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“Have you heard anything about theTruthmovie?” he asked Olga. “Was it green-lighted?”
“I have no idea.” She huffed a little. “You sold yourself short in that deal. I could have demanded a lot more.”
Lincoln shrugged.
“Why did you do that, anyway?” Olga reached for her porcelain cup of coffee. “You’ve always been willing to hold out for what you’re really worth. You practically gave away the rights toTruth.”
It was a matter of perspective, really. Jake Ryan had paid a hefty sum for the rights to turnTruthinto a movie. Yes, a Hollywood studio would have shelled out a much bigger check, but after the debacle of the previous film attempt, Lincoln wanted his novel in the hands of a filmmaker who actually cared about and understood the story. Based on his letter, Jake was the right man.
“Guess it was about more than the money.” Lincoln pushed back his cuff and checked his watch. “I’ve gotta get over to Folio for a couple of meetings.”
Olga’s mouth dipped downward. “Any word on the genre fiction imprints? I’ve heard rather unsavory rumors.”
Lincoln shook his head. Olga had been his agent for years, but she also represented three other authors who were contracted to Folio Publishing, the historic Atwood family company. The last thing he wanted was rumors that Folio might soon drop all their genre fiction authors, even if the rumors were true.
“Have you found someone to take the vacant seat on the board yet?” Olga asked.
“Still working on it.” For months, Lincoln had been looking for the right people to fill two empty seats on the board. He’d found a former editor to take one, but the second remained unfilled. “I’ll let you know when I’m leaving again.”
“Don’t keep me waiting too long for an outline.” Olga waved her manicured hand. “Everyone is clamoring for a new Lincoln Atwood book. I’d love to get you submitted for next year’s Booker Prize.”
Lincoln made a noncommittal response and pulled on his raincoat before heading out into the gray April afternoon. He took a cab back to the Upper West Side brownstone that had belonged to his father. He picked up the mail and shuffled through it.
A thick envelope held budget paperwork and agenda items related to Folio Publishing. Lincoln had taken over the company’s operations after his father died two years ago, only to discover that Folio had been struggling with smaller print runs, decreased revenue, and fewer publications.
Though he’d intended only to have a peripheral role in the company, he hadn’t wanted to leave both the employees and authors in the lurch. So he’d tackled the job of increasing Folio’s profits, only to find he was up against longstanding, entrenched procedures that made the process of change slow at best.
Even now, Folio was still hovering in the red. Against Lincoln’s wishes, the board members were preparing to vote at next month’s meeting on getting rid of the genre fiction imprints in favor of bigger literary titles and non-fiction.
He scrolled on his phone and brought up Jake Ryan’s initial email. He dialed the home number listed at the bottom.
“Hello?” A woman’s smooth, warm voice floated over the line.
“Hello, I’m trying to reach Jake Ryan.” Lincoln drummed his fingers on the counter. “This is Lincoln Atwood. He recently acquired the rights to one of my books.”
She laughed. “I know who you are, Mr. Atwood. But I’m sorry, Jake isn’t home right now. This is his wife, Callie. Is there something I can help you with, or would you like to leave a message?”
“No, I’ll call back.” Lincoln hesitated. “Actually…uh, do you know Sam Atwood? I think he might go by Sam Harris now. Or maybe Donovan.”
She was silent for a moment. “Your brother?”
“Yes.” His jaw tightened. “Is he there? I mean, does he live in Bliss Cove?”
“Of course.” She sounded vaguely puzzled. “He owns the Title Wave bookstore. I can give you the number, if you’d like.”
“No, thank you.” Lincoln’s heart was suddenly beating faster. “There’s…uh, there’s no need to tell him I called.”
“Are you sure?”
“Yes. I’d rather you didn’t, actually.”
“All right. Would you like Jake to call you back?”
“No. Thanks again. Sorry for the trouble.”
“Not at all. It’s an honor to talk to you.”
Lincoln thanked her again and ended the call. A strange agitation filled his veins.
He was used to restlessness—it was the reason he immersed himself in the world of his books before he even wrote one word. He’d spent months working on an Alaskan fishing boat. He’d embedded with military troops and lived with Bedouins in the Syrian desert. The experiences fueled his creativity.
But now he was at a standstill. He couldn’t return to Afghanistan until he had official clearance. He hadn’t made arrangements to go anywhere else. He couldn’t work on his book, and he wasn’t interested in staying in New York.
He hadn’t spoken to Sam in five years. If he went to Bliss Cove, his brother probably wouldn’t even want to see him.
But now more than ever, Lincoln had nothing to lose.
