Take Me Home for Christmas by Tracy Solheim

“Do you know who Everett West is?” Madelaine asked.

Everyone with access to a television knew who Everett West was. He’d been a globe-trotting war reporter for the past thirty-five years.

“He’s writing his memoir,” Elle responded. “We are serializing it in the magazine. The number of readers downloading the chapters has quadrupled over the past three months.”

Helen beamed at her. “Impressive. You know your stats about other aspects of the magazine besides your own.”

“The serialization is meant to whet the appetite of readers in hopes of getting them to order the book when we release it in July,” Madelaine explained.

“The problem we have,” Helen added, “is that Everett hasn’t quite finished the manuscript despite signing a contract stipulating he would complete it by the first of this month.”

“Oh.” Elle looked between the two women, still unsure what this had to do with her.

Helen shook her head. “Mm. Men aren’t always good at keeping their promises as I’m sure you are aware, Elinor.”

Whoa!

Was Helen apologizing for her worm of a grandson?

Madelaine leaned forward in her chair. “We need Everett to finish this book by the end of the year, or the magazine will run out of material to serialize.”

“And we won’t have any way to fulfill those preorders,” Elle added.

“Exactly!” Helen slapped her palm on the table.

Elle continued to gaze at the two women, trying to divine some sort of explanation as to why they were telling her this. “That’s a serious problem for the entire company.”

“Everett doesn’t seem to be able to focus on the manuscript here in New York.” Madelaine sighed. “Too many distractions.”

“Too many cronies to go out drinking with, you mean,” Helen muttered.

If Madelaine agreed with her boss’ sentiments, she was too professional to show it. “We need him to go someplace quiet, someplace with a lot slower pace and fewer diversions so he can buckle down and get the job done.”

The man had reported from deep below the ocean inside a Polaris submarine, while rumbling along in a tank in Iraq, and even while embedded in the Afghan desert with special forces. Surely, he didn’t need a convent to finish his memoir? He already knew the ending, after all.

“Do you need me to research some potential places?” Elle asked.

“No, no, dear girl.” Helen waved a hand. “In fact, Jeremy gave me the most brilliant idea earlier this week when we met for dinner. He was reminiscing wistfully about the wonderful times he spent when you two visited your mother’s inn in North Carolina.”

Elle tried not to bristle. Why would Jeremy be “reminiscing wistfully” about the Tide Me Over Inn? He only visited there twice. Now that she thought about it, both times he found something to complain about—from the inn to Chances Inlet. He’d found the whole town to be “provincial.”

“My mother’s inn? You want Mr. West to go there to finish his book?”

Both women nodded.

“Um, sure. I’m happy to check with her to see what openings she has. Christmas time is usually as popular as the summer months in Chances Inlet, though. I can research some backup inns just in case.”

Please, Mom, don’t let your inn be full.

“No need.” Helen grinned. “I’ve already spoken with your mother. She’s arranged a suite for Everett through the end of the year.”

“Oh.” Elle was surprised her mom hadn’t said something to her. “That’s great. Do you need me to make any other arrangements for him?”

“Everything is all taken care of.” Helen stood. “You’ll both be flying out first thing tomorrow. Everett has less than five weeks to finish his damn book. I’m counting on you, Elinor, to see that he does. If it comes down to it, chain him to a chair. Stand over him twenty-four hours a day. Whatever it takes.” She gave Elle’s shoulder a gentle squeeze as she walked past. “I know you’re up to the task.”

The publisher was out of the room before Elle realized the impact of her words.

“Wait. What?” she whispered. “No, no, no.”