Total pages in book: 152
Estimated words: 145574 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 728(@200wpm)___ 582(@250wpm)___ 485(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 145574 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 728(@200wpm)___ 582(@250wpm)___ 485(@300wpm)
Recognition flared at the name. Gran’s publisher. He’d been the editorial director of her imprint when she’d written her last book about ten years ago at the age of ninety-one.
“Adam Feinhold. It’s nice to meet you, Ms. Stanton,” the other, younger one said. Both looked positively ashen as they glanced between my mother and me.
“And now that everyone’s been introduced, Gigi, aren’t you thirsty? Let’s get you a drink.” Mom rushed toward me with an outstretched hand.
I ignored her and took over the large wingback chair at the head of the seating arrangement, sinking into its familiar comfort. “And what exactly would my great-grandmother’s publisher be doing all the way in Poplar Grove, Colorado?”
“They’re here for a simple book deal, of course.” Mom sat gingerly on the edge of the couch closest to me and arranged her dress.
“What book?” I asked Christopher and Adam directly. Mom had a lot of talents, but writing wasn’t one of them, and I’d seen enough book deals to know publishers didn’t just hop on planes for fun.
Christopher and Adam glanced at each other in confusion, so I repeated my question.
“What. Book?”
“I believe it’s untitled,” Christopher answered slowly.
Every muscle in my body locked. There was only one book Gran hadn’t titled or sold that I was aware of. Mom wouldn’t dare…would she?
He swallowed, then glanced toward my mother. “We’re just finishing up some signatures and picking up the manuscript. You know Scarlett wasn’t fond of computers, and we didn’t want to chance something as precious as the only existing original copy to the gods of shipping.”
They shared an awkward laugh, and Mom joined in.
“What book?” This time I asked Mom, my stomach pitching.
“Her first…and last.” The plea in her eyes was unmistakable, and I loathed the way it managed to slice into my heart. “The one about Grandpa Jameson.”
I was going to puke. Right there on the Persian rug Gran had loved. “It isn’t finished.”
“Of course not, dear. But I’ve made sure they hired the best of the best to see it through to completion,” Mom said with a syrupy tone that did nothing to settle my nausea. “Don’t you think Grandma Scarlett would want to have her final words published?” Then she gave me the smile. The one that looked open and well-meaning to outsiders but held pure threat of private retribution if I dared to publicly embarrass her.
She’d taught me well enough that I gave her one of my own. “Well, Mom, I think if Gran had wanted that book to be published, she would have finished writing it.” How could she do this? Broker a deal for that book behind my back?
“I don’t agree.” Mom raised her eyebrows. “She called that book her legacy, Gigi. She was never able to handle the emotions of finishing it, and I think it’s only fitting that we do it for her. Don’t you?”
“No. And, since I’m the only beneficiary of her will, the executor of her literary trust, what I think is all that matters.” I laid out the truth as unemotionally as I could.
She dropped the facade and stared at me in pure shock. “Georgia, surely you wouldn’t deny—”
“So you’re both named Georgia?” Adam asked, his voice pitching upward.
I blinked as the pieces clicked into place, and then I laughed. “This is rich.” She wasn’t just brokering a deal behind my back—she was posing as me.
“Gigi…” Mom begged.
“She told you she was Georgia Stanton?” I guessed, giving the suits all my attention.
“Ellsworth, but yes.” Christopher nodded, his face reddening as he caught on.
“She’s not. She’s Ava Stanton-Thomas-Brown-O’Malley…or is it still Nelson? I can’t remember if you changed it back.” I lifted my brows in Mom’s direction.
Mom flew to her feet and glowered. “Kitchen. Now.”
“If you’ll excuse us for one second.” I flashed a quick smile at the duped publishers, then headed for the kitchen, because I wanted her explanation.
“You will not blow this for me!” she hissed as we reached the room where Gran had baked every Saturday.
Dishes lay scattered on the counter, and the odor of spoiled food lingered in the air.
“What happened to Lydia?” I asked, motioning to the mess.
“I fired her. She was nosy.” Mom shrugged.
“How long have you been living here?”
“Since the funeral. I was waiting for you—”
“Let it go. You fired Lydia because you knew she’d tell me you were hunting for the book.” Pure anger raced through my veins, tightening my jaw. “How could you?”
Her shoulders slackened. “Gigi—”
“I’ve hated that nickname since I was eight years old. Again: stop using it,” I snapped. “Did you really think you’d get away with pretending to be me? They have lawyers, Mom! Eventually you would have had to hand over identification.”
“Well, it was working until you walked in.”
“What about Helen?” I scoffed. “Tell me you didn’t offer up the manuscript without Gran’s agent.”