The woman’s smile doesn’t waver as she picks up a phone, dials an extension, and speaks quietly into the receiver. Right. So this is the part where the nice security man comes to escort me out. My heartbeat roars like class-five rapids in my ears.
She hangs up and gestures toward the far side of the lobby. “Ms. Quinn is in Bungalow Seven. If you follow the path past thespa terrace and reflection garden, it’s the last bungalow on your left.”
I blink. “She said yes to seeing me?”
“She did.”
I turn from the receptionist without thanking her, my manners clearly shocked into silence. As I walk through the grounds, following a stone path that winds beneath towering pines, I’m increasingly cloaked in a surreal sensation that this can’t actually be happening. A fountain murmurs somewhere nearby while the lake flashes blue through the trees, and while I know they must be stunning, I barely notice the view. The bungalows are tucked discreetly behind thick hedges and native grasses, each one with its own private patio and oversized lanterns flanking the doors. Blinking myself back to reality, I approach the last building along the path.
Bungalow Seven has a front door the color of weathered driftwood, and I knock on it before I can talk myself out of it.
The woman who opens the door is shorter than I expected. In the photos I’ve scrolled through hundreds of times on Instagram, she seems larger than life. Someone who could stand on a mountaintop and make you believe fear was just a choice you could unmake.
In person, Kristen Quinn is barely five-three, barefoot, in a fluffy white robe with a ketchup stain above her right breast. Her auburn hair is pulled into a topknot that’s leaning hard to the left, and she’s holding a green smoothie in one hand and squinting at me like the sunlight is a personal attack.
“You’re Sloane?” Recognition flickers in her brown eyes. Or maybe I’m hoping it’s recognition and not trepidation. What’s the protocol for convincing someone famous you’re not a stalker?
“Yes. Hi.” Two words, but they sound breathy and a little too eager. I’d like to grab them back and try again. “Thank you so much for seeing me. I know I’m showing up unannounced, and I hope this isn’t?—”
“No, I know who you are. You comment on my posts. You’ve got the bookstore in Colorado, right?”
My heart swells. “Cover to Cover, in Skylark.”
“Yeah.” She nods like she’s placing a pin on a mental map. “My publisher actually mentioned doing an event there at one point, but I don’t really do smaller venues anymore. No offense.”
“None taken,” I say, which is a lie so enormous it might be visible from space. Cover to Cover is not asmaller venue. It’s the center of my universe. The place I built with every ounce of stubborn optimism I could scrape together during the second worst year of my life. But sure. Smaller venue. Cool.
“Come in.” She steps aside and waves me in with the smoothie hand. “I could use the distraction.”
The bungalow is a study in understated elegance with cream-colored walls, wood trim, and a bed piled with white pillows. But there are also two empty wine bottles on the nightstand, a monogrammed suitcase that appears to have exploded across the floor of the walk-in closet, and a laptop on the desk buried under crinkled snack cake wrappers. Apparently, somebody at this swanky retreat center hit the convenience store pastry aisle on the way in.
Kristen drops onto the edge of the bed and tucks one foot under her. She gestures toward a chair near the window. “Sit. Tell me why you’re here.”
I do as she says, folding my hands in my lap because I don’t want her to see them shaking. Then I start talking.
Not about my trek through the wilderness or how I sobbed uncontrollably the first time I read her book. I tell her about the leukemia, the book club, and howThe Year of Losing Itbecame the foundation for our bucket list challenges. I explain that her words meant so much to me during the worst of it that meeting her and thanking her in person became part of my journey, especially once I got to this last stage of treatment.
“That’s sweet.” The smile she gives me can’t be taken foranything except patronizing. “I’m glad the book meant something to you. A lot of people feel that way.”
There it is. The not-so-subtle reminder that I’m just part of the nameless masses. Except she knows my name, and my small venue, so no need to get all in my head. This is my dream come true, so I’m not going to let overthinking ruin it.
“I was actually surprised when I found out you were in Tahoe,” I say, once again trying to embody the easy-breezy vibe and not emotionally unstable fangirl energy. “I thought you were finishing the new book in Montana.”
“Girl, don’t trust online pics.” Kristen mock shudders. “The cabin my editor booked for me was a dump.” She wraps the robe tighter around herself. “And it was so weirdly dark at night. Plus, no room service. Am I right?”
No,I think.You’re totally wrong. All of this is totally wrong.
I glance toward the laptop, wondering if Kristen’s about to announce a brand partnership with Hostess. “Are you finding it easier to write here?”
“Deadlines suck,” she groans. “Nothing kills creativity quite like the pressure of having millions of people waiting for you to be profound again.”
“I’m sure the new book will be just as good as your first one. Truly, it changed my life.” As the words leave my mouth, I know they’re too much.
Kristen sets the smoothie down on the nightstand next to the wine bottles someone other than her will eventually clean up. “Look, Sloane. You seem like a genuinely nice person, so I’m going to be honest with you.”
My stomach drops.Nicedoesn’t sound like a compliment when she says it.
“Writing is a job,” she says. “I had a good concept and a publisher willing to pay a big advance forThe Year of Losing It.And I tapped into a goldmine. But I’m not…” She waves her hand in the air. “I’m really not that deep. Most people aren’t. I wrote about facing my fears because it made for a great story. It did well, and I’m grateful. But they were just stories.”