Page 83 of Speak from the Heart

“Wisdom sounds like you need to be ancient. You going to keep living your life and hope wisdom just comes to you? What experiences are you having to gain wisdom?”

Jesus, she almost sounds like Grace.

“Living life is how you gain wisdom,” she says. “And besides, no one reads the paper anyway. It’s too depressing.” She scoffs, trying to lessen the tension building in her advice to me.

I want to tell her I am living my life, but I pause. Am I really?

“Your life is your greatest story, Em. Are you living it?” Grace said to me weeks ago. Weeks ago, when I was in Elk Lake City and everything was new, scary, and thrilling with one Jess Carter.

“Plenty of people do still read the newspaper,” I defend, smiling through my roundabout admission that she isn’t completely wrong. Some news is depressing, and other news is just plain boring to report.

“Yes, but do you still like writing for it?” It isn’t the strangest question to ask.

I’ve been asking myself the same one for almost two weeks.

+ + +

Shortly after I hang up with Tricia, Doug calls me into his office.

“Why didn’t you tell me Elizabeth Parrish was your grandmother?”

I stare at him, blinking in confusion. “Actually, I told you repeatedly who my grandmother was, but it never seemed of any interest to you.”

When I first mentioned the syndicated columnist was my dear nana, my boss scoffed, stating a column on etiquette did not make her a journalist. However, the fact is she was, and at a time when women didn’t do such a thing as work outside the home or express their opinions.

“As you know, City’s Edge has an affiliate publishing house,” he continues. I do know this. Our paper is a part of a large media corporation, which boasts of print and visual news in addition to traditional paper publishing. “I have word they’d like to write a book about her life.”

I stare at my editor, my heart racing. This . . . this . . . Is. So. Big. This bypasses the column I’ve finally begun writing and fulfills a lifelong dream I wasn’t certain would come to fruition, especially after my conversation with Tricia.

Am I living experiences which give me wisdom? Or am I still floating in the current of life?

“They’re thinking of asking Simon Goodwin to write it,” Doug interjects.

Simon Goodwin? Who the hell is Simon Goodwin? And why aren’t they asking me? I work for this company. I’ve been writing here for ten years. I know the subject intimately. She was my grandmother!

“No.”

“Excuse me?” My boss looks up at me, his eyes bloodshot from reading under fluorescent lights.

“No. No, I will not let some man named Simon Goodwin write my grandmother’s story.”

Doug straightens in his seat, placing his elbows on his desk. His fingertips are steeped at his lips. His mouth gapes, but I continue.

“I’ve worked for this paper for nearly a decade, and I’ve been passed over for every Tom, Dick, and Harry to write articles I’ve researched or newsworthy stories I’ve followed, but I draw the line at this. This is everything I’ve ever wanted and more than I could have ever asked for, and I will not let someone else have it.” My voice rises, and my blood races within me. “If I have to get a lawyer to investigate my rights, I will, because I won’t let someone else write her story. It’s me or no one.”

“Emily . . .” Doug begins, but I can already hear his retort. Some insult about a better man for the job. Not journalist. Man.

I hold up my hand to interrupt him and speak. “You know what, Doug? Save it. I’ve heard enough over the years. I quit.”

I turn on my heels, still not certain I just said what I said and stalk to my desk. Within three minutes, I’ve collected my things, noting how sad it is that after a decade of sitting in this spot, I can fit all my personal effects in a printer paper box.

“Don’t be rash,” Doug says, finally approaching me in the outer office. “We gave you the column.”

“Gave me?” I stammer. “I deserved that column. I earned it,” I tell him. I’m already doing better with the two I’ve published than Frank did in the past three years of writing it. Gave it to me? Like a concession. “I’m not being rash. For the first time ever, I’m . . . I’m going to be happy.”

I brush past my boss—the man who has passed me up for other men, time and time again—and make my way to the elevator, but I’m not a total fool. I’m a woman on a mission, and I press the up button instead of down and head for the top floor. I plan to have an impromptu meeting with the president of our company, who happens to be a woman.

Estelle Prescott takes me without an appointment.