“Adair, I’m so glad I reached you!” Shelby always talks fast, as though any minute she expects an emergency. In fairness, she runs the city’s largest no kill animal shelter. That means she oversees a revolving door of abandoned dogs, cats, and everything in between. She’s even gotten a few horses dumped in the parking lot.
“What’s up?” There’s a flicker of movement inside the Barrelhouse. I crane to see, phone pressed to my ear.
“The gala raised over one hundred and fifty-thousand dollars!” she squeals. “I can’t thank you enough.”
“It wasn’t really me.”
“It was your friend, and I know you helped.” She’s not having it. I’ve never been comfortable with getting credit for using my connections. It feels wrong. “We had one person donate an insane amount, and I’m sure you already know this: Zeus found a home.”
I slump against my bucket seat, pushing up my Givenchy sunglasses to press a finger against my suddenly throbbing temples. “I know.”
“Oh, don’t be sad, honey! This is good news!”
If she only knew. I swallow hard against the rawness in my throat. “I know. I’m happy for him. I’ll just miss him.”
It’s mostly true. I am glad that Zeus found a home, even if it wasn’t with me. I’m just not thrilled about who adopted him. My eyes skip back to the under new management sign in the Barrelhouse window. Sooner or later, you lose everything you don’t fight to keep.
“I was hoping you could do me a favor,” Shelby says.
“Sure,” I say absently.
“I was hoping you could check in on Zeus and his new owner, Mr...” Papers shuffle in the background. “Sterling Ford. I would do it but I thought you might want to see Zeus and things are crazy here.”
I really need to learn not to commit myself to something before I know all the details. “Oh, I’m not sure…”
“Honestly, his donation is huge. I’m grateful, but I’d also like to build a bridge there, know what I mean?”
I want to tell her that I burned the bridge between Sterling and I a long time ago. “I’m not sure I should be the one to build it.”
“He mentioned you specifically in the adoption papers,” she says. “You must have caught his eye during the auction.”
“Sure,” I say miserably.
“Thank you! And cheer up, I’m sure Zeus is going to be loved.”
“I hope so.” We end the call, Shelby promising to text over the address.
I’d plan to spend the day popping in to a few favorite shops and working up the courage to visit my unexpected inheritance. Now, stepping foot into Bluebird Press feels like the lesser of two evils if the other is a visit to Sterling. I guess I’ll tally that in the win column. I ignore Shelby’s text for the moment and pull up Bluebird’s address. A few seconds later, GPS directs me to its offices.
The press isn’t what I expect when I find it tucked into a back street a block from Broadway. I’ve always imagined a publishing house sitting atop some lofty high-rise, floor-to-ceiling windows, people bustling about and shouting out deadlines, editors in corner offices making phone calls to authors and agents all day long while girls with coffee carts deliver lattes. Maybe that’s how it is in New York.
That’s not how it is at Bluebird Press. It occupies the ground floor of a small brick building, and one tiny sign hangs above the entrance. There’s no receptionist to greet me at the door. Inside, desks clutter the space, stacked high with manuscripts next to abandoned coffee mugs. A haphazard bookshelf lines the far wall of the room. This is the only attempt at decor. Someone has lovingly lined up the books, facing some out to display them properly. It’s obvious even from here this is a place where people prefer to live in the pages of their books. The rest doesn’t matter. It’s not the frantic, glamorous workplace I’d envisioned; it’s better.
It’s so close to noon there’s only a few people at their desks. No one bothers to look up from their laptops or manuscripts, leaving me free to wander freely. I pause at a desk in the back corner to nosily investigate a manuscript that’s lying out.
“Can I help you?”
I spin around, feeling like a thief in the night. “Sorry,” I say quickly, “I was looking for the… boss.”
“You mean editor-in-chief?” she asks me.
“Yes.” I’m off to a great start. I know a publishing house doesn’t have a boss. It has a publisher. It has an editor-in-chief. All the happiness I felt moments ago oozes slowly out of me. I don’t belong here any more than I belong anywhere else in my life.
“That’s me,” she says, brushing past me to her desk. She leans over and hits a few keys on her computer, frowning as an email pops up. I stand there trying to think of something to say. She finally looks up at me. “Is there something I can help you with?”
“A job,” I blurt out. I’d wanted to blend in today and not look like Adair MacLaine come to survey her new holdings. I didn’t plan this. That’s pretty obvious given that I’m in jeans and a t-shirt that says Read an effing book. At least, it’s on theme. I don’t have a resume or a writing sample. I don’t even know what job I want.
“A job?” she repeats. She studies me for a second. Sinking into her chair, she waves to the seat across from me. “Sit. I’m Trish.”
“Thanks,” I say, grateful for the invitation and that we’re foregoing last names. I’m not putting my best foot forward, so the fact that she’s willing to even talk to me means she’s a lot nicer than I am. “Adair.”
“What kind of job are you looking for? We’re not really hiring,”
