Chapter One

Saturday, April 23--9:47A.M.

In her darker moments Abby Donovan had often fantasized that her career of choice might lead her to become intimately acquainted with the phrase "Would you like fries with that?" But she'd never guessed she'd end up embracing the traditional uniform of working women the world over--the bunny costume.

She'd started her morning safely tucked away in an upscale bookstore's version of a greenroom. It didn't look anything like the greenrooms at the Today show or even Book World Weekly. There were no comfy sofas or silver-plated trays of warm, gluten-free muffins and organic fruit. There were no fawning handlers asking if there was anything they could do to make her more comfortable while she waited for her cue to take the stage.

There was only a desk littered with mountains of yellowing publishing house catalogues and a creaky folding chair crammed between two towering stacks of boxes. Boxes of books that were probably going to be returned to the publisher for credit without ever being opened. The open door at the back of the room gave her an all too clear view of a bathroom that looked as if it hadn't been cleaned since the first season of Survivor.

Okay, so it wasn't really wasn't a greenroom at all, just an oversize storage closet.

Abby had sat hunched in the cold metal folding chair while she waited to be summoned, nervously eyeing the boxes of books and wondering how long it would take someone to find her if they toppled over on top of her. Despite the soothing strains of what sounded like The Worst of Yanni being piped through the overhead speakers, her nerves were jittering like she'd had a triple shot of espresso in her Skinny Caramel Macchiato instead of her usual double. She'd never been particularly prone to stage fright, but lately just the prospect of leaving her apartment for a trip to the corner bodega made her break out in icy beads of flop sweat. She stole a look at her watch, then sighed.

Maybe they figured if they left her there long enough, she'd start scrubbing the rust stains from the cracked vinyl around the toilet bowl.

Desperate for something to occupy both her hands and her mind, she reluctantly lowered her gaze to the book lying in her lap.

The perky little gold seal on the front of the dust jacket announced to the world that both the book and its author were Something Special. That they had been chosen. Annointed. Smiled down upon by the benevolent goddess of Mount Harpo herself--Oprah Winfrey.

Being chosen for Oprah's book club was a little like being struck by lightning at the precise moment you won the lottery. It left you dazed by your own (presumably undeserved) good fortune and basking in a spotlight that faded all too quickly, leaving you blinded by its glare. Like most lottery winners, you were likely to end up going bankrupt within six months. And like most people who are struck by lightning, you had a ninety percent chance of survival, but you were never going to be exactly the same.

Four years later, Abby was still waiting to see if she would make it.

Hoping to avoid the humiliation of being caught reading a book she had authored she flipped the book over. A younger, glossier version of herself smiled up at her from the back of the dust jacket. It wasn't hard for her to eye the photo with the critical eye of a stranger. The publicist provided by her publisher had chosen her wardrobe, her makeup, even her hairstyle for the photo...