The Accidental Bestseller (18 page)

“But I’m not strong. And I can’t promise that everything will be OK. Everything is such a mess.”

They sat in silence for a few moments, listening to the sounds beneath the quiet: the hum of an insect, a faint echo of a waterfall across the valley floor.

“The one thing I know is that you have to break the big black cloud hanging over you down into small manageable parts so that you can deal with things individually, one step at a time,” Mallory said. “I’ll give you a few more days on the referral to a kick-ass attorney, but I think we need to get Tanya and Faye on the phone right now and ask them to come. I’m willing to bet you a trip to Home Depot that they’ll be here by Friday. That’ll give us almost three full days to work on your book together.”

“Look at all these fan letters!” Steven carried a corrugated box full of mail into Faye’s office and dropped it on her desk. “And these are just the ones that came to the church.” He leaned over her to give her a buss on the cheek, his tone jubilant. He’d gone directly from work to dinner with several church board members and was just now getting home. Faye had elected to stay home and work and had been hard at it for the last three hours; being able to work in a robe and slippers was one of the greatest perks of being a writer. “Where did you go?” she asked.

“Gibson’s and I’m stuffed to the gills. I always tell myself I’m going to eat healthy there, but I never can resist their bone-in sirloin.” He perched on the side of her desk and motioned to the box of mail. “If this continues, pretty soon I’m going to be known as Faye Truett’s husband, that minister who’s married to the famous writer.”

Faye smiled at the pride in his voice. He took her success almost as personally as his own.

“We can have some of our volunteers read and reply to them if you don’t have the time,” he said. “We’ve had hundreds of hits on the link from our site to yours and vice versa. The switchboard keeps fielding inquiries from fans wanting to know where they can buy your books.”

Faye considered the box, pleased. The quantity of reader mail had been growing steadily. She was still surprised when people not only emailed her through her website but took the time to compose and mail a handwritten note. There was nothing quite like knowing that something you’d created from nothing had affected someone strongly enough to make them want to communicate with you.

Faye had started writing inspirationals long before the market for them had begun to mushroom. It was only in the last five or six years that the genre had begun to take off, translating into larger advances and royalties.

Of course, being Pastor Steve’s wife didn’t hurt. Faye knew it was a big promotional advantage.

Faye smiled at the irony: Fifteen years ago she’d been forced to write anything that would produce the smallest trickle of income. Now her inspirational backlist was about to be repackaged and reissued, which was bound to increase her name recognition and reader base even further.

She reached for a letter on the top of the pile and slit it open, reading the letter aloud to Steven. “Dear Ms. Truett, I’ve been having a hard time with my son, Jackson, ever since his father left us. I could barely bring myself to get out of bed in the mornings, let alone deal with him. But then someone loaned me a copy of your book
In His Name
and I read about what Molly went through and how her belief in God got her and her family through their troubles. I loved that she found a man who could honor and respect her even after everything she’d gone through.”

Faye’s voice slowed. She could feel Steve’s gaze on her. “It gave me hope,” she continued. “I read all about you on your website and I’ve seen you on Pastor Steve’s church service. I’ve read four of your books now, and I’m going to read the rest of them as soon as I can afford to. I almost feel like your book saved my life.”

“It’s something, isn’t it?” Steve asked. “Having that kind of impact on a stranger’s life?”

She rose and moved toward him, slipping her arms around his neck.

“It’s a blessing,” he mused, his breath warm against her ear. “But it’s a big responsibility, too. You have to be so careful not to let them down.”

He smelled of the cigars they’d probably smoked after dinner. His cologne was light and woodsy. His arms around her waist were strong, familiar. His hands, clasped together, rested at the small of her back.

She breathed him in as she asked, “Don’t you worry that they may expect too much? That they might want you to be more than you are, or I don’t know, think you should be something you’re not?” Faye tried to keep the question casual, but she could hear the slight tremor in her voice.

“Well, I do think they hold a man of God to a higher standard. And they should. I don’t have any problem with that.”

“And what about the people connected to that man of God?” Faye asked. “Do you think they should be held to that standard, too?”

He left his arms around her but leaned back against her desk so that he could look into her eyes. “Is there something you want to tell me?” His eyes glimmered with amusement, certain there could be nothing of importance about her that he didn’t know. “As you know, confession isn’t one of the cor nerstones of our church, but if there’s something you need to get off your chest . . .”

For the briefest of moments Faye considered telling her husband the only secret she’d ever kept from him, could practically taste the relief she would feel if only she could share her mounting worry with him. But as she hesitated the amusement left his eyes and was replaced by something else entirely.

Their eyes remained locked as he pulled her belt loose and slipped his hands inside her robe. She had a flash of what they might look like to an observer, an older graying couple actually contemplating sex in the middle of a home office, but then the image was gone and all she saw was herself in his eyes.

“I’ll miss you while you’re gone.” He helped her shrug out of the robe and tightened his hands on her waist to pull her closer.

“You don’t mind that I’m going to Kendall’s, do you?” Faye’s body pressed against his. Her pulse quickened and her skin warmed to his touch. She imagined she could feel the normally sluggish blood in her veins speeding up its flow; there was a loosening inside her. “I figured you’d be busy with the revival, and Kendall needs . . .” Faye’s voice trailed off as his hands moved higher.

“It’s not a problem,” he murmured as he stared down into her eyes and the tips of his fingers brushed lightly against her breasts. “I understand. She needs you.”

He kissed her for a long time then, slowly and thoroughly as if they had all the time in the world. Her knees actually grew weak as she thought back to all the times they’d done this together and what a miracle it was that this could still be so good between them.

Without discussion they sank to their knees beside her desk, their clothes coming off in a hurried jumble, both of them eager to consummate their love for each other.

Tanya didn’t know exactly how she’d ended up on Brett Adams’s doorstep with a store-bought chocolate cake in her hands and a daughter on either side, but there it was. Stranger still, Trudy stood slightly behind her in a low-cut top and hip-hugging jeans.

“Why are we here again?” Loretta asked.

“Because we were invited for dinner.” Tanya tried to say the words as if this was some sort of everyday occurrence, but of course it wasn’t.

She made a point of getting along with the other waitresses at the diner and she’d known Belle and Red since she was a kid. But outside of the yearly Christmas party and the cupcake with a candle that Belle organized for each of their birthdays, there was little socializing outside of work. Everyone had families and responsibilities and too little money. So while they pitched in and helped out when someone was in real need, they didn’t exactly hang out together. And certainly no one had ever offered to cook an entire meal for her and her family.

She’d been stunned when Brett had suggested it that morning as he’d handed her an order of corned beef hash and eggs. Standing on his welcome mat now didn’t make the whole thing seem any more real.

“Not exactly fancy digs.” Trudy sniffed at the cinder-block ranch-style house with its peeling white paint and the chipped decorative metal trellis. What looked like an original 1950s jalousie window was inset into the front door.

“Yeah, your double-wide is so much fancier,” Tanya said as she waited for Loretta to push the front doorbell. “You better behave yourself, Mama. I’m not kidding. Whatever happens, it was nice of him to invite us and I’m not turning my nose up at a home-cooked meal.”

“Seems like a lot of effort to get into somebody’s pants.” Tanya figured she should be grateful her mother had whispered the observation so that the girls couldn’t hear.

“It does, doesn’t it?” Tanya taunted right back. She was pretty sure the most Trudy had ever held out for was a double scotch. “I don’t think that’s all bad.”

The door was opened by two girls somewhere in between Loretta and Crystal’s ages. “They’re here!” the taller one shouted back over her shoulder. The other, a mirror image of long dark hair and eyes, maybe a year or so younger, just stood, staring at them.

“OK, already.” An older girl, also tall and dark haired, approached, and Tanya pegged her as the thong-wearer. Unless Brett had still more daughters hidden somewhere in the tiny house. “Stop staring and let them in,” the girl instructed. And then to Tanya and crew, “I’m Valerie. This is Andi and Dani.”

The three Adams girls stepped back as Tanya ushered Loretta and Crystal inside. Trudy followed on their heels.

“I’m Tanya.” She stuck her hand out toward the older girl. “This is my mother, Trudy, and this is Loretta and Crystal.” She waited for her girls to offer their hands as they’d been taught.

“Wow, cool! Like the singers!” Dani said.

“That’s right,” Tanya said. “Their daddy had a real thing for country music.”

“That’s way better than our names,” the other young girl said. “Our dad kept hoping for a boy.”

The older girl laughed. Teetering on the brink of womanhood, she had a bright, friendly smile exactly like her father’s and legs that went on and on. She turned to her sisters. “You’re ten and eleven already. Get over it!”

Tanya handed the cake to Valerie and stole a look around. The living room was small and dominated by a wide-screen TV, but someone had made an effort to coordinate fabrics and there were some scattered throw pillows and an afghan neatly folded over the sofa arm. A few framed travel posters hung on the walls and a vacuum had been run before they’d arrived; you could still see the tracks on the harvest gold shag carpet.

A dining room table, lengthened by the addition of a card table at one end, was set for eight. The sound of clattering pots came from somewhere beyond.

Tanya breathed in the heady scent of furniture polish and cooking meat. She held it in her lungs and savored it; it smelled like a home. A scratch and sniff right out of the pages of
Southern Living
.

“Hey, there!” Brett came toward them from the back of the house, wiping his hands on a dishtowel tucked into the waistband of his jeans as he approached. “You’re right on time.”

They stood in a huddle in the center of the living room, but within moments Brett had taken charge, clearly unwilling to allow any awkwardness. “Trudy, you’re lookin’ especially lovely tonight. I hope you’re up for a beer or a glass of wine. I wasn’t sure which you’d prefer.”

Trudy perked right up. A smile replaced the more usual downturn of her lips.

“Did you girls introduce yourselves?” he asked.

“They did,” Tanya assured him. “Brett, this is Loretta and Crystal.”

“Just like the country singers, Dad!” Tanya wasn’t sure if it was Andi or Dani who’d spoken; at the moment they seemed virtually interchangeable except for their height.

“Maybe we’ll get ’em to do a little number for us later,” Brett teased. “Or maybe we should make ’em sing for their supper.”