Page 6 of P.S. It’s Always Been You
“Send me his info,” I tell her.
That night at the hotel, I look up Daniel Highsmith, since my curiosity’s been piqued.
I learn about his auction house, the range of collections he’s curated over the years, and his background as a former professor of art and architecture at Brown University. He’s no slouch, even though his business seems to be riding more on its past than its present. But that doesn’t bother me, since his past is damn impressive.
I click on another page of search results, and I blink when I see the top photo.
Is that . . .?
Am I seeing . . . people?
My chest clenches at the sight of the woman next to him. Those eyes. The freckles. Those lips I once knew so well.
Regrets are for other guys.
In a heartbeat, I grab the phone.
2
Presley
The email lures me with its exclamation point.
It hints that this message contains such exciting news it demands the most exuberant choice in punctuation.
Re: The Forgers News!
Sitting up in bed, I take a deep breath, eager to see what delights await me from my publisher on a Monday morning.
I click open the email.
* * *
Dear Presley,
* * *
I hope this email finds you well. Attached you will find a letter regarding the remaindering – i.e. disposing of – the hardcover of THE FORGERS. We will be sending you a set of forty copies. If you have any questions, please don’t hesitate to ask. As set forth in the original agreement, we would also like to extend to you a onetime offer to purchase additional copies at the cost of $1.61 per copy, which does not include shipping. If you wish to place an order, please call our customer service department.
* * *
Sincerely,
Angela Greenbrae
Editorial Assistant at Anthem Publishing
* * *
I unleash a groan the length of the Hudson River.
Dropping my head in my hand, I utter a few choice curse words.
Then, just in case I’m still dreaming—or really, nightmaring—I read the email again.
And one more time because evidently I like to pick at scabs.
Do I want to buy the remaining copies? Is this a new strategy to sell more books? The publisher only sold four.
Okay, fine, that’s not true. It was something like 154, but I know for a fact that my mom and dad bought ten, my mom’s sister purchased five, and my sister snatched up a bunch too.
I slump, disappointment heavy after I’d let my hopes rise.
It’s not as if I thought I was getting a million-copy print run for Target, but I was hoping the publisher might be sending good news about the paperback edition of the book. Perhaps a new marketing plan to lure a bevy of new readers for my deep dive into the most daring art forgeries of the twentieth century.
Instead, it’s an invitation to shell out.
I read the note once more in case I happened to miss a postscript about how this is great news because as soon as the publisher dumps these copies, they’ll print a ton more, all wrapped in silver bows and bursting with confetti.
But confetti never comes out of the carpet, and the note is the note is the note.
I hit archive, sending it out of my inbox and into the abyss of email storage. But the next email gut checks me too. It’s from my sister.
* * *
Hey Nora Roberts,
* * *
Mom and I are decorating this weekend. Can I persuade you to lend us your eye? I can Skype you, and we’ll do a video thingy. I have tons of new photos of the rug rats to hang, and no one rocks the art decor like you. If you want to come up to Vermont, I’ll even make you that spinach salad with chickpeas and chia seeds that you like, since I know you like to be all health nut when you’re not lured by diners. And you can sign some of my extra copies of your book for my friend’s book club. I bought extras because Amazon was having a crazy sale!
* * *
Xoxo
Holly
* * *
I couldn’t ask for a more supportive family. Truly, I can’t. My sister uses different names of best-selling authors to address me every time she writes. She puts me on a pedestal for my art skills. And she gobbled up my failed, pathetic book. Yet I hardly feel like I deserve it.
Starring the email so I can answer it later, I slide out of bed.
The floorboards squeak as I head to the stove in my tiny East Village studio to make a pot of tea. As I turn on the kettle, I call my agent.
Beatrice answers on the second ring. “Good thing you didn’t quit your day job, huh?”
I choke out a mirthless laugh at her attempt at levity. “Yeah. It is.” Though the day job has its issues too. “So what’s next?”
