Waiting For A Star To Fall (Autumn Brody Book 2) (10 page)

He thought she did. He thought he'd known her too.

He took a stroll through his bookmarks, pulling up early reviews of
In the Garden
, smiling to himself as each and every one praised the talents of
Broadway newcomer Veronica St. Clair
. She was right where she belonged, shining brighter than the stars in the sky. She had stumbled onto her big break and like a movie, she'd been living her dreams.

She was so very high. And Evan? He was stuck on earth, torn between the woman he knew—a woman worth fighting for—and the woman who'd broken his heart.

Ah,
TMZ
. He resisted the urge to click on the trash masquerading as news. Zachary Parsons was a teenybopper dream, but there was no way Veronica had given him a moment of her time. Guys like Parsons were shot down on the regular at Casteel, usually with a scathing insult directed at their lacking manhood or ignorant behaviour. She just
couldn't
be seeing the guy...

But what if she is?

No, no, she wasn't. Evan absently scrolled through his Facebook feed in search of a mundane Buzzfeed bullshit quiz to kill time. He told himself it wasn't to look for her. It wasn't to scope Autumn's page for any hints of her New York trip. Just passing through, like any teen with the attention span of a fruit fly.

A private message alert popped up and Evan startled, glancing over at the clock.
Who the hell is up at two in the morning on a Tuesday?
Curious, perhaps hopeful that it was Veronica, he clicked to open it.

Well, it was
about
Veronica. The sender, however, was Keenan Hall.

Dude, what the hell is going on with Veronica? Have you heard about this shit?

The
shit
in question: an "anonymous source connected to the production" claimed to have information about a police investigation concerning the starlet. Leaning forward, blinking hard to clear his vision, Evan read on, his heart beginning to race. Veronica had been receiving a series of unusual letters at the theatre from a mystery admirer, so the story went. They were calling him a stalker.

A stalker...

Apparently, police were called when an unwanted gift arrived backstage, without any witness to its delivery. The more Evan read, the more he understood that it was fate that kept him awake tonight. This was his cue to act.

Opening a new tab, he booked a last minute ticket on a plane to New York. His parents would be pissed, but he'd sort that out when he returned. Besides, what good were his university savings when he couldn't be bothered to attend?

Money could be earned again. Veronica needed him, whether she cared to admit it or not.

Quickly, he tapped out a reply to Keenan.
I'm going to find out
.

A suitcase was packed, clothes shoved in haphazardly, his computer tucked into his messenger bag. Sleep. Evan was overcome with a sense of peace, one he hadn't known for some time.
Veronica
. One way or another, he had to see her, confront her. If it was truly over, he would accept it, but only if she could look him in the eye and explain it.

Her safety was his priority. No one else would be allowed near her. He'd see to it.

Setting an alarm for six, Evan sprawled out on his bed and closed his bleary eyes.
I'm coming, Veronica. For you. For the truth.

One of the things Autumn loved most about her editor was the decor of her office: film memorabilia, from the classics (
Vertigo
) to modern indies
(American Mary
). Originally from a screenwriting background, Courtney Nelson had switched into the world of editing at age 32, quickly cultivating a reputation for finding books that translated well for film and television adaptations. The latest blockbuster thriller in the theatres? Her find, culled from studying the top downloads on Kindle Unlimited. The author was contacted, a traditional publishing deal signed, and now, Maxwell Adams was living nicely on his royalties and film residuals.

Today, Courtney was commanding the Forked Creek Press offices in a stunning red blouse and black pencil skirt, her hair pulled back in a loose, deliberately messy ponytail. Her delicate features (Courtney's heritage was Chinese-Welsh) were dashed with the faintest hint of make-up—just enough to "
make the men take me seriously
", as she'd whispered conspiratorially at their first meeting.

"Autumn Brody!" she exclaimed, reaching out her hand as she entered. "So very sorry to keep you waiting, although you'll forgive me soon enough."

"Always good to see you, Courtney," Autumn gushed, accepting a quick handshake. "Discover any future bestsellers this week?"

Courtney chuckled, settling into her chair and tapping furiously at her keyboard. "Perhaps, although today is about
your
future bestseller. We sent out the first ARCs three weeks ago."

ARCs—Advance Reading Copy in plain English—were employed to generate reviews and buzz for a future release. Forked Creek Press was a firm believer in the power of book bloggers to make or break a new author, choosing to nurture positive relationships with well-known bloggers over pandering to mainstream media. While the mainstream outlets eventually got their copies, bloggers came first. Their social media networks were vital to Forked Creek, a subsidiary that tended to focus on suspense and thrillers over classic literary fiction or romantic narratives.

"Did everyone on the list get one, as I asked?"

Courtney nodded. "As far as I heard. Your grandmother, Andrew, your friends Veronica and Evan, George of course, your grade six English teacher, and your school librarian. Your copy, I assume, was stolen by your parents."

Autumn laughed. "Carefully preserved for all of eternity, on display in the living room."

"Thought so. See Charmaine on the way out. She has two more for you at the front desk." Hitting a few keys, Courtney settled back in her captain's chair with a smirk. "Would you like the good news, the very good news, or the wicked awesome news?"

Overwhelmed, Autumn went mute.
What... How much good news could there be from fifty ARCs?

"I'll start from low to high," Courtney decided for her. "Of the thirty key bloggers I tapped for copies of
Dissected
, twenty have indicated they will definitely post reviews. Eighteen of them ranked the book 4 or higher out of 5 stars when surveyed for initial reactions. The other ten have promised to review in the next three months. This is awesome news, Autumn. People are engaged, and want to chat about your book. Five have already requested features for their blogs."

"That's... That's great! I'm really surprised. You said 75% positive was more than acceptable at this stage."

Courtney beamed. "It's the feminist angle that's creating the most buzz. It's timely and realistic. I have to warn you: people will ask if the domestic violence is drawn from experience. It's up to you how you choose to handle that."

Autumn had known this was a possibility and had spent the last few weeks debating the pros and cons of disclosure with her family and friends. The overwhelming consensus, after much soul-searching, was that disclosure could offer her readers a sense of not being alone. Autumn had, for a time, stayed in what was clearly an unhealthy relationship. People who had never been in the toxic dynamic of an abusive partnership often couldn't grasp why anyone would tolerate violence. She could help them understand.

Lemons into lemonade
, she'd ultimately concluded. While Chris Miller had yet to go to trial, the Crown Attorney had advised her that she could speak in general terms without naming him.

"I've looked into the legal and personal ramifications and I've decided to disclose what I can. People will have to understand that I can't comment much on the specifics, since the case is still before the courts. But if one woman out there reads
Dissected
and feels less alone, or feels strong enough to leave an abusive home, I have to be brave."

Courtney seemed pleased with this decision. "I agree. It's what drew me to the story when George first sent me the novella version."

George St. James, Autumn's Creative Writing instructor, had approached her after grade eleven about expanding her final novella for his course. Initially a tale of a woman in medical school who begins to draw correlations between her cadaver and the invisible scars her relationship is inflicting, George had coached her through taking the hallucinations of a woman struggling to create sense in the senseless and expanding them as a story in their own right. A little conspiracy theory reading over the summer break had led to the evolution of
Dissected
as a thriller with a sociopolitical underpinnings.

"So that was the good news?" Autumn prompted.

"Yes, it was! Now, the really good news: my assistant and media guru, Jeremy Dixon, has lined up an appearance for you on Good Morning America while you're in the city. A little advance preview of the book, some discussion of your personal connection, since you're agreeable. It's a wonderful opportunity, Autumn," Courtney gushed. "Jeremy knows one of the producers is a huge fan of George and he played that card just right."

"I don't know, Courtney. I don't have any experience with interviews! Starting with live television seems a little..."

"Daunting? Don't worry; they'll rehearse the questions with you in advance, my request." Courtney grinned, tapping the side of her head. "I'm the brains of this operation. You worry about creating it; I'll take care of you as we sell it."

Okay, I can do that. If I get to practice, it should be fine.
"Any way to guess at what they'll be asking before the day?"

Passing her a sheet of paper, Courtney smirked. "Way ahead of you. If you run through these, nothing they ask should be too surprising. Journalists are notoriously predictable, and we know the book better than they do."

I'll worry about this later
, Autumn decided, tucking the page inside her purse. "Courtney, I'm almost afraid to ask what the 'wicked awesome' news is. I don't think I can handle any more anxiety."

"Autumn, my love, I promise you: no anxiety involved, just kudos. Apparently, one of my latest bloggers on the roster has a friend who's a distant relative of Wesley Williams."

"As in, 'Sundance Selection' Wesley Williams?" Autumn reached for her bottle of water, suddenly feverish.

"Mmhmm. I just got off the phone with Wesley's agent. He's placed a tentative request for the movie rights to
Dissected
, pending reviews from
Publisher's Weekly
and performance for the first month of sales. Now, it's tentative—"

"I don't care... I... Holy crap!" Autumn tugged hard at a strand of hair, twisting it roughly around her forefinger. "I... But it's not released yet!"

Proud and almost regal, Courtney sat a little taller in her chair, clearly satisfied with herself. "I told you, Autumn: I know a visual book when I see one. Starting now, maybe begin considering how much creative oversight you'd like to have, should
Dissected
get an adaptation. It's sure to come up on GMA, so be ready for questions about casting, too."

"Oh, that's easy," Autumn replied. "If I pitch anyone for Laurel but Veronica, she'll never forgive me. Although really, control over the soundtrack matters more to me." She shuddered involuntarily, imagining middling mainstream music in a film adaptation of her work with dismay.

A knock on the door signaled the arrival of a young man Autumn assumed was Courtney's new assistant. Confirmation came with a brief introduction, after which Courtney apologized and departed for an emergency meeting for a launch party that evening.

Where Courtney was confident and mellow, Jeremy Dixon came off unsure and in desperate need of validation from his superiors. His suit was not quite fitted—off the rack, but a close enough match—and his dark brown hair was a little long in front. To Autumn, it was highly flattering; for the corporate world in which he dwelled, she suspected it was too soon in his career to allow any aspect of his appearance to seem unkempt. With his tanned complexion, he looked more surfer than smooth-talking corporate drone.

"Courtney's told me so much about you," Jeremy gushed, tapping a file folder against his thigh. "I'm a little new to Forked Creek, but anything I can't answer, I will
get
an answer for you."

"Well, I'm new to being published, so we're both bound to flail," Autumn reassured him, flashing a sympathetic smile. "Look, I don't have an ego. I just want you to keep me from looking like an ass on TV, or making some stupid career-killing PR move."

Visibly relieved, Jeremy flipped open the folder. "That makes me feel
so much better
. They had me working with Katerina Wente last week."

"Yeesh, enough said!" Katerina had developed a reputation as...
demanding
. So much so that even Autumn knew of her pretentiousness.

"So, Friday you'll be appearing on Good Morning, America," Jeremy began. "Did Courtney go over the basics?"

"The whole deal is rehearsed, I'll probably be up at the asscrack of dawn, and I should run through my practice questions. How do I dress?"

Jeremy studied her current look—hip-hugging jeans and a cowl-necked tank—and hummed to himself. "Um... Okay. That sort of top is fine, but you'd need to wear capris or a skirt. Does that help?"

"Much. Business casual, got it."

Jeremy flipped a page, tapping the next one enthusiastically. "We also have a local blogger who's interested in a feature piece. She's heavily involved with women's health in her day job, so she seems to be a great fit. What do you think?"

"I'm sort of on vacation," Autumn began, deciding to flash her engagement ring and hope for mercy. "Would we have to do an interview in person?"

"I think we can arrange something. We'll definitely have to take care of press photos this week for your website, social media and book jacket, as well as the press kit. Perhaps we can ask her to do it in a month or so and supply the press kit as a starting point? I'm sure she'd wait if you agreed to an interview, as opposed to a regurgitation of your bio."

"Done. Set it up; I'm game." With a glance at her cell phone, Autumn winced. "Jeremy, I really hate to do this, especially since Forked Creek has been so kind to me during this process, but my friend is dealing with a personal emergency and I'm preoccupied with her. Could you maybe email me anything else? I can check in this evening."

"Oh! Oh, of course, Ms. Brody. No trouble at all. I know your time must be valuable—"

"Jeremy, relax. Normally, I'd love to stay and hear more. I may not look it, but this really is a dream come true for me. I'm so grateful for all of your work on this novel."

"Thank you, Ms. Brody."

Autumn rolled her eyes. "Please, call me Autumn. You're making me feel old or snobby, I'm not sure which."

Jeremy grimaced, suddenly fascinated with an imaginary spot on the floor. "Of course. I'm sorry. Won't happen again."

With a polite farewell and confirmation of her email address, Autumn picked up her ARCs from reception and headed outside. Coming from the crispness of air conditioning, the heat struck her like a wall, leaving her breathless and disoriented. Taking a moment to acclimate, she called Veronica next, curious to know how she felt in the light of day.

"Hi, wifey. How's your first morning as a bride-to-be going?" Veronica was making an effort to be cheery, but Autumn could hear the tension in her voice.

"It's going very well, although it would be significantly better if my best friend was not the object of a twisted jerk's delusional affections. How are you, Veronica?
Really
?"

A sigh. "Honesty time? Scared to death. I barely slept. I'm going to look and sound like trash at the matinee."

Autumn waved down an approaching cab, cursing as she realized it was off duty. "Does this mean you'll let Andrew and I look after you?"

"Babe, when Andrew says he has money—"

"It's enough to buy a condo," Autumn quickly interrupted. "Besides, my dad is looking into it. One of his contacts in Vancouver has a friend who's gone into personal protection. I'm sure he's arranging a 'friend of the family' rate as we speak."

"Well, damn! In that case, Andrew can buy me a crate of Ben and Jerry's so I can eat my feelings."

"I could take care of that with my advance." Waving down another cab, Autumn cheered inwardly as it came to a stop beside her. "Do you want me to come over?"