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)
William. William. William. The first picture of Gran had been taken in 1950, long enough after the Ipswich bombing that no one would question any physical differences. She hadn’t just shied away from the camera lens, she’d studiously avoided it.
I studied both pictures, needing to see it for myself.
Scarlett’s chin was slightly sharper, Constance’s lower lip a bit fuller. Same nose. Same eyes. Same beauty mark. But they were not the same woman.
People see what they want to see. How many times had she said that to me over the years? Everyone had simply accepted that Constance was Scarlett because they’d never had reason to question it. Why would they when she had William?
The gardening. The tiny style differences Noah had spotted. The baking…it all made sense.
I flipped through the album until I found her wedding picture to Grandpa Brian. There was real, true love shining in her eyes. Noah’s ending had been truer to life than he could have known…but it wasn’t Scarlett’s ending, it was Constance’s.
Scarlett had died on a ruined street nearly eighty years ago. Jameson couldn’t have been far off. They hadn’t been apart for long. They’d been together all this time.
I sucked in a shaky breath and wiped my tears on my sleeve as I fumbled with my cell phone.
If Gran had lived a lie to give me this life, then I owed it to her to live it.
The message I’d sent to Noah still hadn’t been read, but I called him anyway. Four rings. Voicemail. The guy didn’t even have a personalized message, and I wasn’t about to pour my heart out on a voicemail anyway. Besides, with the reviews out, it was no wonder he wasn’t answering.
I gasped. Reviews were out. Stumbling to my feet, I slid into the chair at my desk, then clicked through my emails until I found Adam’s number.
“Adam Feinhold,” he answered.
“Adam, it’s Georgia,” I blurted. “Stanton, I mean.”
“I figured it wasn’t the state calling,” he drawled dryly. “What can I do for you, Ms. Stanton? It’s a bit…heavy around here today.”
“Yeah, I deserve that,” I admitted, cringing like he could see me. “Look, I tried Noah first—”
“I have no clue where he is. He left me a message that he was off on some research trip and he’d be back in time for any release promo we need.”
I blinked. “Noah’s…gone?”
“Not gone. Researching. Don’t stress, he does it every book but yours, since you know, the research had already been done.”
“Oh.” My heart sank. So much for seizing the lightning bolt.
“You know the guy is pretty much dying over you, right?” Adam said softly. “And I say that as his best friend, not his editor. He’s miserable. Or at least he was miserable. This morning he just sounded pissed, but that was after the reviews came out. Christopher is even more pissed, which as editorial director is absolutely possible, trust me.”
I was twenty-four hours too late to tell him I’d been wrong. Really wrong. But maybe I could show him. At least I could try. “Did Noah really edit both versions?”
“Yep. Copy edits and all. Told you, he’s a mess over you.”
“Good.” I smiled, too happy to clarify that statement.
“Good?”
“Yep. Good. Now go get Christopher.”
Chapter Thirty-Six
Noah
The only institution slower than publishing was the United States government. Especially when it had to work in conjunction with another country, and neither could agree on who was responsible for what. But six weeks and a couple hundred thousand dollars later, I had the answer to one of my questions.
I was starting to think the other one was better left unanswered.
I cursed as I scalded my tongue on freshly brewed coffee and squinted at the sunlight streaming in the apartment windows. Jet lag was a pain in the ass, and I hadn’t exactly been keeping regular hours over there as it was.
I carried my cup-of-lava to the couch, then fired up the laptop and scanned through about a billion emails. Ignoring the real world for six weeks came with some serious inbox complications that I really wasn’t feeling up for dealing with yet.
Cell phone, it was. As usual, I went through my texts to find the last message from Georgia.
GEORGIA: I’m sorry about the reviews.
That was one I’d gotten when I landed the day after everyone in publishing simultaneously agreed that I was an asshole, which, in their defense, was true. Just not for the reasons they shouted on every platform. I read through the rest of the conversation, which had become just as routine as coffee.
NOAH: I kept my word.
GEORGIA: I know. I’m taking some time, but call me when you get back.
NOAH: Will do.
That was it. That’s where we left it. She was taking some time, which roughly translated into leave-me-the-hell-alone, so I did. For six fucking weeks.
How much more time did the woman need?