The Story Keeper Read Free Page A

tend to be like siblings who can’t stand one another half the time and play nice the other half.
    Roger pulled me into a momentary shoulder hug. “It all worked out. Losing that deal was what convinced me to pursue more fiction.”
    Quick little stab-stab there. Oh, that hurt. He knew I’d always had stories in my blood   —that fiction was my real dream   —but when you’re successful in one arena and you’ve got bills to pay, it’s hard to take a chance on foreign territory.
    Roger caught me stealing a glance at the slush pile. “Fascinating, isn’t it?” His breath brushed across my ear, minty fresh. Too close for comfort.
    “Yes, it is.”
    “Stay away from Slush Mountain. It’s the old man’s masterpiece.” A quick warning, and then he was gone.
    I considered waiting around for a chance to casually tell the boss how thrilled I was to be here, but he and Hollis were enwrapped in conversation at the end of the table, so I gathered my things and started toward the door.
    “North Carolina,” George Vida said just before I reached the exit. I stopped short, turned around.
    The boss had paused to look at me, but Hollis was still sifting through papers, seeming slightly frustrated by the delay.
    A thick, stubby, old-man finger crooked in my direction. “That’s what I was hearing.” He tapped the side of his face. “Reporter’s ear. I can usually pick up accents. I remember now. You’re a Clemson grad. It was somewhere in the paperwork, or Hollis may have mentioned it.”
    “Must have been in the paperwork,” Hollis contributed dryly.
    The boss smiled at me, his round cheeks lifting into an expression that reminded me of Vito Corleone in The Godfather . “You North Carolina girls should find some time to catch up. There are no memories like those of the old home place.” Still smiling, he returned to his paperwork, not noticing that neither Hollis nor I jumped on the home place conversation.
    Somehow, I had a feeling we wouldn’t be sitting down for a sweet-tea-and-magnolia chat anytime soon.

Chapter 2
    F rom my first day in New York, when I’d arrived to a graduate school fellowship, a part-time editorial assistant’s job, and no place to live, I’d loved the feel of early morning. There’s something special about the city as the night people fade into their lairs and the streets wake to a new day. Shopkeepers open storefronts and breakfast carts roll to sidewalks, smoothie stands offering cornucopias of fresh fruit, yogurt, and protein powders.
    Jamie eyed me suspiciously as we walked together from the subway and emerged onto the street, then ducked into a bagelry to grab the usual.
    “You look ridiculously happy,” she assessed on the way out, taking a sip of the protein smoothie she would drink exactly one-fourth of before dropping it into a trash can   —her form of calorie counting. As fashion editor for an upscale glossy, she had to look good. Today, her mid-thigh dress, trendy boots, and swing coatformed a perfect autumn-in-New-York ensemble. She’d managed a cross between Audrey Hepburn and a Paris runway model.
    “Sorry,” I said, but I wasn’t really. So far, other than the pub board cell phone gaffe, my first week at Vida House had gone phenomenally well. I’d worked like a banshee, catching up on reading for next Monday’s meeting, and I had disseminated my updated contact information to various literary agents who consistently brought good projects my way. New proposals were beginning to come in. George Vida might have been both an enigma and a dinosaur in the industry, but the house had a reputation for finding manuscripts that had been flying under the radar, then developing those properties into the next big thing. My contacts were excited about the move.
    “Well, stop it, okay? You’re making me depressed about my own life.” Only a best friend can be that honest and get away with it. Jamie and I had been close since the NYU years. I knew all about the