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“Daphne’s going to come up here,” he said. “She’s going to explain a few things, but I can tell you that she’s going to do a crappy job of it because she doesn’t want to make excuses—she wants to take full responsibility. She’s going to apologize and reassure you that you can get your money back if you feel cheated. And you can. If you are disappointed to discover that I didn’t write this book, the publisher will reimburse you and the bookstore will still keep their share.”
He stepped forward and looked out. “But if you’re unsure how you feel and you haven’t read it, can I suggest you try it? If you still feel that the right person to write it isn’t this woman”—he clicked to a shot of Daphne as a teenager on a camping trip with her mother and grandparents, grinning and holding a crossbow—“then I will provide an email address for you to write to, and I will personally refund your money.”
Daphne looked over at him sharply. That personal refund had not been part of the plan. He studiously avoided her gaze, and her eyes filled with grateful tears for his support.
Chris turned off the presentation and then walked back toward the audience. “You’re all wondering why. Why is it my picture on that book? Why am I the one up here pretending I wrote it? And you might be asking why anyone would do that. Like I said, you might not get the full answer from Daphne, but you’ll get the short version from me.”
He looked out and met their gazes. “I’m sure we have some writers here. What would you do to get your story into the world? Not to make tons of money off it—if you know the business, you know you’re better buying a lottery ticket.”
Soft laughter.
Chris continued, “What would you do to get your story out there? Would you let someone else pretend they wrote it? Would you put someone else’s picture on your book cover? Would you sit at that table and smile and pretend to be the author’s assistant? Which part is most important to you? Being up onstage talking about your book? Signing copies of your book? Or writing it and getting it out there in the world and maybe, if you’re lucky, getting the chance to write another?”
He looked over at Daphne. “I might not be a writer, but I’m in love with one, and I’ve seen what she’s gone through and the sacrifices she made and the guilt she feels. I’ve also seen just how damn much she loves what she does… and how much readers love it back.”
Then he turned back to the audience. “Now, I’m going to go over and talk to Daphne. I’ll stand in front of her, giving anyone who wants to leave the chance to do so discreetly. Then she’s going to come up here and speak to you herself.”
He did just that. He walked over to the table and blocked her view of the audience. Not that she’d have dared look. Not that she could look anyway. Her entire attention was on him.
“That was…” she began. Her words stuck in her throat.
“The worst PowerPoint presentation ever? Hey, I said I liked them. I didn’t say I was good at them.”
“No.” She stood and leaned over to press her lips to his. “It was incredible. Thank you.”
They talked for another minute. Then he said, “Are you ready?”
She swallowed and nodded.
Chris stepped aside. Without glancing at the audience, she walked to the podium. Then she looked. There was one empty seat to her left, quickly filled by someone who’d been standing. A few people were settling, as if they’d also taken empty seats, but when she looked at the crowd, she couldn’t see any difference. Most people were still there. Still there and looking up at her and smiling. Someone clapped. Then another person joined in, and tears filled Daphne’s eyes as she paused a moment to take it all in.
Then she stepped up to the podium and started to talk.
DAPHNE
ONE YEAR LATER
Hello again, Chicago!” Chris said into the cordless mic. He paused and turned to Daphne, seated on a stool behind him. “It is Chicago, right?”
She held up a sheet of paper with the schedule.
“Whew, yes,” he said. “Hello, Chicago!”
The applause echoed through the auditorium as he looked out at the packed auditorium. Five hundred seats, Sakura said, and it’d sold out two weeks ago.
It’d been a year since the night Chris first brought her onstage as the author of Edge. The following few weeks had been chaos, handled by Sakura, who’d earned herself a promotion with her incredible work.
Oh, there had been critical media—some very critical. Daphne was a charlatan. She’d done it for the publicity. She’d betrayed women writers everywhere by taking a male name. But Sakura had spun it into the right kind of story, with a feminist angle, and for every critical story there’d been two positive ones.
Her career had survived. Better than survived, if this sold-out theater was any indication.
As for her relationship with Chris, it was also thriving. As planned, they were dividing their time between Vancouver and the Yukon. He was settling into northern life, and Daphne had even bought a cottage down the lake for rental income plus extra room when his family visited. Even better? It was the cottage where Robbie used to live. The owner had finally evicted him and sold it, and Robbie had moved back to wherever he’d come from.
Chris had taken his business mostly virtual, and she was easing out of architecture, only finishing jobs she’d committed to pre-Edge. That was partly to focus on writing and partly to slow down and enjoy life. And these days she was absolutely enjoying life.
Onstage, Chris said, “You are the first stop on our eight-city tour.” Then he turned to Daphne again. “Still eight?”
“Ten,” she said. “They added two Canadian stops.”
