Fly Me to the Moon (18 page)

But now that they were laying off thousands of employees and forcing the pilots into drastic pay concessions (while top-level executives stuffed their pockets with bonuses, stock options, and secured pensions) I found myself fearing the loss of something I didn’t even particularly like. Because for every horrifying moment during the course of a flight, there were still times like Paris, and the glaring fact that no other job that I was currently qualified for could provide that kind of perk.

So after clumping my bags and climbing out of my uniform and into my favorite flannel PJs, I poured myself a glass of Lisette’s duty-free wine and sat on my couch, gazing back and forth between Jonathan Franzen and Max’s flowers.

And when I got up to refill my glass, I saw a note lying next to the phone:

Halley
—

I’m sorry, but this isn’t working.

You have two weeks to find a new place to live.

Lisette

Kat was serious about retiring. Just days after mentioning it, I was sitting at her kitchen table staring at my computer screen while she filled out all the necessary paperwork. And to say I was envious would be putting it mildly. I had just one week to find a new place to live, and no idea how I could possibly sign a lease when I didn’t even know if I’d still be employed three months from now. Not to mention that it’d been well over a week since I said
au revoir
to Max, and I’d yet to hear from him.

“What are you doing?” Kat asked, signing the very last document.

“Looking for a place to crash,” I said, squinting at my laptop. “But everything is either completely out of my reach, or in Kew Gardens.”

“So why don’t you stay here?” She removed her Chanel reading glasses and placed them on the table between us.

“We’ve already been through this,” I said. “I’m allergic to the cats, and I don’t want to impose.”

“You wouldn’t be imposing; you’d be house-sitting,” she said.

“Where’re you going?” I asked, cringing as I remembered the last time I was in charge of the cats’ well-being.

“Greece.” She smiled.

“What?” I stared at her, my mouth hanging open.

“It’s time for a change,” she said. “And Yanni has the most beautiful homes in Athens, Mykonos, and Spetses.”

“Are you getting married?” I asked, while actually thinking,
Again?

“Who knows?” She shrugged, reaching for her coffee mug. “All I know is that I’m ready for the next chapter in my life. How about you?”

I gazed at Kat sitting across from me. She was well into her fifties, and still beautiful, vibrant, and full of excitement. Not to mention that her life already held so many chapters it read like an intricately crafted thousand-page saga. Whereas mine felt as sparse and unplotted as
Baby’s First Bathtub Book.
“Look, that sounds great and all, but eventually, when you return, I’ll still have to find somewhere to live. So wouldn’t that just be delaying the inevitable?” I asked.

“Hailey,” she said patiently, eyes focused on me. “I need someone to stay here. I’m not selling, and I’m not bringing the cats just yet. And you’re the best choice I can think of.”

I looked down at the three cats lying at her feet. Well that’s what allergy medicine was for, right? “But what about Jonathan Franzen?” I asked, still holding out.

“What about him?”

“Well, wouldn’t that be like, jeopardizing his safety? Making him share a space with three cats?”

“He can have his own room.” She shrugged. “So, what do you say?”

I glanced around the beautiful kitchen, with the granite-topped island and gourmet stove.
I can save money, finish my novel, and it wouldn’t be freeloading since I’m doing her a favor. . . .
“Okay,” I
agreed. “But on one condition. You promise to kick me out the second you return.”

“Deal.” She smiled.

It’s amazing what you can accomplish when you live in a quiet Fifth Avenue penthouse with a glorious park view, plenty of Allegra-D, and no skanky roommates to distract you. Kat had wasted no time saying good-bye and heading to Greece, and I, no longer burdened with paying rent, became very choosy about the trips I’d fly. No more thirty-hour Podunk layovers for me. I now had the freedom to fly only the fun trips, or I wouldn’t fly at all. And even though, technically, I’d only migrated a few avenues west, the difference between Lexington and Fifth was like a whole different world.

So after three weeks of shutting myself in, leaving just long enough to indulge my daily latte habit, I’d finished my manuscript. And hoping for a fresh perspective when I returned, I left it behind and headed out for what was advertised on the Atlas trip list as a nice twenty-four-hour layover at the St. Francis hotel in San Francisco, but which, because of inclement weather in Atlanta and a mechanical in Cincinnati, had quickly deteriorated into a barely legal seven-hour
lean-over
in some dingy Kentucky motel with lumpy mattresses, questionable sheets, and no hot water. And by the time I returned from that hell trip, I was determined to tackle my novel with renewed enthusiasm, polishing it up and going over it again and again until it was the very best I could make it.

And just as I was putting six printed copies into six different envelopes to be mailed to six major publishers, my cell phone rang.

“Hailey?”

“Yeah?” I mumbled, sealing the final package and adding it to the top of the stack.

“It’s me, Max. How are you?”

I dropped onto the nearest chair and stared at the phone. I’d completely given up on him, thinking he was like one of those socks you put in the dryer and never see again. But here he was, calling as though seven weeks hadn’t really passed. “I’m great,” I said. “You?”

“Well, I’m leaving for Paris tonight, and I was hoping I could see you.”

“Uh, you mean in Paris or at the airport?” I asked.

“Paris.” He laughed. “There’s this new restaurant I’m dying to show you.”

“Well, that sounds great, but France isn’t exactly part of my normal route. Getting a trip like that involves a lot of bribing, and one or two death threats, you know.”

“I’ll be there for the next two weeks. I’m staying at the Ritz. Call me if you can make it?”

“Okay. Sure,” I said, logging on to the Atlas swap board well before I’d even pressed END.

On my way home from the post office, I stopped in at my local Barnes & Noble so I could see just where my book would fall on the “new releases” shelf. Pushing through the revolving glass door, I went straight for “new fiction,” gazing at the competing titles while imagining mine among them. I mean, how cool would it be to see “a novel by Hailey Lane” placed next to my favorite authors?

I noticed a slim book with a beautiful gold cover and ran my hand over the front, then quickly flipped it over to check out the back. And when I glanced down at the author photo, my breath caught in my throat.

There, in the far left corner, was a small, square photo of Cadence, looking gorgeous in a crisp white blouse and jade earrings, while her glorious dark hair fanned out around her as though she’d just been caught in a random, yet very flattering, breeze. And then, only out of curiosity and
not
because I cared, I quickly scanned
the first few pages, curious to see if she’d mentioned Dane in either the dedication or acknowledgments.

“It’s a pretty good read, but you don’t have to buy it. I can get you a copy.”

I turned to see Dane standing beside me. “Oh, hey, I was just . . .” I trailed off, placing the book back on the shelf and shrugging lamely. “I guess that’s one of the perks of knowing the author, huh? Lots of free copies.” I laughed nervously.

He ran his fingers through his floppy brown hair and smiled. “I was just heading upstairs to grab a bite. Care to join me?”

Let’s see, I was living on Fifth Avenue, I’d just mailed out my manuscript, and now two cute guys in one day had offered to share a meal with me. As far as days went, this was definitely one of my best.

Sitting at the small, square table, I watched while Dane ordered at the counter and thought how strange it was I kept running into him. But New York City was weird like that. You could have the same roommate for five straight years and hardly ever see them. But then every time you went to the corner deli you’d run into the same three random faces.

“I know you said you weren’t hungry, but I got you this,” he said, placing a vanilla/almond biscotti next to my latte.

“So is this your usual lunch spot?” I asked, already breaking into the biscotti. “Seems a little far from midtown.”

“I live nearby,” he said, biting into a turkey sandwich.

“So that explains it,” I said, sipping my coffee and looking at him. “You know, the whole stalking thing.”

He looked at me and laughed. “Well, now that you mention it, I haven’t seen you around Starbucks lately. Did you finish your book?”

“Yup, I just mailed out six copies,” I told him, still amazed that my manuscript was finished, printed, and on its way to six editors’ desks.

“Where’d you send it?” he asked, reaching for his water bottle and twisting the cap.

“Some big-name publishers,” I said, unable to keep from grinning as I took a sip of my latte and waited to be congratulated.

“Any agents?” He tilted his head back as he sipped his water.

“Agents? Um, no.” I shrugged. Jeez, I hadn’t even considered sending it to an agent. I didn’t think an agent would even want me unless I’d been published. But maybe I was wrong? I mean, should I have tried to get an agent?

“Well, did you at least check their submission guidelines?” He looked at me, his eyes full of concern, and lips pressed all tight together.

“Um, no. I guess I didn’t do that either,” I said, shaking my head and avoiding his eyes, my mood turning as quickly as a carton of milk left in the sun.

He shook his head, his face bearing a dire expression. “Well they have pretty strict rules, and they won’t so much as glance at anything that doesn’t adhere. They’ll either trash it, send it back, or let it languish in the slush pile for the next year and a half,” he informed me, finishing his sandwich and using his paper napkin to wipe the crumbs from his mouth.

I stared at the tabletop, feeling like a birthday balloon that had just gotten popped by a big bully with a long, sharp pin. “Well, before I
saw you,
I was feeling pretty darn good about just having finished it,” I said, my throat all tight and choked with anger, and maybe even, God forbid, the possible threat of tears. “I mean, that alone felt like a pretty big accomplishment.”
Until you came along, you buzz-killing, dream-stomping sadist!

“Hmmm,” he mumbled.

Hmmm? That’s it? Just “hmmm”? I mean, excuse me for not being a critically acclaimed literary genius like Cadence. But would it kill you to give me a little high five? Or even a halfhearted “atta girl!” I mean, what’s with you? And why did you even ask me to join you anyway?

“So how’s Harrison?” he asked, immediately segueing into new conversational territory, since obviously there was no reason to waste any more time on my poorly executed, ill-advised, mass-mailing blunder.

I took a sip of coffee and shrugged. “Harrison’s great,” I lied. “He’s a really cool guy.”
There, let him think Harrison advised me to bypass the submissions guidelines.

“Really?” He looked surprised.

“Really.” I nodded, finishing my coffee. All I wanted was to say “adios” and get the hell out of there. This guy was toxic. And he was totally dragging me down.

But he just shrugged and said, “Well, I have to get to the office. But I was wondering, are you free this weekend?”

I stared at my recycled-paper coffee cup that I had unconsciously bent and folded until it was completely misshapen.
Is he serious? I mean, why would I want to go out with him? So he could give me a point-by-point synopsis on just how much I
didn’t
know about the world of publishing? Jeez, what an ego! I mean, he’s a lawyer, not a writer, and just because he’s dating an author doesn’t make him one. This guy’s a total creep, and it’s time I find another neighborhood to buy my coffee and books in.
“I’m spending the weekend in Paris,” I said finally, narrowing my eyes as they met his.

“Lucky you,” he said, holding my gaze for just a fraction too long, considering he had a girlfriend. And considering how much I hated him.

Then, without another word, we grabbed our things and headed for the escalator, with me standing in front so I wouldn’t have to look at him. And when we got to the bottom, he rushed to the door and held it open. Then we headed out into the sunshine, each going our separate ways.