The Restoration of Celia Fairchild - Marie Bostwick Page 0,138

deal of autonomy when it comes to signing authors and making deals. Right now, I’m looking for female writers who have a strong, intimate voice and a unique perspective on the feminine experience. I plan to publish only three or four books a year.” She paused. “Celia, I wanted to talk to you about the possibility of including your book in that first group.”

I opened my mouth, then closed it again, trying to make sense of what she was saying. But it didn’t make sense. “My book? But . . . I don’t have a book.”

“Yes, you do,” Calvin said. “Your journal, the letters you wrote to Peaches.”

My jaw went slack. How could Jane Gardiner-Todd, an editor from New York, have possibly read my journal? It was upstairs, stashed away in my nightstand drawer. I hadn’t written anything in it since just before the baby shower. I hadn’t read it since then either. I planned to, someday, when I felt a little less raw. But not yet.

Seeing the question in my eyes, Calvin twisted his lips and squirmed, drawing his shoulders up toward his ears, looking simultaneously guilty and proud of himself. “It’s just possible that when I was down here last, I might have borrowed your journal, made a copy, and sent it to Janie.”

“Without asking my permission? Calvin! Why would you do that?”

“Because you were never going to,” Calvin retorted, tossing out his hands. “It’s a terrific book, Celia. People should read it.”

Calvin flashed what I supposed he thought was a winning smile, but I wasn’t impressed. In the first place, he’d taken my journal without permission and shared my private thoughts with a stranger. And in the second place, he was out of his mind.

“You can’t be serious,” I said. “It’s just a bunch of letters to a baby that’s not even mine. I might as well have been writing to an imaginary friend. In a way, that’s exactly what I was doing. It’s not a book,” I insisted.

“You’re right,” Jane said. “It’s not a book yet. But I think it could be.”

I could see just by looking at her that Jane was a serious person, calm and deliberate when choosing words, but also straightforward, the kind of woman who never pulled her punch. “Celia, what’s going on here—me reading the manuscript of a book that hasn’t even been submitted to me directly and then speaking to the author in person?” Jane shook her head. “That’s not the way publishing works. In any given week, I send out scores of rejection letters, often to very talented writers. And I never read unsolicited manuscripts.”

Jane wasn’t telling me anything I didn’t already know. During my early days in New York, between failing as a journalist and starting my blog, I’d thought I might try my hand at novel writing. I think every editor in New York turned me down, some politely and some not. My foray into fiction was spectacularly unsuccessful, even worse than my short-lived journalism career.

“I wouldn’t have read your manuscript either,” Jane continued, casting a glance in Calvin’s direction, “but our mutual friend can be very persistent, pushy, and, if he wants to be, incredibly annoying.”

I nodded, knowing exactly what she was talking about. Calvin clucked his tongue and shot us both a look, pretending to be offended.

“The only reason I agreed to take a look at your manuscript was to get Calvin off my back,” Jane said. “I told him I’d only read the first ten pages and made him swear that if it didn’t grab me by then, he’d quit bugging me.” A slow smile spread across Jane’s face. “Celia, you had me by page three. After that, I couldn’t put it down. And since I’m from Charleston originally, and was coming down anyway to spend Thanksgiving with my sister, I told Calvin I’d like to meet you.

“But this isn’t usual, Celia. Editors don’t just show up on doorsteps, dangling publishing deals. And I’m not doing so now,” she said, tilting her head slightly forward and gazing down her nose toward me, like an assistant principal who was letting a delinquent sophomore know that you only get one opportunity for a second chance. “But I do think it’d be worth your time and mine to have a talk.

“As a journal,” Jane continued, “it’s a delight. As a book, it needs work. But if you were willing to put in the effort, I think it could be something really special. I did feel like you