Chapter 43
The next morning, Sarah lifted her gaze and drew in a calming breath. The words Welcome to the Southern Romance Writers Convention were emblazoned in bold black letters across a pale pink banner at the top of the conference room doors. The dots of each ‘I’ had been designed to look like a spilt blot of ink. Cute.
Sarah smirked to herself as she remembered Charles’s words: People don’t pay attention to signs. If they were Sarah Woodward they did! She chuckled as she took her place in the queue for entry.
A moment passed then she heard, “Excuse me, Ms. Woodward?”
“Yes?”
When she turned in the direction of the voice, she was confronted by a woman about her height, with a brunette pixie-style haircut. Sarah noted a press pass around the woman’s neck. She was a journalist. The next instant, the woman lifted a camera. A clicking sound came before Sarah could argue.
Thank God my bruises have yellowed and were easy enough to cover with make-up.
The woman smiled, “Thank you, Ms. Woodward.”
Sarah forced a smile in return. During the lunch break in their previous session together, Joan had given her tips in dealing with the media: “Smile. Give clipped answers to the polite questions and ‘no comment’ to the rude ones.”
So, Sarah had smiled.
The journalist asked, “Is there any truth to the rumors that Joan Morgan has been cutting your mentoring sessions short?”
Sarah couldn’t help the incredulous scoff that came out. Where were the reporters getting their information? She felt herself scowl. The camera flashed again. Shoot. That one would end up on the front page for sure.
To cover up, she faked a second smile, and answered, “No comment.”
“What about––”
Another female voice interrupted, “Next.”
“Saved by the bell.”
Even though she’d mumbled it, the gray-haired man behind her laughed. Sarah flashed him a genuine smile then stepped up to the face-sized window of the ticket booth.
In a rehearsed voice, the woman behind it asked, “How many tickets?”
“Oh, I have this.”
Sarah indicated to the plastic slip attached to a black cord around her neck that contained a VIP Pass.
The woman squinted then picked up a wooden clipboard and blue pen, “Name?”
“Sarah Woodward.”
Sarah saw the woman use the pen to scroll down a sheet of paper attached to the clipboard. Then she pointed at the door to her right, “Use that card around your neck to get yourself in and out of the doors. Just place it against the gray box, like this . . .”
She demonstrated with the card she had around her own neck.
Sarah nodded, “Okay. Thank you.”
As she stepped from the ticket box and lifted her card to the box, Sarah took a deep breath in. After today, the world––well, the Southern states of America at least–– would view her as a professional emerging writer. The thought was both thrilling and terrifying.
***
Charles stared at the woman on the television screen. Aside from the visions that had teased his mind, he’d never seen Sarah with her hair loose before. It had been pinned back or up every other time he’d seen her. Not this time. This time, gentle brown waves rippled down to her shoulders. Pink lips drew his attention to her mouth. Beautiful. He couldn’t help it; the word came by itself. The impulse to touch and kiss those lips, to make them his, surged through his body.
His focus shifted back to the purpose of Sarah’s television appearance when she spoke: “My name is Sarah Woodward. I have been asked to speak briefly about the benefits of entering competitions when you are an aspiring author. Well, being this year’s winner of the Joan Morgan mentorship, I think I am a little biased with this topic, but I suspect that is precisely the reason I was chosen to give this talk.”
He released a soft laugh as chuckles emanated from the crowd. Sarah glanced up from the microphone and smiled.
She was doing well.
She continued, “I believe there are four main benefits that can be gained from entering competitions and mentoring programs. First of all, the experience of writing develops both your individual style and voice. Most competitions and mentoring programs have specific guidelines that need to be followed. For instance, topics or themes that have to be incorporated into the story. The more you write and the more competitions you enter, the quicker your style and voice will improve. Secondly, you are usually given some form of critique as part of the conditions of entry. This critique lists the strengths and weaknesses in your writing. Act on the critiques and try not to take them to heart. It is a good way to get unbiased feedback you won’t get from other sources, such as family and friends. Thirdly, you have something you can put on your CV. When publishers ask what writing experience you have, you can use competition entries, any placements in the finals, and mentorships to help showcase your experience.”
She took a breath, “And the fourth benefit that can be gained from entering competitions and mentorships? You might just win.”
Claps echoed through the room. He found himself doing the same. As he watched her grin, say thank you and leave the stage, a sensation, like a ball of air, filled his chest. It took him a second, but he understood the meaning. He was proud of her. He grinned. The tightening that followed confirmed something else. He was irrevocably in love with Sarah Woodward.
***
As Sarah exited the main convention room, she entered a hall. She walked in the direction of the exit––she had to get to Greenville––when something made her stop. No, not something, someone.
Linda Scott-Jackson’s dark auburn hair skimmed her upper arms and not a strand seemed to be out of place. The woman’s full smile lit up her almost symmetrical features. Sarah lowered her gaze. Linda wore a deep-cut V-necked T-shirt in a red so bright it was hard to look away. Was that the point? Sarah wrinkled her nose. The woman was even more stunning in person than in her photos. No wonder Charles had been unable to resist.
That realization came with a thump in the chest. She forced it to go away then continued to study the woman. The former winner sat at a table covered with a daisy-colored cloth. Half a dozen people, most of them women but a couple of men, stood in a line in front of it. Sarah spotted the books in the arms of the people in the line. The purpose of it struck her: Linda was there for a book signing.
A sudden dose of curiosity swarmed Sarah’s senses. She glanced at her watch: 12.10 p.m. If she wanted to get to Greenville by 2:30 p.m., she had to leave within the next thirty minutes. Enough time for a quick chat. It couldn’t hurt to speak to the woman, could it? With a breath designed to fill her with confidence, Sarah marched toward the line and took her place in it.
The closer Sarah moved to the author, the more her stomach dipped. Was this the right thing to be doing? Before she could think about answering the question, Sarah was at the front of the line. Linda’s striking indigo blue eyes locked on her. Recognition registered on the author’s face.
She rose, her hand stretched out, “Sarah Woodward, right?”
Sarah offered a half-smile then took the hand and shook it, “That’s right.”
They unclasped hands and Linda added, “It’s nice to meet you. I’ve heard nothing but positive things about you.”
Sarah wanted to say, “I’ve heard the same about you,” but knowing it would be a lie, said, “Thank you.”
Linda glanced at Sarah’s empty hands and said, “I assume you’re not here to get a book signed?”
“No, sorry, I’m not.”
“You wanted to talk?”
A zap of guilt sunk Sarah’s stomach. What was she doing here? This was being disloyal to Joan. And Charles. “I’m sorry, this was a mistake.”
She pivoted, but Linda rushed around the table and blocked her path.
Before Sarah could object, Linda asked, “Is it about Joan, or Charles and I?”
Oh Lord. Did she want to know about Linda and Charles? She knew the question showed on her face.
Linda’s lips edged upwards as she grabbed Sarah by the arm, “Come on. Let’s have a chat. It’s time for my break anyway.”
***
Five minutes later Sarah was sipping chamomile tea with Linda in the café on the bottom level of the convention center.
Linda broke the silence, “You know it was Charles who fired Joan’s agent, don’t you?”
Sarah almost choked on her tea. It couldn’t be true.
She lowered her cup to the table, swallowed to clear her lungs, and said, “What?”
Linda nodded, “It’s true. I don’t know the full details, but it was Charles. I have the same agent as Joan. She told me the news herself.”
Sarah frowned, “Why? And why didn’t Joan stop him?”
“Because he has an issue with control. He makes Joan do whatever he wants. Everything must be his way, right down to the money she spends. Haven’t you ever noticed?”
Sarah shook her head, “No.”
She hadn’t. Of the things she had noticed about Charles, control wasn’t one of them.
“Hmm, what about Joan’s outbursts then? The ridiculous ideas she gets then refuses to budge on them even though they’re wrong. She’s quite the diva.”
Linda smirked at the use of the word as she took a sip of her tea.
“Joan’s been nothing but friendly to me.”
Linda’s brow creased.
She returned her cup to the table then focused on Sarah with obvious confusion, “Then why are we talking?”
Sarah shrugged, “I’m not sure really. Curiosity, I guess?”
An awkward pause passed between them before Linda blurted, “You know we slept together?”
An ache stretched across Sarah’s heart. She made herself nod. It was painful to speak the words that came out, “I’d heard you were a couple.”
Linda scoffed, “If you can call it that. After he got what he wanted, he told me to never come back. Canceled my sessions with Joan just like that.” She clicked her fingers together and shook her head as she mumbled at the memory, “Jerk.”
What?
That didn’t sound like Charles. Then again, how well did she really know him?
“What did Joan do?”
“Nothing.”
What was going on? That didn’t sound like Joan either. This wasn’t possible.
Linda continued, “But it’s not like we had that many full sessions before then anyway, they were usually cut short for one trivial reason or another. So unprofessional, the whole thing.”
The words hit Sarah like a block of wood to the chest. Half of hers had been cut short too.
Linda snarled, “They’ve done the same thing to you, haven’t they?”
Sarah couldn’t answer.
She didn’t have a chance to anyway, as Linda butt in. “I can’t believe them. Nothing’s changed. Just wait, you’ll notice the other things soon. I sympathize, my dear.”
Linda shook her head in visible disgust then took a sip of her tea.
Sarah found her voice again, “How?”
It was all she could manage and she didn’t even know what she meant by it. How would she notice the changes? How could this be the real Charles and Joan? How had she been so stupid to not see this?
“I know. I couldn’t believe it myself. But if you want my advice: watch your back with Joan, and don’t get romantically involved with Charles Morgan.”