Grace Fitzgerald read an excerpt, a scene in which the woman stood on the shore of Lake Superior. It was a cold winter day, months after her husband had vanished. Snow spit from a gray sky and gray waves washed at her feet with an incessant voice that was “the bleak whisper of a bleak forever.” It was the moment she wrapped her heart around the cold truth: He would never come back to her. The voice of the water called to her. She considered the black unknown of death, something that seemed at that moment far better than the stark cold air that sustained her. She teetered, her foot poised to take that longest of steps.
Grace stopped reading. The room held its breath. But Grace Fitzgerald did not go on.
“I’d be glad to answer any questions,” she said. “If you have any.”
A hand went up from one of the chairs near the front. “Ms. Fitzgerald-”
“Call me Grace.”
“Have you had any movie offers, Grace?”
“Honestly, I have no intention of letting Hollywood have my story. I’m sure they’d find a way to slip in car chases and exploding buildings.”
Jo was surprised to see Jenny put up a hand. “Are you really related to F. Scott Fitzgerald?”
“Absolutely. He was my grandfather’s cousin. I’m sure that’s where I get whatever literary talent I have. And just in case you’re wondering, I got my nose from my mother’s side.”
There was general laughter, polite.
“Grace,” Maggie Nelson said. “You’ve written one of the most beautiful books about a man and woman in love. I guess we all know it’s based on your own experience. Does Karl ever get, well, jealous of how you feel about your first husband?”