No Words: A Novel (Little Bridge Island Book 3)

We weren’t late for the author bus, mainly because instead of drying my hair, I opted for pulling it back into another ponytail, not caring whether anyone noticed if it was wet. Then I raced down to meet Bernadette.

“Now, that’s what I’m talking about.” Her gaze traveled approvingly up and down my black palazzo pants and matching black top. “I don’t think anyone will be able to tell you’ve spent the past year suffering from crippling anxiety, depression, and low self-esteem.”

“You forgot writer’s block.”

“Wait, what? You’re not writing anything?”

I shrugged. “Not anything I’m getting paid for. Kitty Katz number twenty-seven was due last year and all I can seem to write instead is either an apocalyptic Sense and Sensibility or a book about a girl whose mother dies of cancer, leaving her to be raised alone at age fourteen by her scatterbrained musician father who never managed to save a dime for his retirement.”

“Okay,” Bernadette said. “Kinda bleak, but I’d read both.”

“Thanks, but no one else seems to want to. Rosie’s been sending them out, and they’ve gotten rejected everywhere. They’re not Jo Wright enough, apparently.”

“How can something written by Jo Wright not be Jo Wright enough?”

“Oh, you know. Upbeat.”

Bernadette burst out laughing. “People think you’re upbeat?”

“Well, people who only know Jo Wright, author of Kitty Katz, Kitten Sitter, not Jo Wright, the person.”

“Oh, I get it. Once you’re known for writing a certain thing, it’s hard to market you if you write something totally different.”

“Exactly. I guess I kind of understand what they mean. The Kitty Katz books are known for cheering readers up. I wouldn’t want to write something that bums people out.” Like the drivel that came out of Will Price’s way-too-handsome head.

“I don’t think you could possibly write something that bums people out.”

“Oh, I don’t know. I’ve been in a pretty dark place lately.” Thinking of ways to murder Will Price, for instance.

“You could try getting those other books published under a different name,” Bernadette suggested.

“Yeah, but then I’d have to build a whole new social media following under that name.”

“And create a whole new website,” Bernadette said with a sigh.

“And get new author photos.”

“Which you need.” Bernadette tugged on my black ponytail. “But I get it. So much effort.”

“Right. I might as well just stick to Kitty, even though the well seems to have gone dry.” Unless Little Bridge Island worked its magic.

Too bad there was no such thing as magic.

We began heading toward the hotel’s foyer, where we could see through the open French doors that other authors were gathering to wait for the bus that would take us to the event.

“Do you think your writer’s block is because of what’s going on with your dad—the fact that he isn’t doing so well but refuses to accept help—or because of what that idiot Price said about your writing?” Bernadette asked.

I gave her the stink eye. “Are you trying to psychoanalyze me? Because I think you should know that as a lifelong Manhattanite, I already have a therapist.”

“Of course you do. I was just wondering.”

“Who knows? I hope it’s because of what’s going on with my dad. If it’s because of what Will Price said, then what kind of professional does that make me, that I could be so easily thrown off my game?”

“That kind of thing would throw anyone off their game. He said it about you to the New York Times, for crying out loud.”

I kicked at a fallen leaf on the pathway. “Well, I’ve always prided myself on my professionalism.”

“You are a professional. He’s the one who—”

“Let’s drop it. Look, I’m getting better. I’ve stopped mainlining M&M’s. I’m not eating cookie dough for breakfast anymore. I even managed to get off the couch and get a pedicure before I left the city. See?” I lifted the hem of my palazzos to show her my toenails twinkling out from a pair of black platform slides.

“Black polish.” Bernadette laughed wryly. “Of course.”

“I know, right?” I gave her an evil grin. “To contrast with my upbeat personality.”

“There they are!”

As soon as we entered the lobby, an older white man dressed all in black, just like me, rushed toward us. I recognized him immediately as a globally popular horror writer with whom I’d attended numerous events before.

“We were looking all over for you!” Saul Coleman (not the name under which he wrote) appeared anxious. “Where have you been? The author bus just pulled up!”

“Oh, stop fussing, Saul.” Saul’s wife, Frannie, a petite brunette who looked as elegant as if she’d stepped from the pages of Vogue, came over to kiss us both on the cheek. “Jo, Bernadette, it’s so good to see you both.”

“It’s wonderful to see you, too.” I squeezed Frannie’s expensively ringed fingers. “You look great.” To Saul, I said, “Sorry we’re late. I took a dip and had to change.”

“A dip?” Saul’s eyes widened, as did those of his wife. “You went in the pool?”

Frannie tightened her grip on my hand, drawing me closer and then dropping her voice to a whisper. “I can’t believe you went in the water, Jo. Haven’t you heard about the flesh-eating viruses you can get in Florida?”

“I’m pretty sure those are only in lakes,” Bernadette whispered back. “But I’ll double-check with Jen if you want me to.”

“Would you?” Frannie glanced suspiciously at the woman working behind the front desk, who’d been extremely sweet and helpful to me when I’d checked in. “You can just never be too sure in the tropics. Even the bugs can kill you. Dengue, Zika, West Nile—it never ends!”

Bernadette and I exchanged knowing grins. Like me, Frannie was a lifelong New Yorker, but the Hamptons were about as far as she’d willingly go out of the city.

But because Saul adored her and always wanted her by his side, she bravely accompanied him to all of his book events. Their marriage was, like Bernadette’s, one I envied.

After my disastrous five-year relationship with Justin, however, I wasn’t jumping back into the dating pool anytime soon—only real pools, with plenty of chlorine, and of course a tiki bar nearby.

“I wonder what kind of food we’re going to get at this thing tonight,” Frannie fretted. “I mean, they don’t even have a bagel shop on this island. No bagels! Can you believe it? Not that the bagels would be any good if they did have them. You can only make good bagels with New York City tap water. Everyone knows our tap water is the safest and best-tasting in the entire—”

“Fran, will you stop?” Saul rolled his eyes in loving frustration at his wife. “I’m sure the food will be perfectly fine.”

“I don’t know, you might be right, Mrs. Coleman.” Bernadette always enjoyed baiting Frannie. “Since this place is an island, I suspect they serve a lot of fresh fish here. But who knows what’s in the water. Given all the cruise ships, there might be—”

Frannie looked pale. “Oh, God. I’m sticking to chicken. Oh, no, wait, I saw some chickens running around loose on the street! Why do they have chickens roaming around loose on the streets here? What kind of place allows chickens to run around loose on the streets?”

“Well,” Bernadette began to explain, “on the tour I took earlier today, they said it’s because when grocery stores with refrigeration finally moved to the island, the residents released the chickens they used to keep in coops in their backyards for eggs and Sunday dinner, and since then, those chickens have—”

“Stop.” Frannie held out a hand. “I don’t want to know any more.”

“Hey, everybody.” Garrett Newcombe strolled into the lobby. He’d changed out of the Batman shirt and cargo shorts he’d been wearing at the airport into khaki pants and a blue button-down, which was a step up.

But he was still wearing flip-flops, and also clutching the swag bag we’d all received in our hotel rooms.

“Hi, I’m Garrett Newcombe,” he said unnecessarily, since he had on his author badge. We were all wearing them, as we’d been directed to by the festival staff. “Of the Dark Magic School series?”

“Oh, Garrett!” Frannie beamed. “Our grandson loves your books! I’m Frannie Coleman, and this is my husband, Saul. You might know him better as the author Clive Dean.”

Garrett’s jaw dropped, his gaze laser-focusing on Saul. The name Clive Dean had a tendency to do that to men (and some women) of a certain age. “Oh, Mr. Dean. This is truly an honor. Your books are what inspired me to become a writer, sir.”

Saul beamed and reached out to shake the hand Garrett had extended. “Oh, isn’t that great? That’s always nice to hear.”

I had to give Garrett credit for that one. He couldn’t have said anything more perfect to Saul.

But then he ruined it by adding, “Maybe your grandson would like this.”

Then he reached out and drew a coin from Frannie’s ear. He didn’t seem to notice that as his hand neared her face, Frannie ducked instinctively, as I had, leaning away from him.

“Ta-da!” he cried, presenting the coin to her. “An official Dark Magic School number eleven commemorative guild piece! I’m sure your grandson will love it.”

“I’m sure,” Frannie deadpanned as she dropped the “guild piece” into her purse. Frannie disliked being touched by strange men as much as I did, even strange men who claimed to love her husband’s books.

Her husband, however, was delighted. “Hey, that’s really neat, Garrett!” Saul cried. “Show me how you did that.”

“Aw, I can’t, Mr. Dean.” Garrett winked at the rest of us. “A good magician never reveals his secrets. But stay tuned. I’m going to perform a trick at tomorrow night’s dinner that’s going to knock everybody’s socks off.”

Saul chuckled. “Neat!”

I made a mental note to stay as far away as possible from tomorrow night’s dinner. I’d had about as much “magic” as I could take in a twenty-four-hour period.

Frannie appeared to be thinking the same thing, since she sidled up to Bernadette and me to whisper, “What is wrong with this guy?”

“Hmmm-hmmm.” Bernadette pretended to fuss with a strand of her purple hair. “From what I hear, quite a lot.”

I pretended to fuss with my own hair. “Like what?”

“People say he’s a player.”

Frannie and I glanced at each other, then at Garrett, then burst out laughing.

“For real,” Bernadette insisted. “The rumors were all over Novel Con last year. A bestselling male author was hitting on female fans.”

That caused both of us to quit laughing. “What?”

“It’s true. Whoever the guy was, he apparently had a real way with the ladies.”

I stared at Garrett as he pulled a coin from Saul’s ear, giving him a slow-motion demonstration of his trick. “Well, it couldn’t have been Garrett. Look at him. He’s wearing flip-flops to a donor dinner.”

“True. But you could see how to an inexperienced, impressionable young woman, he might seem . . . impressive.”

I still couldn’t believe it. If there was one rule in the publishing business—besides not to plagiarize—it was that you never, ever slept with fans.

Oh, it was all right to socialize with them, as long as you kept things on a strictly professional basis. I’d had many lunches and even a few dinners with Kitty Katz fans, sometimes because they’d won a meal with me at a charity auction or occasionally because they or their parents had reached out in some way—a reader who was ill or depressed or simply needed a dose of Kitty love or advice, something I was always happy to give. Even at my lowest points this past year and a half, I was able to throw on some lip gloss and get in a cab or online and try to make one of my adorable Kitty Klub members feel better.

But there was never any physical contact except maybe the briefest of hugs, especially if they were underage. That was Professional Writer 101.

“How did I not hear anything about this?” I demanded. “I was at Novel Con last year, and no one said a word about it to me.”

“No, you weren’t,” Bernadette said. “You were at Novel Con the year before last. You skipped it this year, remember? And you wouldn’t have heard about what happened there because lately you’ve had your own drama to deal with.”

I nodded, unoffended. Nothing she was saying was untrue. The Nicole Woods scandal and subsequent fallout with Will had kept me off anything except my own social media pages for months. I hadn’t wanted to read anything publishing related. And following quickly on the heels of that had been my breakup with Justin and all of Dad’s medical drama.

“But I was at Novel Con this past year with Saul,” Frannie said, “and I didn’t hear a word about any of this.”

“It was mostly on Twitter,” Bernadette said.

“Oh, Twitter.” Frannie rolled her eyes. “No wonder we didn’t see it. Our son handles all of Saul’s social media for him. But are you sure it was him?” She glanced at Garrett distastefully. “He’s hardly Chris Hemsworth or Evans or whoever that Chris is all you girls always seem to be talking about.”

Bernadette—who had no interest in any of the Chrises—shook her head. “No, I’m not sure. But it’s not about looks, Fran. To a naive fan, someone like Garrett might seem glamorous. He could promise them things—a meeting with his editor, a role in his next film. The rumors were that it was a number one New York Times bestselling author who had a new movie coming out—”

I gasped. “But that could be anyone. That could be Will Price.”

“It wasn’t Will Price,” Bernadette said. “I know you hate him, Jo, but the rumors all said it was an author of young-adult books.”

“A lot of young adults read Will’s books. There were some teenagers on my plane who were Will Price superfans.”

At least, they’d looked and acted like teenagers. I still wasn’t entirely sure how old Lauren and her friends had been.

Frannie was gasping, too, but for a different reason. “There’s going to be a Dark Magic School movie? Oh, my grandson will be thrilled.”

Bernadette ignored us both. “Look, whoever it was, what he did was total sexual harassment. But because none of the women came forward, nothing ever came of it. It was all just rumors.”

“So how do we even know any of it’s true?” I asked.

“That’s the thing. We don’t.”

All three of us stared at Garrett as he pulled another coin (without asking) from the ear of the woman behind the front desk. Granted, she wasn’t young—judging from the deep creases in the tanned skin of her décolletage, she could have been anywhere from fifty to seventy-five.

But she giggled, loving the attention.

“I guess we’ll just have to keep an eye on him, then, won’t we?” Frannie said.

“Oh, we most certainly will,” Bernadette agreed.

And an eye on Will Price, I thought to myself darkly, thinking of Johnny Kane’s despicable actions in The Moment. Johnny was, after all, in love with a girl whose husband he’d killed (however accidentally). What kind of weirdo thought up a story like that?

Then again, what kind of weirdo wrote twenty-six books about a talking teenage cat?

It was right then that a tall, good-looking man in a sheriff’s uniform strode into the hotel lobby. He held a clipboard and wore an expression of resignation.

“Are we all here now for the author bus to the book festival meet-and-greet?” he asked.

“Yes!” Frannie perked up and waved. “Here we are.”

“Okay, then.” The guy in the sheriff’s uniform tucked his clipboard under his arm and made a twirling motion in the air with a finger. “Let’s move it on out.”

Frannie narrowed her eyes as if she thought we were all about to be kidnapped. “Wait. Who are you? Where’s the librarian, Molly, who picked us up from the airport?”

The uniformed officer heaved a sigh. “Molly asked me to drive the bus this evening since she’s already at the event, helping to set it up. I’m Sheriff John Hartwell, her husband.”

The tightness left Frannie’s face. I could tell that she was thrilled at the idea of having an armed law enforcement official drive her around. Frannie felt unsafe anywhere that wasn’t within one hundred miles of Saks Fifth Avenue . . . and of course Madison Square Garden and her beloved Knicks. “Oh! The sheriff! And Molly’s husband! Well. This is more like it. Let’s go, then.”

As we climbed aboard the author bus—really just a rented mini-shuttle—me using extra care since the heels on my slides were even higher than the ones on my boots, Saul said to his wife, “Frannie, what do you think is going to happen to us? Look at this place, for Christ’s sake. It’s like something out of a movie on the Hallmark Channel.”

He had a point. Maybe I hadn’t noticed it so much on our way from the airport because the sun had been so blindingly bright.

But now, after sunset, I could see that downtown Little Bridge really did look like someplace out of a Christmas rom-com, with its quaint, pastel-colored houses and businesses, mostly little candy and ice-cream shops. Old-fashioned streetlamps weren’t the only things twinkling with holiday lights: strands of lights had been wrapped around the trunks of palm trees all along the street, as well, and every so often, we passed a business with a dolphin or Santa-hat-wearing mermaid in the window, made up entirely of twinkling LED displays.

“Well, I don’t know,” Frannie fussed as she dug inside her purse for her lipstick. “Where is everyone? I’ve hardly seen a single soul.”

“If you’d look up for half a minute, you might be surprised.”

Making an impatient face, Frannie looked up and out the window, then gawked. Tourists, still enjoying their holiday break from school or work, crowded the sidewalks. As they strolled, they paused to listen to musicians playing in open-air bars and restaurants, or simply to take in the ocean view and warm, balmy breeze.

“Wow.” Bernadette, beside me on the bus, was staring out the window, as well, watching the same happy family as they devoured what appeared to be slices of frozen Key Lime pie, dipped in chocolate, on a stick. “I’m starting to feel a little guilty for leaving Jen and the kids behind.”

“Seriously. You’re the worst mom,” I teased her.

“I guess I’m going to have to come back here with them someday.”

“Or just Jen,” I said, as we passed a couple walking hand in hand, holding real coconuts with the tops cut off and straws sticking out of the openings. “Leave the kids behind with your mother.”

“Yeah, that sounds better, actually.”

“I come down here quite a lot,” Garrett volunteered. “I scuba, you know. And the fishing is really great, too. You’ve probably seen on the itinerary for tomorrow that Will Price is taking us all out for a picnic lunch on his cat after our panels.”

I stared. “His what?”

“His catamaran.” Garrett looked at me pityingly. “It’s a type of boat.”

I tried to hide my disappointment that it wasn’t a real cat, though obviously I’d been uncertain how we were going to have lunch on one. Still, you never knew. Florida was weird. “Oh.”

“From what I hear, Will’s is a real beauty, a sixty footer, brand-new. Probably set him back a couple million. But don’t worry.” Garrett, apparently mistaking our stunned silence—two million dollars? For a boat?—for fear of deep water, went on, “We won’t head out too far. We’ll probably stick close to the mangroves, so if you’d prefer to do some snorkeling or something, that’d be fine. I could help if you want to learn to scuba. I’m certified for open water.”

“Gee,” I said. “That’s so sweet. I think I’ll stay at the hotel and try to write.” Or finish Will’s terrible book.

“I’m going!” Saul was guileless enough that he didn’t realize Garrett’s invitation hadn’t been extended to him. “I’d love to scuba!”

To his credit, Garrett looked surprised but didn’t withdraw his invitation just because Saul was of the male persuasion.

“That’d be great,” he said. “I’d love to teach you, Saul. You, too, Mrs. Coleman.”

But Frannie was having none of it. “Saul, you are not going scuba diving off some boat tomorrow! Do you even watch the news? Don’t you see all the people who fall overboard and get caught in riptides and drown or get eaten by sharks every year in Florida?”

“Actually, we’ve yet to lose a single citizen to sharks,” Sheriff Hartwell said mildly from the driver’s seat. He’d put on the brake. “We have nurse sharks around here, but they never attack anyone unless provoked. They’re more scared of you than you should be of them. Anyway, we’re here. Will Price’s house.”