Chapter One

For Cait Durant, editing was a delicate game of excavation. She used a sort-of x-ray vision to trace the sparkling, branching veins of goodness within the bedrock of each manuscript. Almost every time, hiding there, just beneath the surface, was exactly what needed to be exposed to enrich the writing currently on the page—or her screen. The glow of her laptop was a miner’s headlamp laying bare every clumsy turn of phrase, heavy-handed characterization, or missed opportunity. She loved to read above all else, and when she’d been young and whimsical, she’d thought she’d grow up to be a writer. The ability to read critically had come slowly at first, but the first time she’d unearthed something not quite right in an essay that had seemed perfect on her first reading, she found her calling with the resonant click of the right path opening before her.

She had been successfully freelancing for the last five years and had turned her home office into a sanctum of thought and productivity, complete with a full-spectrum lamp, a shudderingly expensive sit-stand desk, and a small white-noise machine she’d bought when her neighbor to the left and his girlfriend had gone through a phase so passionate and loud with sex that Cait was equally disturbed and impressed.

The only regular disturbance to her work now was Pancho Villa, her Great Dane. She had adopted Pancho when buffeted by loneliness, so far removed from the act of being intimate with another woman that she couldn’t quite remember how it went. While he grew and grew and grew—he now stood chest high to Cait…when he bothered to get out of his cushy bed in the corner—they had provided each other with much-needed affection. Then, as it sometimes went, acquiring this companion had activated the universe’s bent toward coupledom, and she’d met Lauren.

Lauren had seemed to like Pancho well enough, even though he was alarmingly large, even as a six-month-old puppy. But a couple of years later, in their final acrimonious weeks together, she’d referred to him as “livestock.” Though Cait told herself that was certainly just spite, she had upped the frequency of his baths, something she did outside whenever the weather permitted. Her tub was child-sized, not even big enough for her, let alone a squirming cow of a dog. It didn’t fix anything. Pancho now smelled fresh as the proverbial daisy, but the bitter stink of her breakup with Lauren still permeated the apartment.

Lauren had had a lot to say at the end, accusing Cait of being shut down and controlling and of working too much at a job she was never going to be acknowledged for doing. She took issue with the intense training Cait had put Pancho through to make him a model citizen, claiming the dog was now unnaturally behaved. She got on Cait for not introducing her to Cait’s family and even for her “obsession” with lifting weights at the gym. But, of course, she’d never complained about the resulting solidness of Cait’s body, how fleshy and strong she was, or how completely Cait could cover her in bed, her almost-six-foot frame good for something other than swimming and lifting. No, but she’d spent plenty of time conjecturing why Cait had gotten a dog nearly as big as she was, hinting at some sort of complex when it had just seemed like the most natural thing. Who could picture her with a Chihuahua?

The breakup had taken Cait by surprise, like the unsupported twist ending of an otherwise capable novel. Either Lauren’s capacity for vitriol had been stealthy or Cait had been oblivious. It had made her wonder what else she wasn’t seeing about her life, but instead of taking a good look around, she did exactly what would have made Lauren roll her eyes in exasperation: she doubled down on work.

She made her living doing contract editing for individual writers as well as for some smaller presses and bigger websites. A good portion of her work came from Grovetree Press, which published a couple of dozen titles a year and accounted for half of her billable hours. Martha Grimes steered the ship over there and threw Cait work with such regularity that the two of them had become friends, trading witty emails and conversation over the thousand miles between Chicago, where Martha lived, and Boston, where Cait had lived since she’d left her hometown in far eastern Tennessee as soon as humanly possible to move into her college’s dorms and make her start as a student-athlete.

Though she’d lived all over the city over the last ten years, now she rented a place in North Cambridge, spitting distance from Arlington and neither here nor there, which is what helped make it affordable. She could walk to the T, her gym, a Foodmaster grocery store, and, with a little extra stretch in her step, to Davis Square in Somerville, where she could satisfy her craving for barbeque, tacos, and ice cream, among other things. Though her neighborhood had started succumbing to gentrification, rents were still reliably low, and her side street was quiet and more tree-lined than others. She’d moved into this building two years before and wasn’t planning on leaving any time soon.

Through her window, the light on this late-winter day had started to wane, and every time she moved, Pancho raised his head from where he was curled up on his bed, signaling that it was time for his evening perambulation. Being a big dog didn’t mean he needed or even wanted big exercise. Great Danes were essentially overgrown lap dogs and were largely content following their owners around the house. Pancho had been an exuberant puppy when she’d rescued him, a big baby forever growing into his paws and head, but now he was dignified in his middle age, having turned three a few months before. In honor of his most recent trip around the sun, Cait had bought him a ridiculously expensive doggie dessert at a boutique pet store a couple of miles down Mass Ave from her apartment. Even though he demolished it in half the time it took for her to unpackage it, it had felt like money well spent.

She turned to him. “One more call, buddy.” His tail thumped, but he didn’t get up. While she lowered her desk from its standing position, she called Martha about the book she’d just finished reading, the first of two passes she’d make for this developmental editing run. This kind of work was much more exciting than line editing, though she offered both services. Line work was like detailed embroidery compared to development, which operated at the higher level of the fabric itself, examining its warp and weave and the way it was dyed and cut. Story arcs, characterization, motivation, themes, and resonance were why she got up in the morning. She didn’t just do this for the money, though that was nice; she truly loved her work and loved the high of accomplishment that solving editorial puzzles left her with.

Martha answered. “You’re so good at coming in as the last call of the day.”

“You’re a creature of habit, and I pay attention.” Cait eased herself into her chair. Martha had two kids and a husband—a family with all the trimmings, as Cait thought of it—and she did an admirable job of turning off the publisher side of her identity in the evenings and for most weekends. Better than Cait, according to Lauren.

“Please tell me you’re calling about Put Title Here.”

“I just finished it.” Cait took a beat to find the words she should have arranged in her mind before even picking up the phone.

“Whoa, really?”

“I haven’t even said anything.”

“Your pauses are eloquent. And the tone of your voice.”

“Now you sound like my mother.” She leaned back in her chair and gazed up at the ceiling, which was “popcorned” with little balls of plaster.

“You didn’t like it?”

“I wouldn’t put it that way, and it doesn’t matter whether I like something or not.” Though, of course, it helped if she could balance her intellectual and emotional responses. Besides, if she truly hated the thing, she’d be way more diplomatic about it, given how much of her rent Grovetree paid. “It’s just not as far along as I’d think it’d be at this point.”

“Fine. Point taken, but it’s a great story, and there are some real gems hidden in the sentences.”

“I totally agree, but there’s a bunch of excavation and restructuring necessary to make it shine the way it should. Consider the character of Dahlia, who’s introduced in the first chapter but dropped until the second half of the book. Or the secondary story of the car and its restoration and ownership? Maybe that could serve a purpose, but I’m not sure what it’s doing in there right now. It’s taking up easily fifteen thousand words, which is a lot of real estate. If it was a boat, it might make more sense because then it would tie in Richard and Ursula even more.”

“That’s brilliant. All of it, but the boat? I can’t see that. Cait, you know I buy more for potential than what’s literally on the page, and that’d be a terrible strategy if I didn’t have you in our corner.”

Cait’s neck started to complain at her position, but she didn’t move. She still felt the urge to reach up and memorize the textured ceiling’s bumps and crevices with her fingertips. She waited, playing phone chicken with Martha, though she knew she was doomed to break first. And she did. “How’s the author going to take this feedback? I’m assuming it’s a man?” She always read her manuscripts scrubbed clean of identifying information the first pass through so she wouldn’t get biased.

“What makes you assume that?”

“It would be a very special woman to know that much about a 1966 BMW 2002. Not impossible but unlikely. And his female characters are a little less developed than the men.”

“It took him seven years to find a publisher—”

Probably because the manuscript was still a mess.

“—so he’ll do whatever we ask of him as long as we’re not talking about substantial changes to the story.”

Cait had been around the block enough to know what that really meant and thought about passing on the project. Her contracts always had an out written into them, but even though she and Martha were friendly, refusing something would certainly leave a bad taste in Martha’s mouth and could jeopardize future business.

She said, “Okay, but please send out an introductory email or put a meeting together so everyone can be clear on expectations before we start.”

“Your wish is my command.”

“As if. I still have to read it again, okay? It’ll take a couple weeks, but I wanted to give you a heads-up that I think it’s going to take some time for the author to make the kind of changes I’m going to be suggesting.”

“Noted. Just as long as he stays on the path for publication in eighteen months at most. This will be the featured book for next fall.”

Cait couldn’t stop a laugh. “Sorry. It’s just that the timeline is entirely up to him, as you know.” After some ending pleasantries, she hung up and set down her phone, feeling a certain ominous anxiety in the pit of her stomach. This time, when she got up, Pancho followed her lead, his tail sweeping the air behind him, thwacking on the bookshelf to his right. “Out?” she asked, which made him lope to the front door and smell its handle like he’d never been there before.

After making sure no one was in the hallway, she slipped out of the apartment with him and down the stairs, taking a right when they hit the sidewalk. Pancho garnered a lot of attention, especially when he was walking along with his square head held high, sniffing the crook of Cait’s elbow. Either people were afraid of him, which Cait could understand, or they were fascinated, remarking on his size, the distinguishing black spots on his gray coat, the set of his eyes, and the length of his muzzle. Sometimes they approached without asking, overcome by their own excitement. Cait let them pet Pancho and look him up and down, giving him his five minutes of fame before urging him along to accomplish the actual aim of their going outside.

She didn’t mind the attention because it wasn’t really directed at her, but there were times when her purposeful stride was interrupted too often, and she got cranky. Evenings were better, since they arrived at the park after most people had gone home to dinner, two giant specimens of their respective species, moving under the radar in the dark or late evening’s light. A matched set. She was always more frustrated than Pancho at the lack of exercise, but their walks were at least a little about her, her needs mattering no less than his. She was the one who kept him in the heap of kibble he required, after all.

He reminded her of the things in her life that made her happy and her own participation in her happiness. His familiar face and lumbering run; a sparkling turn of phrase; the luxurious sheets she’d just purchased; springtime in Boston, which was exuberant with blooms and a pale, robin’s egg sky; and the smell of the gym, down to the metallic tang of the bench press bar. She was generally positive about things, especially her ability to craft each day to her own specifications: freedom and self-direction. But then she tripped on the fact that the only one around to share these things with was Pancho.

Sometimes she wondered if he’d be the only match she’d ever have. Even months after the fact, Lauren’s parting words still stung, her accusation too close to the truth to be dismissed. “You’re always telling people how wrong they are from behind the scenes but never putting yourself out there to be criticized.” There’d been more, but her ears had stopped working at some point, turning Lauren into a silent movie of disdain. Had she really thought that? If so, how did they make it over two years together? How much had been an act and how much had been real? If Cait could go back, what would she have to edit to have their story come out differently in the end—or to avoid an end entirely?

She rested her hand on Pancho’s back, absorbing the reassuring warmth of him. She didn’t tell people what was wrong with them, not really. The only right or wrong in writing could be caught with fact-checking, not what she did. “Wrong” was the wrong word, though she supposed that was more of her nitpicking. She dealt with unearthing potential, in seeing both what wasn’t there and what could be changed in what was, in envisioning a more ideal state and some possible paths to get there from where they all started. If people took this as telling them they were wrong, that was their fault.

But, of course, this was exactly what she was afraid of with Martha’s new acquisition. Telling someone their book could be great if they only reworked it significantly required a tact she didn’t always have the mental fortitude to employ. Maybe that was why Lauren had left. She’d started out loving Cait’s bluntness, but Cait knew it could wear thin. Calling it like she saw it was helpful in some ways and harmful in others, and Cait didn’t always know the difference.

She goosed Pancho into a more purposeful walk to forestall any more social encounters and rounded the corner that would take them home.