Bestseller. Olivia Goldsmith

be a chapter twenty-eight. The book was too damned long. The distant sea glinted, but Susann hadn’t a reflecting glint of an idea. She stood up and paced the north side of the marble-edged pool. She heard Edith, her secretary, recross her heavy legs and sigh.

      “Could you be still for just a moment?” Susann snapped.

      “I’m sorry,” Edith said, but she didn’t sound sorry. She sounded bored and impatient and eager to get away. As if something in Edith Fischer’s boring, middle-aged life was more important than a new novel by Susann Baker Edmonds. Susann knew she had to calm down. God, she hated to feel this way, so edgy, so nasty. She was not a nasty person. She put her hands up to either side of her lovely, lifted face and looked over at the dreary Edith. Physically Edith was everything Susann despised—dowdy, overweight, and drab. She was spunkless, and yet Edith was exactly the audience that devoured Susann’s books. That’s why bland Edith, sitting there knitting in the sun, was not simply an annoyance that could be terminated by the termination of her employment.

      Because to Susann, Edith was a secret touchstone. When they were working together and she saw Edith’s eyes glowing, her mouth slightly open, and her breathing quickened with interest and excitement, Susann knew she had a story that worked. But how long had it been since Edith had been responsive like that? Certainly not while they worked on A Mother and a Daughter. And not while she struggled through The Lady of the House. Perhaps Edith was merely jaded. Both books had come out on Mother’s Day of the previous two years, and each had climbed to the top of the bestseller list, as all Susann Baker Edmonds’s books did. But even Susann had to admit that the past two had climbed a little more slowly and held the vaulted top slot for a far briefer period.

      Susann knew she was at a nerve-racking place: Realistically, she knew that being at the top so long simply meant it was sooner that she’d fall. But Susann liked the top. She wanted to stay there. She prided herself on being a number-one bestselling author. From out of nowhere to number one: She’d been one of the very few to make the leap.

      And Edith had watched her climb. Back when both of them worked together as legal secretaries, Susann had brought in her stories, page by page, and Edith had devoured them, always asking the question sublime to any writer—“What happens next?” It was because of that enthusiasm that Susann—just plain Sue Ann then—had kept writing. If not for Edith, Susann would surely have quit. Because it had been hard, so hard, to work all day and spin stories at night.

      It was still hard. Now a bestseller, a number one, was expected of her. Now, at last, she was paid an enormous advance for her stories.

      Susann paced the length of the pool again and turned to look out at the horizon. “Any mail?” she asked.

      Edith shook her head without even looking up from her knitting. “Nothing important.” Edith handled all the bills, forwarding them to Susann’s accountant to be paid, and all of the fan mail, sending customized responses. Actually, the only thing Edith didn’t handle for Susann was Kim and her begging letters. But Susann hadn’t heard from Kim lately. She would like to think that perhaps her adult daughter had finally begun to behave like an adult, but from long experience she doubted it.

      Susann rubbed her hands as she paced. The sun on them felt good but freckled her skin. She looked around. It was still so hard. Her work had bought her this villa, the beautiful furniture in it, the Rolls parked in the garage, the services of Edith and the French couple who cooked and cleaned and drove for her. But it hadn’t bought her daughter’s love or happiness. And wasn’t Susann slipping? She pulled her arthritic fingers through her artfully streaked blond hair and walked back to the chaise. She crossed her legs and her arms and told Edith crossly that she was through for the day.

      Edith gave her a look and shrugged her rounded shoulders. The woman would have a dowager’s hump in no time, Susann thought distastefully. “AH right,” Edith said, but Susann knew it wasn’t all right. She had a deadline, Edith knew she had the deadline, and Susann always delivered on time. Her books came out each Mother’s Day, as regular as jonquils in March. But this one would be different. It would be on the fall list. Her publisher demanded it. And she would not disappoint them.

      Almost two decades ago she and Alf had been among the first to spot the hole in the marketplace between the heavily promoted spring list and the most important fall offerings. When her first successful book came out fourteen years ago, Alf had taken advantage of the women’s market just waiting there at Mother’s Day, and it had made her name.

      It had also made her a rich woman. Well, not the first book. Of course she’d gotten screwed out of that deal. Each year since she had followed up the success of The Lady of the House with another Mother’s Day novel, and with Alf’s help, each one had sold hundreds of thousands of copies in hardcover and millions in paperback. She’d become a tradition among some women—daughters giving mothers a Susann Baker Edmonds, and now their own daughters gave them copies. Three generations reading her uplifting stories. Yes, she felt proud of what she’d accomplished. She’d become famous and wealthy, and Alf had become her full-time agent and taken over her affairs and fired the incompetent lawyer who’d given her first book away. They’d retained a PR firm. Her name popped up regularly in the columns. Four of her books had been made into television miniseries, and another three were optioned. She was the most profitable woman novelist at her publishing house, and they treated her appropriately.

      But there was the rub. Susann put her hands over her eyes to shield her face from the sun. She was the most profitable women’s writer, but there were all those men out there, turning out their techno-thrillers, their legal-suspense stories, and those other testosterone-driven books, all of which were being made into feature films by those bastards in Hollywood who ignored middle-aged women. It was so unfair. Susann had never had a movie made of any of her books. Women would go to see Crichton movies and Grisham movies and Clancy movies, but men wouldn’t take their wives out to see a woman’s saga. Women’s books were only good enough for the pink ghetto of television. And without the extra heat that films generated, it was getting harder and harder nowadays to keep a bestseller up at the top of the list. So this new one would come out in the autumn. Would it help? There were one hundred and fifty romance titles released each month. As if that wasn’t enough, most tried to interest book buyers, stores, and readers with all kinds of giveaways and undignified trash. Joan Schulhafer of Avon Books had put it succinctly when she said, “We have a higher nicknack-per-author ratio than any other genre.”

      Edith was gathering up her steno pad, her bag of pencils and yellow Post-it notes and paper clips. She was taking off her reading glasses, putting them in her skirt pocket and putting her sunglasses on her sun-burned pink nose. In the last two decades, while she worked with Edith, Susann had married, divorced, become slimmer, younger-looking, better dressed, and blond. While Edith … Edith hadn’t changed at all, except to age. She looked like a drone. It actually frightened Susann, partly because—even though she looked at least a decade younger—Susann knew she was actually four years older than Edith. And Edith knew it, too, being one of the few insiders who knew Susann’s real age.

      Hell, Edith didn’t just know her real age (fifty-eight), she knew her real name (Sue Ann Kowlofsky), the real number of marriages Susann had been through (three), the real number of face-lifts Susann had had (two), and even where she kept most of her money (the island of Jersey). Edith knew all the sordid details about Susann’s daughter, Kim—the drug rehabs, the DWIs, the bad men. Perhaps that was why Edith so exasperated her. Edith had neither improved herself, nor did she seem impressed with Susann’s improvements. There was no softening mystique “between them. And Susann didn’t like living without mystique. She had become dependent on her publicist-generated bio, Alf’s respect, the publisher’s kid-glove handling, and the aura that fame and wealth had given her.

      “Alf ought to be back soon,” Susann remarked. “I have to get dressed. We have a dinner party tonight.” Edith didn’t much like Alf, and the feeling was mutual.

      “The chapter’s more important than the party,” Edith said. “It needs work.”

      Susann felt her temper rising, but she bit back the words she wanted