I’d joked with her once that we were just born in the wrong era. If we were alive during the Renaissance period, we’d have been held up as the epitome of the female form. Just look at all the plus-sized, half-naked women lounging around on oil canvases from that era.
For some reason, she didn’t think my comparison was funny.
She squeezes me around my neck, then lets go. “Martha Ann Aldridge, you have some explaining to do.”
“It was just a cookie, Mom.” I try to hide the roll of my eyes.
“I’m not talking about the cookie. I’m talking about you, Julien, and a dinner invitation.”
I wince. “You heard about that, did you?”
“I was polishing the wood in Mr. King’s home office when he and Mrs. King were talking to Julien on speakerphone.” She puts her palms on my cheeks so she can look into my eyes without me averting my gaze. “Now, tell your mother why the Kings wanted to have a meal with you. What’s going on?”
I can see the concern on her face. Both my parents had been privy to the crushing blow Mr. King had given me. They’d watched helplessly as I’d floundered in the aftermath.
All my life, I’d thought I’d been so lucky. That the stars had aligned and a divine plan had unfolded that the family mine worked for owned a publishing company. How fortuitous when all I wanted to do for the rest of my life was create and weave stories, writing books that Mr. King would one day distribute to the world.
For some reason, I hadn’t even considered that my writing would be less than desirable, almost painful to read. That my characters were one-dimensional and lacking any sort of believability, my plots prosaic and uninspired, my dialogue stilted and cliché. That one of the leaders in the industry, someone who knew what he was talking about and not just a random person off the street, would tell me that I shouldn’twaste my time chasing a dream that would never come true. That he was doing me a favor by giving the facts to me straight, and I should pursue other avenues because he couldn’t foresee any scenario in which anything I wrote would ever be published by King or any other publishing house.
Mom especially had been so upset that she’d talked about finding another family to work for. Dad was on board with the idea, and I loved them so much for their loyalty to me and fierce love that they’d give up both their jobs and their home for my sake. I’d talked them out of it, of course. I was crushed but thinking rationally enough not to let them do anything so extreme. I wasn’t the first person to see her dreams get trampled or swallow the hard pill of reality, and I wouldn’t be the last.
Mom’s concern now is that of a parent remembering the hurt done to her child. It’s been fifteen years in which I’ve had little to nothing to do with any of the Kings, and now, all of a sudden I’ve been invited to have a meal with them for no apparent reason. She’s afraid of Mr. King saying something that will hurt me again in some way. Except for this little hiccup at the library, my life has been running on a stable course. Mom’s afraid of Mr. King derailing that a second time.
I gently twist out of her palms and lick my lips, scrambling to come up with an explanation that won’t make the worried crease between her brows deepen. “It was a job interview ... of sorts.”
“A job?” Mom asks incredulously.
Dad follows with “Of sorts?”
I take a bite of the cookie in my hand, buying myself a moment and also because the comfort of sugar and butter sounds good right now.
Mom narrows her gaze at the offending sweet but again doesn’t give voice to her negative thoughts about food. Her eyes jump back up to mine, clear, and then practically shineas if they are backlit by a theater spotlight. “Is he publishing one of your stories?”
I’m glad I’ve already swallowed the morsel in my mouth or I would’ve choked. As if I’d ever have the courage/gumption/stupidity to pitch another of my stories to John King. I’d rather sing an aria in front of Simon Cowell, and I can’t carry a tune in a bucket to save my life.
“No.” I cast my gaze over to Dad, who seems the safer of the two at the moment. “Julien is the one who hired me, actually.”
Dad hooks his thumbs in his work suspenders and studies me wordlessly.
Mom always has something to say, however, and her voice pulls my attention back to her.
“Julien? To work for King Publishing? In what capacity? And why did Mr. and Mrs. King want you to come over for dinner? They never invite new hires to their home for a meal.” She shakes her head, her curly hair bouncing with the movement. “None of this makes sense, Martha dear.”
Mom obviously will not let this drop without a full and complete explanation, so I quickly give her the rundown of everything that’s happened. Her expression turns from surprised to concerned, back to surprised, then contemplative, until finally landing on smug.
“Well, you know what the solution is, don’t you?” she says so certainly that I wonder if I’ve missed something glaringly obvious.
“What?”
“You! Mr. Julien needs an author that can write him a bestseller...” She splays her hands towards me likebehold, I present to you the answer tohis problem.
My throat constricts.
“Meghan.” Dad’s voice holds a warning tone.
Mom spins to look at him and plants her hands on her hips. “What? Mr. Julien is not Mr. King, and do you not agree withme that Martha’s stories deserve to be published? That people need to read the words she’s written?”
His eyes meet mine. “Of course I do.”