The Living Room

by Robert Whitlow

  “Great. Have you been to your mailbox?”

  “No. Why?”

  “The royalty check paid this quarter for A Great and Precious Promise isn’t going to overwhelm you.”

  Amy glanced at the calendar on the wall of the kitchen. She’d not realized it was time for a sales update.

  “I haven’t gotten the statement,” she said.

  “Mine landed on my desk ten minutes before I called. I didn’t want you to be shocked.”

  “Shocked?”

  “Yeah. The total paid for the quarter was $843. After deducting my fifteen percent, your check will be $716.55.”

  Amy leaned against the kitchen counter. “I brought home more than that working two weeks for the law firm.”

  “Which is why most writers don’t quit their day jobs. But it’s not your fault. Listen, I know you don’t want to make the publisher mad by complaining, but it’s my job to speak up for you. Just because a novel has cleared advance isn’t an excuse to drop the ball on marketing. If you give me the green light, I’ll go straight to Dave and find out what’s going on.”

  Dave Coley, the head of the publishing company, was a dour-faced man who rarely smiled.

  “I don’t want to risk having them decide not to exercise the option for a third book,” Amy said.

  “Don’t let fear dictate what we do. We have to hold the publisher’s feet to the marketing fire. A Great and Precious Promise earned back the advance in a little over twelve months. Less than half the novels in this market ever dig out of that hole. My beef is with the lack of ongoing publicity and marketing efforts. You’re a fresh talent that deserves a chance to shine.”

  Amy appreciated Bernie’s zeal, especially considering that his part of the royalty check was only slightly more than a hundred dollars.

  “And The Everlasting Arms is going to solidify your brand and enable you to go to a much higher sales level,” he added.

  “You haven’t read it yet.”

  “I looked at the synopsis and first three chapters. There’s an immediate hook with the conflict between Kelli, Rick, and the old boyfriend with cancer who comes back into her life. A snappy beginning is the key to any story. After a reader swallows the hook, you can drag them anyplace you want.”

  Bernie’s use of clichés and disconnected metaphors was his trademark.

  “The ending is important, too,” Amy said. “And the spiritual message.”

  “Sure, so long as the couple lives happily ever after.”

  “Rick has permanent nerve damage from his battle wounds. Will that spoil the happy ending?”

  “No way. That gives Kelli an excuse to baby him. Women readers love a strong man with just enough weakness to need the feminine touch. Believe me, your new book is going to hit a huge, fat sweet spot in the market.”

  “I don’t exactly say that Kelli is going to baby Rick,” Amy replied, still stuck on Bernie’s previous comment.

  “It’s implied. And if I got the message from the synopsis, don’t you think your intuitive female readers will, too?”

  “I’ll ask Cecilia about it when we talk about the manuscript. Her insights and suggestions about both novels have been so helpful. I don’t know where I’d be without her.”

  “Do whatever you want, but don’t slow down the printing press with more revisions. We need to get this book into the stores as soon as possible.” Bernie paused. “When are you going to start book number three?”

  Amy almost dropped the phone.

  “I thought I’d bake a batch of cookies first,” she managed.

  “Buck up. You’re a professional now with two books under your belt. Remember, a writer isn’t a writer except on the days she turns on the computer and cranks out at least a few decent paragraphs.”

  “I know, but I don’t have an idea for the next novel. I haven’t given it any thought because I didn’t want to be distracted.”

  “And the ability to focus is one of your strengths. Don’t take me wrong. I’m just doing my job. Most cheerleaders have hair on their heads, not their legs, but I’m going to do my best to keep you moving forward.”

  An image of Bernie Masters in a cheerleading uniform flashed before Amy’s eyes. She smiled.

  “Thanks, Bernie. I promise I’ll start praying about my next novel.

  You should pray, too.”

  “My skills lie elsewhere. And hear me on this. I’m not going to let the publisher lie down like a camel in the middle of the road. You did your part delivering a good, solid book. Their job is to make sure it’s on the bookstore shelves and has a strong presence in the e-book market. As soon as Cecilia accepts the manuscript for the new novel, I’ll give Dave a call.”

  “And be nice.”

  “I won’t yell. And get back to me as soon as you have an idea for the next novel. You’ve primed the pump and need to keep the water flowing.”

  The call ended, and Amy placed her phone on the counter. Bernie didn’t know it, but the theme and title for each of Amy’s novels weren’t the result of brainstorming in the writing room, searching the Internet for something that jump-started her creative juices, or flipping through the Bible until a verse caught her eye. Amy was a gifted person with a fertile imagination, but the genesis for her writing came from another source.

  If Amy was going to start writing another book, the first thing she needed to do was fall asleep.

  two

  For most of her life, Amy had known the difference between the chaotic activity that takes place in a regular dream and the serene order of a spiritual one. Regular dreams could be the result of too much pepperoni on a pizza, the unconscious release of pent-up stress, an attempt to work through a real-life problem, or any one of countless other possibilities. Amy rarely remembered the details of regular dreams. Spiritual dreams were less common and much more memorable.

  As a small child, Amy had a series of almost identical dreams in which she found herself in an empty, windowless room with shimmering walls. The best way she could describe the setting to her mother was that the walls seemed to be breathing. And with a child’s literalism, Amy started calling the place “the living room.”

  Just being there was so wonderful that Amy did nothing except bask in the moment. It was a place with fragrant air, clear light, and a presence that permeated her being. No matter how long the dream lasted or what happened during it, Amy never wanted to leave, and she treasured the lingering influence that remained after she awoke.

  When she learned about heaven in Sunday school, Amy had no problem believing Christians could be completely satisfied in a place God had prepared for them. The story of Adam and Eve in the Garden of Eden made perfect sense to her. Human beings were made to be with their Creator. Only in constant communion and fellowship with him could people be fully alive and totally fulfilled.

  Her mother warned her not to talk openly about her dreams, but in childlike enthusiasm Amy mentioned her dreams to a friendly Sunday school teacher. The teacher passed along the information to the church pastor. Soon thereafter, the pastor pulled Amy and her parents aside after a Sunday morning service. Amy couldn’t hear what the grown-ups discussed, but her mother sat her down when they got home and sternly told her to keep quiet about her dream life.

  The other times Amy said something to friends or relatives about her dreams, she received strange looks or comments about her vivid imagination. Eventually, she stopped trying to share what was so intensely private and precious. Words couldn’t adequately describe the supernatural. The human mind isn’t naturally programmed to comprehend spiritual experiences.

  When she was twelve, Amy had her first spiritual dream that was both visual and auditory. A tall, skinny, introverted girl with a mild acne problem, Amy was going through the intense insecurity common to preteen girls who don’t have a perfect body shape and bubbly personality. One night, as she was leaving the living room, she heard a penetrating voice say, He brought me to the banqueting house, and his banner over me was love. Th
e words from the dream wrapped themselves around her like an affirming blanket. Amy found the passage in her Bible, wrote down the verse on an index card, and carried it with her for more than a year. The message reminded her that no matter how her peers treated her, there was a loving Father who accepted her, and he had prepared a place for her to be with him.

  During her teenage years, the number of living room dreams decreased and eventually stopped. Amy was deeply disappointed, but her mother received the news with relief. She told Amy the nighttime experiences had probably been a unique form of the imaginary friend phenomenon common among little girls. Amy, who had two imaginary friends, listened but didn’t agree. She knew the difference between make-believe and reality.

  The summer before her senior year in high school, Amy landed a job as a counselor at a Christian camp for girls in the mountains of North Carolina. It was the first time she had been away from home for an extended period of time. Homesickness hit her as hard as it did some of the young campers.

  Each night of the week there was a program held in an openair pavilion. A speaker at the end of the first week challenged the girls whether their relationship with Christ was their own or something passed down from their parents. Amy’s heart was touched. Pushing away her shyness and swallowing her pride, she joined a number of campers at the front of the meeting. The speaker prayed with her.

  That night Amy had a living room dream. She found herself in the familiar place, yet she saw it through maturer eyes that could better appreciate the life it contained. Divine refreshment filled her soul like a cool drink on a hot day.

  She awoke to tears of joy rolling down the sides of her face. She no longer felt homesick; she’d come home.

  Jeff and Megan walked into the house as Amy put a potato casserole in the oven. Jeff gave Amy a quick peck on the lips that bore little resemblance to the passionate reunion between Kelli and Rick at the airport. Amy patted her husband’s broad shoulders. His first name was printed on the shirt issued by the window installation company where he worked as a foreman.

  “The book is done,” she said. “I sent it to Cecilia Davidson about an hour ago.”

  “Congrats.”

  Rick flipped through the stack of mail on the kitchen counter.

  “Speaking of books, isn’t it time for a royalty check?” he asked.

  “I put it in the bill drawer beside the computer in the family room,” Amy said, turning away from him toward the oven.

  “How much was it?”

  “Later,” she replied cryptically.

  Megan was standing in front of the open refrigerator door. Tall, slender, and graceful, Megan’s hair stretched down her back.

  “Tell me about dance class,” Amy said to her. “How is Ms. Carlton’s ankle?”

  “Okay.”

  Jeff handed Amy an envelope. “Ms. Carlton gave this to me while Megan was changing out of her leotards. There’s going to be a big price increase at the studio beginning in January.”

  Megan had been taking dance lessons for five years. The cost of the classes was manageable when Amy worked as a secretary for a local law firm. Now, with her annual income cut by half, whether to continue the classes was a bimonthly discussion.

  “Don’t talk about money in front of me,” Megan said, still peering into the open refrigerator. “We’re out of cranberry juice. When are you going to the grocery store?”

  “Tomorrow.” Amy worked to keep her voice calm. She was determined not to let Megan bait her into an argument. “Put anything you need on the grocery list by the toaster.”

  Megan let the refrigerator door close on its own and left the room without adding anything to the list. Amy opened the notice from the dance studio and inhaled sharply.

  “That’s a twenty-five percent increase. Does Megan know?”

  “Yes”—Jeff shrugged—“which was a mistake. She told me that dance is her life, and she’s not going to give it up.”

  “Did you tell her she might have to stop?”

  “No.”

  Amy ran her fingers through her hair. “But she assumed the worst and blames me because quitting my job has put us in a worse financial bind.”

  “That didn’t come up. She said the studio is the only place where she feels good about herself. Then she clammed up.”

  Amy tensed. “That makes me wonder what’s going on at school. If the kids were still at Broad Street Christian—”

  “We’d be stuck in a duplex on the south side of town flushing rent money down the drain every month.”

  Jeff was right. It had taken three years to scrape together a down payment large enough to get them into the house. And that had been with Amy working full-time for the law firm. Private school tuition simply wasn’t possible.

  “Bernie is going to pressure the publisher to be more aggressive in marketing my books,” Amy said hopefully. “He says my popularity should increase with the release of The Everlasting Arms.”

  “I hope he’s right. We blew through the money you got when you signed the contract because we thought you were going to be the next Karen what’s her name.”

  “Kingsbury. And that’s not true. She’s in a different publishing universe than I am.”

  “Whatever. This time I’m going to include every penny of the book money in our budget.”

  Financial discussions upset Amy, but unlike Megan, she couldn’t brush Jeff off. He worked hard at his hourly job, and to earn extra money bid on home remodeling jobs he performed on the weekends with a friend who was a contractor. She wanted him to know she was standing with him.

  “How much was the royalty check?” he asked. “You may as well tell me.”

  “Over seven hundred dollars,” Amy replied, trying to make the news sound positive.

  “For three months?” Jeff opened his eyes wider. “Bernie said it would be several times that much.”

  “I know. That’s probably one reason he called. He wanted to soften the blow.”

  Jeff dropped his head as if he’d been punched.

  “I know I haven’t had a lot of financial success yet,” Amy said, determined to stay strong. “But I believe the most important thing is that people’s lives are being changed. I got two e-mails today from women who were blessed and encouraged by A Great and Precious Promise.”

  “Yeah, but it would be nice if you could be blessed in the here and now, not just later when you get to heaven.” Jeff glanced through the opening between the kitchen and the family room. “But I have much worse news than an increase in the cost of dance lessons.”

  “You didn’t lose your job, did you?” Amy’s face turned pale.

  “No, no, but Mr. Crouch had a meeting with all the employees when we got back to the shop. Beginning in January, we have to pay one hundred percent of our dependent health coverage. The company is only going to provide benefits for employees.”

  “How much will that cost us?”

  “About five hundred dollars a month to insure you and the kids.”

  Amy didn’t know what to say. The publisher would pay a small advance for The Everlasting Arms, but she and Jeff had planned on using that money to pay year-end bills and buy Christmas gifts.

  “Most companies quit underwriting family coverage years ago,” Jeff continued. “I know Mr. Crouch didn’t want to make a change, but he doesn’t have a choice. The costs are going through the roof. He spoke to the foremen afterward and told us he was going to authorize as much overtime as the projects can support. That will help a little bit.”

  Amy stepped forward and put her arms around Jeff’s neck.

  “You work so hard,” she said. “And I appreciate it. I’m trying to do my part, too.”

  Amy waited for Jeff to speak, but he didn’t. If their dilemma had taken place in one of her books, they would have engaged in a heartfelt discussion about their unwavering love for each other and trust in God’s faithfulness. But life doesn’t always imitate art.

  “I’d better get back to supper,” she s
aid, turning away.

  “Yeah, I’m hungry. We were behind schedule today, and I only had fifteen minutes for lunch. Where’s Ian?”

  “I’m not sure. He’s been in and out of the house all afternoon. Bobby was here for a couple of hours.”

  “I’ll check the backyard,” Jeff said.

  He left Amy alone in the kitchen. Interacting with Ian was the only uncomplicated relationship in Jeff’s life, and Amy knew it was both a joy and an escape for him. As she cut up tomatoes and cucumbers for a salad, she concentrated on the sharp knife. Jeff respected her dream to be a novelist and almost never complained about her time away from the family in the writing room, but above all else he was practical. He viewed her writing as a home-based job that needed to show a profit.

  The incredible excitement she’d felt when Bernie called and told her a publishing company wanted to offer her a two-book contract had validated the lonely hours she’d devoted to creating a spec novel. Working full-time at the law firm, running a household, and trying to be a godly wife and mother while writing a book had been tough. Amy had turned down so many requests to volunteer at the church that the head of the women’s council rarely talked to her.

  She’d been surprised by the small size of the advance Bernie negotiated but accepted it as part of getting her foot in the door. Thousands of writers never even got an offer from a bona fide company. Then reality hit harder when Amy was told the initial print run would be thirty-five hundred copies. Where was Dave Coley’s faith in her ability? Bernie stepped in and assured her that publishing companies kept their inventories low because books could be printed rapidly as demand increased. Also, the number of physical books shipped to brick-and-mortar bookstores was shrinking. With the explosive growth of the e-book market, a sale was only a mouse click away.

  As she worked on The Everlasting Arms, Amy tried to keep her simmering frustration with the business aspects of writing from affecting the creative process. However, a seven-hundred-dollar royalty check and the disappointment in Jeff’s face couldn’t be ignored. She put down the knife and rested her hands on the kitchen counter.