your family.”
“Don’t you—”
“The world is yours, Joan. You can write your own ticket.”
“I don’t want to write my own ticket. I want to write novels.”
“Then write them.”
“I will.”
“Good.”
“In Paris. Under a new pen name.”
There was a moment of stunned silence in which the frogs, cicadas and bird calls pressed in around them. Then Anthony’s face contorted, and he sputtered something that might have been a word in another language, but it certainly wasn’t in English. His complexion darkened, and for a second she thought he might be having a heart attack.
“Anthony?”
He finally breathed. “Do you have any idea what you’re throwing away?”
“I don’t care about the money, Anthony.”
“Normal authors kill for opportunities like this. They don’t throw them out like garbage.”
“If people like my writing as Jules Burrell, they’ll like it just as well as John Smith.”
“That’s not the way it works.”
“That’s the way it’s worked so far.”
He closed the space between them.
Something splashed in the bayou, and she automatically glanced to see if it was an alligator.
“It’s taken you ten years and a dozen books to get any notoriety at all.”
She pursed her lips. “I don’t want notoriety.”
“Notoriety brings sales. Sales bring opportunities, power, options. It’s a package deal, Joan. I’ve—we’ve— I’ve worked my butt off for ten years.”
“Excuse me? Who wrote the books?”
“Without me, they’d still be locked away in your bottom drawer.”
That one hurt. It really hurt. “Is that what you honestly think?”
She waited in silence while the afternoon heat flowed restlessly out of the moist ground, and sweat congealed in her pores.
“No,” Anthony finally said, and all the fight went out of his voice. “I think you’re a genius, Joan. I think you are the finest writer I have ever had the privilege to represent. And right now I want to wring your mother’s neck for stealing you away from me.”
Joan blinked, at a loss for words. How could she be his finest writer? Fine writing was Hemingway or Shakespeare. She messed around with edgy little mysteries.
Anthony drew a breath. He moved closer, and his voice dropped. “Why don’t they care about you, Joan?”
What an absurd thing to say. “Of course they care about me.”
He shook his head. “Everything they’ve said, everything they’ve done has been in their interest, not yours.”
“That’s because I’m the one who made the mistake.” Her actions had hurt them. She’d known she was taking a risk in publishing the books; she just hadn’t realized how badly it could blow up in her face.
“And what mistake was that?” he asked.
He knew the mistake as well as she did. He was just trying to bait her into another argument.
“They care about me,” she repeated.
“They have a funny way of showing it.”
“They’re trying to protect me.”
“From what?”
Joan sighed.
“Seriously, Joan. From success and money?”
“From exploitation.”
That shut him up.
“So, that’s what you think of me?” he asked.
“No, that’s what they think of you.”
“That I’m exploiting you?”
“I don’t think that.”
“You just said it.”
“Anthony.”
He clasped a hand over the back of his neck. “Did you know Charlie Long Live has expressed interest in you?”
“How would I know that?”
“Well, they have.”
Despite herself, Joan was flattered. Charlie Long was a reputable journalist. His news show didn’t sensationalize issues the way cable talk shows did.
“Why would Charlie Long want me?” she asked.
“Because you wrote a good book. Because people are interested in Samuel’s story. They’ve invited you to headline the show.”
Joan would be lying if she didn’t admit it was tempting. But she knew that was a selfish emotion at work. An appearance on Charlie Long would be good for her, and her alone. It would be devastating
“Don’t you—”
“The world is yours, Joan. You can write your own ticket.”
“I don’t want to write my own ticket. I want to write novels.”
“Then write them.”
“I will.”
“Good.”
“In Paris. Under a new pen name.”
There was a moment of stunned silence in which the frogs, cicadas and bird calls pressed in around them. Then Anthony’s face contorted, and he sputtered something that might have been a word in another language, but it certainly wasn’t in English. His complexion darkened, and for a second she thought he might be having a heart attack.
“Anthony?”
He finally breathed. “Do you have any idea what you’re throwing away?”
“I don’t care about the money, Anthony.”
“Normal authors kill for opportunities like this. They don’t throw them out like garbage.”
“If people like my writing as Jules Burrell, they’ll like it just as well as John Smith.”
“That’s not the way it works.”
“That’s the way it’s worked so far.”
He closed the space between them.
Something splashed in the bayou, and she automatically glanced to see if it was an alligator.
“It’s taken you ten years and a dozen books to get any notoriety at all.”
She pursed her lips. “I don’t want notoriety.”
“Notoriety brings sales. Sales bring opportunities, power, options. It’s a package deal, Joan. I’ve—we’ve— I’ve worked my butt off for ten years.”
“Excuse me? Who wrote the books?”
“Without me, they’d still be locked away in your bottom drawer.”
That one hurt. It really hurt. “Is that what you honestly think?”
She waited in silence while the afternoon heat flowed restlessly out of the moist ground, and sweat congealed in her pores.
“No,” Anthony finally said, and all the fight went out of his voice. “I think you’re a genius, Joan. I think you are the finest writer I have ever had the privilege to represent. And right now I want to wring your mother’s neck for stealing you away from me.”
Joan blinked, at a loss for words. How could she be his finest writer? Fine writing was Hemingway or Shakespeare. She messed around with edgy little mysteries.
Anthony drew a breath. He moved closer, and his voice dropped. “Why don’t they care about you, Joan?”
What an absurd thing to say. “Of course they care about me.”
He shook his head. “Everything they’ve said, everything they’ve done has been in their interest, not yours.”
“That’s because I’m the one who made the mistake.” Her actions had hurt them. She’d known she was taking a risk in publishing the books; she just hadn’t realized how badly it could blow up in her face.
“And what mistake was that?” he asked.
He knew the mistake as well as she did. He was just trying to bait her into another argument.
“They care about me,” she repeated.
“They have a funny way of showing it.”
“They’re trying to protect me.”
“From what?”
Joan sighed.
“Seriously, Joan. From success and money?”
“From exploitation.”
That shut him up.
“So, that’s what you think of me?” he asked.
“No, that’s what they think of you.”
“That I’m exploiting you?”
“I don’t think that.”
“You just said it.”
“Anthony.”
He clasped a hand over the back of his neck. “Did you know Charlie Long Live has expressed interest in you?”
“How would I know that?”
“Well, they have.”
Despite herself, Joan was flattered. Charlie Long was a reputable journalist. His news show didn’t sensationalize issues the way cable talk shows did.
“Why would Charlie Long want me?” she asked.
“Because you wrote a good book. Because people are interested in Samuel’s story. They’ve invited you to headline the show.”
Joan would be lying if she didn’t admit it was tempting. But she knew that was a selfish emotion at work. An appearance on Charlie Long would be good for her, and her alone. It would be devastating
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