Arden Evans had the kind of sweetness heralded by theologists and poets alike as divine. Like that first crunch of a fresh apple or the pop of a ripened grape as it spreads across the tongue, Arden’s sweetness had the potential to move me toward ecstasy or madness.
I met Arden at a book signing in my honor, hosted by my father’s literary agency. I’d just made the New York Times Best Seller List for my latest release, the fourth in a series of mystery novels set in the Adirondacks and popular among the aging Grisham demographic. The previous three had been building steam over the past few years, and this achievement was a first for me. Proof that my success wasn’t only the result of my father’s connections but that my talent and work ethic might also be to blame.
I was at the bar, hovering near my agent and good friend Elizabeth “Bitzy” Lane. We’d met at Columbia where we both studied English and Comparative Literature. Bitzy wanted to be an editor for one of the Big Five publishing houses but interned at my father’s agency where I was destined to wind up as well. When I, with trembling hands, presented my father with my first manuscript, what would one day become the beginning of Cold Lake Chronicles, he told me I’d need an agent, and naturally, I chose Bitzy.
My father thought my first book would be a flop. And he didn’t expect me to be able to reproduce the second in the series to that caliber, which was why he’d insisted the first book be sold as a standalone. When my second book did just as well, he begrudgingly acknowledged that I might have some writerly talent after all.
How much of my success can be credited to my compulsion to impress my father?
Bitzy was working the crowd on my behalf, my wing woman at these types of events. Her Boston accent became more pronounced when she’d been drinking. Or when she was angry. She was at about a five right now, but I’d known her to get full-on townie, especially when defending one of her own.
I only half-listened to her exchange with an older gentleman, a reviewer for Reader’s Digest. I was stressed about the reading I was supposed to deliver in less than a half hour and debating as to whether another glass of wine might help or hurt my performance. What I really wanted was a cigarette. Even though I’d given up smoking a few years back, times like these really tested my willpower. I went for the wine instead.
“Michael, have you thought about what your next project will be?” Bitzy asked with an amused tilt to her head, which clued me in to the fact that she was repeating the question for my benefit.
I struggled for an answer. I’d just sent the final installment of Cold Lake Chronicles to my editor for proofing, which meant I should already be well on my way to drafting my next book, but I’d been sorely lacking in inspiration. I’d even considered penning something outside the mystery genre, which had caused such a kerfuffle with my father that he’d scheduled a lunch with my publisher. They all but gave me an ultimatum. They wanted another mystery. Something the same, only a little different.
Since then, I’d been paralyzed by doubt.
“I haven’t decided yet,” I told the man whose bright, inquisitive eyes were still focused on me. He said he’d read all of my books and was looking forward to what had been billed as the final installment, due to come out that summer.
“It’s going to be hard to top Vanishing Point,” he said. “I was at the edge of my seat in that one.”
“It certainly will,” I told him with an affable nod. Thank you, kind sir, for voicing my exact insecurity. “If you’ll excuse me.” I ignored Bitzy’s raised brow. I needed some fresh air before I disassociated altogether.
I turned away with the intent of escaping to the reception hall’s outdoor balcony where I could go over my notecards one more time (and see about bumming a cigarette). I shouldn’t need either, but I’d been painfully shy as a child, and my fear of public speaking hadn’t lessened over the years. If it weren’t for Bitzy’s and my father’s insistence, this event wouldn’t even be taking place.
My head was down sipping my wine, oblivious, when I barreled into a young man and spilled the entire contents on my shirtfront. We