If possible, his brows dip even lower. “Who in their right mind would say that?”
“Sit down,” I tell him, then I do the same. I reach over and retrieve my notebook as he returns to his seat. “I want you to hear what I’m going to say.”
“I’m listening,” he assures me.
“No, you need to do more than listen. You need to open your ears and your heart and hear what I’m going to tell you. Can you do that?”
He blinks, then nods. “Yes, I can do that.”
“Good.” I lick my lips, wishing I could make him see the reality of things without dredging up my personal pain. But my personal painiswhat will make him see. Make him truly listen.
“I’ve been creating stories and writing them down for as long as I can remember. Once upon a time, I wanted to be an author when I grew up. And it was fate, I thought, that I was personally acquainted with the president of a publishing house.”
The flaring of his nostrils indicates Julien suspects where I’m going with this story.
“I brought one of my books to your father. Do you knowwhat he said to me? What he said about my work?” I take a shaky breath in before continuing. “He said that my characters lacked any sort of depth, that they were like the plastic dolls I’d played with as a girl and that came across in their stilted dialogue. After he cut down my world-building, plot structure, and talentless writing craft, he said I had wasted his time in presenting a story that would never be worthy of publication.”
Julien sags in his chair and closes his eyes. I’m pretty sure my words have hit their mark, but pretty sure isn’t good enough in this instance.
“Does any of that sound familiar?” I ask quietly. “Can you even imagine how I felt leaving your father’s office after that?”
“Martha.” His voice is pained. He opens his eyes and reaches across the table to clasp my hand. “I’m so sorry.”
I’ve made it this far without crying, so even though my nose is tingling like I just sniffed a newly opened can of Coke, I will hold the tears at bay. “Do you know why I’m telling you this?”
He hangs his head in shame. “Because I’m just as heartless as he is.”
“No.”
His head whips up, surprise splashed across his features.
“You’veactedas cold and calculating as your father the last few days, but I know you aren’t heartless, Julien.” I pause, then send up a quick prayer that he won’t shut down before pressing. “He called you yesterday, didn’t he? Whatever he said made you start acting like him. Will you please tell me what it was? I want to help, if I can.”
He sighs and retracts his hand from on top of mine. I try to keep myself from feeling too disappointed, but then he speaks. He shares with me his dad’s dizzy spell at work and his frustration and fear about what will happen if things don’t change. The pressure to make everything right and the unspoken promise he’d given his mom to do whatever it took to save Squire and, in so doing, save his father. It all had influencedthe way he approached the pitches and interacted with the writers, much to his chagrin.
“I’m going to make it right,” he promises. “I’m going to apologize to everyone I hurt and give their story ideas the time and attention I should have in the first place. But, Martha...”
He takes ahold of my hand again. I’d be lying if I said his touch and the earnest way he’s looking at me isn’t affecting me at all. That tingly sensation in my nose when I was about to cry has made its way to my stomach, fizzier than any carbonated drink.
“I really do think your book is magnificent. I only read a small portion, and I’m already hooked.”
“You’re just being kind.”
“No, I’m not.” His grip tightens as if he can press the sincerity of his words into me through his fingers. “A book like yours is exactly what we’ve been looking for. Please, at least think about letting me publish it.”
21
The guest speaker has a double-session lecture scheduled right after breakfast on Friday morning, which means I’ve been blessed with a couple of hours of free time. I’d booted up my laptop to go over some of the manuscript proposals from the few authors Julien had requested more information from during the pitch appointments. My computer hadn’t even loaded my internet browser before Julien’s shadow had darkened the screen and he’d told me to take the morning to think about and really consider his offer.
Publication. My stories.
It feels surreal. Like a Salvador Dalí painting. Although now that I’ve been to Florida, melting clocks don’t sound as farfetched as they once did. Still, it’s hard to wrap my head around the idea of my Layla and Max books being published. Of holding them in my hands and seeing them on the shelves of bookstores and libraries.
My insides feel like what happens when you mix vinegar with baking soda. Excitement and anxiousness all bubbling and coalescing. With his suggestion, Julien has set off a reaction that can’t be undone, even though I haven’t yet decided what I’m going to do.
It should be a no-brainer. Even though I set the dream ofbecoming an author aside a long time ago, there are stillwhat-ifsandwhat-could-have-beensechoing around inside my heart. If there weren’t, then I wouldn’t have felt the pangs of residual loss when I’d walked through the King Publishing building or have this sense of an outsider looking in whenever I’m surrounded by the conference attendees.
I may have set the author dream aside, but I’m not sure I ever really and truly let it go altogether.
