The Way Back. Stephanie Doyle
went three years ago,” Mary Jane, an editor who focused on cozy mysteries and self-help titles, chimed in. “Disaster. The man had me in tears in mach two seconds.”
“I don’t get it,” Gabby said, trying to catch up with what she’d missed. “You want me to bring back his story? The autobiography of Jamison Hunter? He’s one of the most reclusive people on the planet. He hasn’t been heard from in years. I’m talking J.D. Salinger level hermit. You’ve got better chance of getting President Clinton to give us a tell-all about his days with Monica Lewinski than you do of getting this guy to talk.”
“Yes, I know,” Melissa agreed. “But here’s the thing we have with Hunter, which we don’t have with President Clinton—a binding contract. Hunter—in a major deal, I might add—agreed to give us his story. Granted, that was a few weeks before the scandal hit. Afterward, he tried to return the advance, but we refused it. We thought he might change his mind, might want the world to know his side of the story. And when that time came, he’d already be committed to us. Given the sizeable advance we paid him, we’ve got a lot at stake. So every few years we send an eager new face to meet him and personally give him a nudge.”
Eager and new were not two words Gabby would necessarily associate with herself. Washed up and worn down were more accurate.
Get a grip, Gabby. You got fired, not murdered.
It was her inner therapist at work. Just because she lost the hottest job on morning television in Philadelphia to a younger, thinner, hipper version of herself did not mean her life as she knew it was over. Her ego had taken a punch was all. And her self-esteem. And her self-confidence.
And her wallet.
The truth was, she’d been lucky to land this job—even if it was an entry-level position. Even if at thirty-three she felt more like sixty-three working with so many young twentysomethings. Twentysomethings who were all ahead of her on the corporate ladder. Twentysomethings to whom she would have been teaching the ropes at her old job.
But after coming to the realization no other local morning programs were looking to hire a slightly overweight, aging host, she’d had to scramble for a new plan. Openings in her field of journalism were few and far between, so it seemed like a reasonable idea to try the other end of writing and look at openings in publishing.
Apparently publishing houses were often looking for junior editors. When they told Gabby what her starting salary would be, she understood why.
Still it was a job and a new start.
Plus there were advantages. Gabby loved to read. She could bury her head in books without anyone caring there were wrinkles around her eyes, or what clothing size she was currently wearing. She could earn enough money to keep her from having to move in with her mother—which, at her age, would be the most pathetic thing evah. Most importantly this job would give her time. Time she desperately needed to figure out what she wanted to do for the rest of her life.
And now, a handful of hours into this new career, Melissa was offering her the chance to meet Jamison Hunter.
Jamison Hunter, the epitome of all good things men could be. Proof that not all men were asses. The crush of her life, the man she’d idolized above all others…until he smashed every one of those romantic dreams with a single horrible press conference. He’d broken not only the nation’s heart, but hers, too.
Jamison Hunter.
Huh.
Funny where life took you sometimes.
She was nodding before she let herself think maybe this wasn’t the best idea given her particular mental state right now. Facing the man who had set her expectations about what a man should be, only to then confirm the worst of what she knew a man could be, would definitely be treading some rocky emotional ground.
Her mouth opened. The words came out. “I’ll do my best.”
Before she could reconsider Mary Jane leaned toward her and whispered, “Trust me. Take a box of tissues with you.”
* * *
“WOOF!”
Jamie Hunter watched his ancient dog Shep slowly stretch and push himself into a standing position alerting him that company was coming. Shep sighed and creaked, but finally he was on all fours.
A second later the doorbell rang.
“Poor, Shep, you are definitely feeling your age, my man. There was a day you would have given me a five-minute heads-up.” Jamie patted the loyal German Sheppard’s head as he rose from his recliner—not as quickly as he once did, either.
Dropping his book on a table and removing the glasses he needed to read—as ridiculous as it was, he was slightly self-conscious about wearing them—the two aging warriors made their way down the hall to confront the intruder. After eight o’clock on a Tuesday night, it was a good bet almost every one of the eight hundred and twenty-two inhabitants of this island town were bunkered for the night.
Unless there was trouble. Jamie picked up his step.
“Yeah?” he said, opening the door half expecting it to be the sheriff asking for help with something.
The female face on the other side of the door was a complete surprise.
“Jamison Hunter?”
“You’ve got to be kidding me,” he muttered. He took in the business suit, the low-heeled pumps, the hand thrust out in welcome. “Are you a reporter?”
It wasn’t possible. He was old news. Yesterday’s story. A forgotten has-been with a sad legacy no one wanted to remember because he depressed them. Unless someone had found out about— No. He wouldn’t even allow himself to think it.
He noticed she was huffing slightly from the forty steps it had taken her to reach his house from the road. If she was a reporter, she definitely wasn’t a beat reporter. Too soft.
“No, I’m Gabriella Haines. I’m from McKay Publishing.”
He ignored the hand completely. “Oh crap, not you people again. When are you going to figure it out? I’m not writing the damn book.”
She blinked twice. Okay, maybe he didn’t have to be quite so harsh. It wasn’t this woman’s fault the company was so persistent. Not her fault at all. But he knew if he maintained his hard attitude, she would leave faster. He knew this from experience.
“Come inside. I’ll write out the check. Again.” He opened the door wider.
She didn’t move immediately. Probably wondering if either he or Shep bit.
Shep had never bitten anyone in his life.
“Inside, lady. That suit you’re wearing isn’t warm enough for this weather. No doubt you’re freezing.”
She nodded and stepped inside. As soon as he closed the door behind her she began to rub her hands over her arms. “It was sixty-five degrees when I left New York.”
“And this is an island off the coast of Maine.” If she’d checked the local forecast, she would have figured out to dress more appropriately. He walked toward the rear of the house to his office where he kept his checkbook. When McKay had refused to accept the advance the first time he’d offered to return it, he had put the money in a separate account he never touched. That way he would always have it at the ready whenever they came asking for it. He’d figured after a year or two they would come politely begging for the cash. He definitely hadn’t anticipated their persistence.
“You should tell your boss I’m making a tidy sum off the interest,” he said over his shoulder. “And I’ve got no qualms about spending that interest, either. It paid for a new deck last year. I’m almost sorry to have all that extra cash come to an end.”
Jamie glanced up and saw she hadn’t followed him. No doubt she’d stopped by the fireplace to warm up. He wrote out the check then tore it from the book and headed to