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When she found out, she would never smile again... at least not at me.

Chapter Six

We weren’t late for the author bus, mainly because instead of drying my hair, I opted for pulling it back into another ponytail, not caring whether anyone noticed if it was wet. Then I raced down to meet Bernadette.

“Now, that’s what I’m talking about.” Her gaze traveled approvingly up and down my black palazzo pants and matching black top. “I don’t think anyone will be able to tell you’ve spent the past year suffering from crippling anxiety, depression, and low self-esteem.”

“You forgot writer’s block.”

“Wait,what? You’re not writinganything?”

I shrugged. “Not anything I’m getting paid for.Kitty Katz number twenty-sevenwas due last year and all I can seem to write instead is either an apocalypticSense and Sensibilityor a book about a girl whose mother dies of cancer, leaving her to be raised alone at age fourteen by her scatterbrained musician father who never managed to save a dime for his retirement.”

“Okay,” Bernadette said. “Kinda bleak, but I’d read both.”

“Thanks, but no one else seems to want to. Rosie’s been sending them out, and they’ve gotten rejected everywhere. They’re notJo Wrightenough, apparently.”

“How can something written by Jo Wright not be Jo Wright enough?”

“Oh, you know. Upbeat.”

Bernadette burst out laughing. “People thinkyou’reupbeat?”

“Well, people who only know Jo Wright, author ofKitty Katz, Kitten Sitter, not Jo Wright, the person.”

“Oh, I get it. Once you’re known for writing a certain thing, it’s hard to market you if you write something totally different.”

“Exactly. I guess I kind of understand what they mean. TheKitty Katzbooks are known for cheering readers up. I wouldn’t want to write something that bums people out.” Like the drivel that came out of Will Price’s way-too-handsome head.

“I don’t think you could possibly write something that bums people out.”

“Oh, I don’t know. I’ve been in a pretty dark place lately.” Thinking of ways to murder Will Price, for instance.

“You could try getting those other books published under a different name,” Bernadette suggested.

“Yeah, but then I’d have to build a whole new social media following under that name.”

“And create a whole new website,” Bernadette said with a sigh.

“And get new author photos.”

“Which you need.” Bernadette tugged on my black ponytail. “But I get it. So much effort.”

“Right. I might as well just stick to Kitty, even though the well seems to have gone dry.” Unless Little Bridge Island worked its magic.

Too bad there was no such thing as magic.

We began heading toward the hotel’s foyer, where we could see through the open French doors that other authors were gathering to wait for the bus that would take us to the event.

“Do you think your writer’s block is because of what’s going on with your dad—the fact that he isn’t doing so well but refuses to accept help—or because of what that idiot Price said about your writing?” Bernadette asked.

I gave her the stink eye. “Are you trying to psychoanalyze me? Because I think you should know that as a lifelong Manhattanite, I already have a therapist.”

“Of course you do. I was just wondering.”

“Who knows? I hope it’s because of what’s going on with my dad. If it’s because of what Will Price said, then what kind of professional does that make me, that I could be so easily thrown off my game?”

“That kind of thing would throw anyone off their game. He said it about you to theNew York Times, for crying out loud.”