet, it was also the last one she’d done.
“Oh.” There was a pause. “Thank you.” “I didn’t know you were a sculptor.”
“Uh…yeah. I was. A long time ago. Was being the operative word there.” She forced a laugh. “Now I spend my days in Gran’s office, sorting through a mountain of paperwork.”
Subject closed. Noted. I resisted the urge to dig—for now.
“Ah, paperwork. My favorite way to spend the evening,” I joked.
“Well, you’d be in heaven, because it’s a hot mess. There’s. So. Much.
Paperwork,” she groaned.
“Ooh, I love it when you talk dirty to me.” Fuck. I winced and mentally calculated how much I was about to pay in a sexual harassment lawsuit. What the hell was wrong with me? “Shit. Sorry, I don’t know where that came from.” So much for treating her like a friend from college.
“It’s okay.” She laughed, and the sound hit me like a freight train to the chest. Her laugh was beautiful and left me smiling for the first time in days. “Well, now that I know what turns you on,” she teased, and I heard a creak in the background that I recognized. She’d leaned back in the chair. “Honestly, it’s fine, I promise,” she managed as her laughter simmered. “But really, did you need something? Because the minute you say the words happy ending, I’m going back to my paperwork.”
I cringed, then swiped my glasses from my face and started to spin them by the handle. “Uh. We can get to that later,” I offered. “I was just trying to add some personal details, and I was wondering if your gran had a favorite flower?” My eyes shut tightly. You are the dorkiest of the dorks, Morelli.
“Oh.” Her voice softened. “Yeah, she loved roses. She has a massive garden out behind the house full of English tea roses. Well, I guess she had a garden. Sorry, still getting used to that.”
“It takes a while.” I stopped spinning the glasses and set them on the desk. “Took me about a year when my dad died, and honestly, it creeps out from time to time when I forget he’s gone. Besides, the garden is still there; it’s just yours now.” I glanced at the photo of Dad and me standing beside the 1965 Jaguar we’d spent a year restoring: it would always be Dad’s, even if it was now in my name.
“True. I didn’t know your dad died; I’m sorry.”
“Thanks.” I cleared my throat and turned my attention back to the skyline. “It was a few years ago, and I did my best to keep it from becoming a thing in the press. Everyone’s always digging up my backstory to see if there’s a reason all my stories have…” Don’t say it. “Poignant endings.”
“And is there a reason?” she asked quietly.
I’d been asked the question at least a hundred times over the years, and I
usually responded with something like I think books should reflect real life, but this time I took a second.
“No tragedy, if that’s what you’re asking.” A smile tugged at my lips. “Typical middle-class family. Dad was a mechanic. Mom still is a teacher. Grew up with barbecues, Mets games, and an annoying sister I’ve grown to appreciate. Disappointed?” Most people were. They figured I had to have been orphaned or something else equally horrific.
“Not at all. Sounds pretty perfect, actually.” Her voice dropped off. “With the writing, I step into a story and the first thing I see about a
character is their flaw. The second thing I see is how that flaw will lead to redemption…or destruction. I can’t help it. The story plays out in my head, and that’s what goes down on the page.” I moved back and leaned against the edge of my desk. “Tragic, heartwarming, poignant…it just is what it is.” “Hmm.” I could almost see her considering my statement with that little
tilt of her head. Her eyes would narrow slightly, and then she’d nod if she’d accepted my thought. “Gran used to say she saw the characters as fully fleshed-out people with complicated pasts, set on a collision course. She saw their flaws as something to overcome.”
I nodded like she could see me. “Right. She usually used whatever their flaw was to humble them while proving their devotion in the most unexpected way possible. God, she was the best at that.” It was a skill I had yet to master—the successful grovel. The grand gesture. My stories always came just shy of it before the chance was yanked away by the bitch we called fate.
“She was. She loved…love.”
My eyebrows rose. “Right, which is why this story needs to preserve that,” I blurted, then grimaced. A breath passed, then two. “Georgia? Are you still there?” The click was coming any second now.
“It does,” she said. There was no anger in her tone, but no flexibility, either. “This story is about love at the heart of it, but it’s not a romance. That’s the whole reason I gave it to you, Noah. You don’t write romance, remember?”
I blinked, finally seeing how big the divide between us was. “But I told you I would write this as a romance.”
“No, you told me Gran was better than you at writing romance,” she countered. “You promised you would get it right. I knew it needed a poignant ending, so I agreed that you were the man for the job. I thought you’d come the closest to capturing what she really went through after the war.”
“Holy shit.” This wasn’t Everest, this was the moon, and the whole situation was caused by crossed wires. Our goals had never been the same.
“Noah, don’t you think if I wanted this book to be a romance, I would have told Christopher to find me one of his romance writers?”
“Why didn’t you tell me that in Colorado?” I asked through gritted teeth.
“I did!” she snapped defensively. “In my foyer, I told you that the one thing you couldn’t do was give them a happy ending, and you didn’t listen. You just tossed back a cocky ‘watch me’ comment and walked out.”
“Because I thought you were challenging me!” “Well, I wasn’t!”
“I know that now!” I pinched the bridge of my nose, searching for a way forward when it looked like we were at an impasse. “Do you honestly want your gran’s story to be sad and mournful?”
“She wasn’t sad. And this isn’t a romance!”
“It should be. We can give it the ending she deserves.”
“With what, Noah? You want to end her real-life story with some happy piece of fiction where they’re running toward each other in an empty field with their arms outstretched?”
“Not exactly.” Here we go. This was my chance. “Picture her walking a long, winding dirt road lined with pine trees, calling back to the way they met, and the second he sees her—” I saw it all play out in my head.
“Holy mother of all that’s cliché.”
“Cliché?” I nearly choked on the word. Even being thought of as an asshole was better than cliché. “I know what I’m doing. Just let me do it!”
“Do you know why I keep hanging up on you?” “Enlighten me.”
“Because nothing I say matters to you, and it keeps us both from wasting our time.”
Click.
“Damn it!” I snapped, carefully setting down my phone so I didn’t throw it.
It did matter what she said. I was just doing a piss-poor job of letting her go first, which, again, was a problem I only seemed to have with this particular woman.
Writing was so much easier than dealing with actual people. Maybe people didn’t finish my books—hung up on me in a literature sense—but I never knew if someone stopped reading before they got the point, because I’d already had the chance to make it. Even if they slammed it shut in disgust, it wasn’t in person.
I raked my hands over my face and let out a hiss of pure irritation. I’d finally met someone with bigger control issues than I had.
“Any advice, Jameson?” I asked the pages of the manuscript and correspondence I’d printed out. “Sure, you somehow managed to keep communicating through a war zone, but you sure as hell didn’t have to knock down Scarlett’s walls over the telephone, did you?”
I gave myself a moment to fall into the story, to really theorize what Georgia was asking of me, but picturing Scarlett learning to let go and move on, fictionally condemning her to what had to have been a half-life felt too heavy, even for me.
Three months. That was all I had to not only convince Georgia that Scarlett and Jameson needed to end this story blissfully together but write the damned thing in another author’s style and voice. Then I glanced at the calendar and realized it was actually less than three months and cursed. Loudly.
I had to change tactics or there was a very real possibility that I was going to blow a deadline for the first time in my career.
