“The doctor wants him to lose weight,” Betty said. “I’ve already thrown out a trash bag full of junk food at the house. And we’re going to be broiling our fish for a while.”
“But you don’t know where I keep everything,” Carl responded with a wink.
“I used the step stool to get to the top shelf of the closet near the garage,” Betty retorted. “That stash alone almost filled up one bag.”
“Oh.” Carl’s face fell.
“And we’re both going to change our eating habits. I won’t make you do anything I’m not willing to join in with.”
Listening to the couple playfully argue made Amy smile.
“I have a couple of recipes for broiled fish that my husband likes,” Amy offered. “Just because it’s broiled doesn’t mean there’s no flavor.”
“Pay attention to her,” Betty said to Carl. “Or I’ll tell her to take that cap and keep it as a souvenir.”
Carl fingered the bill of the cap.
“No, it fits your head perfectly,” Amy said.
The twenty minutes Amy had to spend with the couple flew by. When it was time to leave, she received another long hug from Betty Fincannon and a final word of thanks from Carl.
“Stay in touch and let me know how you’re doing,” she said.
“And don’t forget to send me those fish recipes,” Betty said.
“I have your address in here.” Amy patted her purse.
The image of Mr. and Mrs. Fincannon together in the hospital room stayed with Amy on her return to the office. She spoke a brief prayer of thanks as she pulled into the law firm parking area.
Later that afternoon Chris came downstairs to Amy’s office. He had the brief in the Westside Lighting case in his hand and laid it on the corner of her desk.
“I finished the brief on Saturday. The cover letter for the judge is on top. I’ve signed everything, including the certificate of service. Will you make the copies and send it out?”
When she looked at the cover letter, Amy got a queasy feeling in her stomach.
“It’s not due until Wednesday, is it?” she asked.
“No, but there’s nothing else to change, and I’m tired of looking at it. I’m sure you reach that point with your books.”
“There is a time to stop editing,” Amy admitted.
“That’s where I am.”
Chris left, and Amy read the brief a final time. When she reached the argument that relied on Michael Baldwin’s deposition testimony, she jotted down her concerns on a legal pad. But there was no way she could substantiate or dispel her uneasiness without performing her own investigation of the case. That wasn’t possible without Chris’s cooperation or bringing in Mr. Phillips. The prospect of talking to the senior partner stopped Amy.
She took the documents to the copy room, made the service copies for the other attorneys, and put them in the mail. She left the original brief and letter to the judge in the basket for the firm’s runner to take to the courthouse. With one last glance over her shoulder, she returned to her office.
Amy’s life moved forward smoothly for the next week and a half. Ian’s arm healed quickly, and he received a good report from the doctor at his follow-up appointment. She stayed busy at work but faced nothing out of the ordinary and didn’t have any awkward conversations with Chris. She and Mr. Phillips settled into the type of familiar routine the senior partner liked, which meant Amy did everything she could to anticipate his wishes and meet them without expecting him to notice or thank her.
Even though she had to constantly push aside a nagging inner voice of doubt, Amy finished the first three chapters of Deeds of Darkness and sent them off to Bernie. Along with the chapters, she included a revised synopsis that reflected the current direction she wanted to take with the novel. Three days later Bernie called during her lunch break.
“Is this a good time to talk?” he asked.
Amy was in the kitchen at the law office. She had another twenty minutes before she needed to return to work and log on to her computer.
“Yes, let me take my salad back to my office.”
“I’ll talk while you walk,” Bernie said. “First, I sent over the sample chapters and synopsis for the book to Dave Coley. He called the next day and told me that your new direction is not something they’d be interested in publishing.”
Amy knew this was possible, but the sudden harshness of it stunned her. It reminded her of all the rejection letters she received when she sent her first novel to more than twenty publishers. She quickly closed the door of her office.
“Is there any chance of talking it over with them? Did Cecilia take a look at what I’ve written?”
“I don’t know about Cecilia, but Dave is the one holding the key to the printing press. What he says goes.”
Amy wasn’t going to accept a partial explanation.
“What did he specifically say?”
“The usual blather about the concept not meeting their needs at this time. It was a brief conversation, and he was on autopilot while we were talking. I think he was probably reading his e-mails.”
Amy was having trouble absorbing the news. She’d been so thrilled to land an initial contract that to move on so casually didn’t seem right. It was like two people getting a divorce without making any effort to save the marriage. In particular, she’d spent so much time working with Cecilia that it was hard to think of the relationship with her ending so abruptly. They’d become long-distance friends, a common occurrence between authors and editors.
“Can I call Cecilia and talk to her?”
“If you do, keep it personal. Let me handle the business side of things. That’s why you hired me.”
“If I sign with another publisher, are they still going to promote my first two books?”
“Sure. They want to make money on what you’ve delivered, and if Deeds of Darkness is a best seller, they’ll probably try to catch the wave of popularity it generates. It’s all about units shipped and not returned. If a new publisher dumps a bunch of money into marketing and promotion, Dave Coley won’t complain. He’ll turn on his adding machine and crunch some numbers.”
“Okay,” Amy replied with resignation.
“Can I move on to some good news?”
“Yes.”
“I also sent the sample chapters to the editor in New York who was interested in the concept when I pitched it to her. She’s taken her response up the ladder. That doesn’t guarantee she’s ready to offer you a contract and cut a check for a fat advance, but you’re definitely on her radar.”
“What does that mean for now?”
“That you need to turn on your computer and type like a million people can’t wait for the release of your next novel. The sooner the manuscript is done, the quicker we can get down to brass tacks.”
“Did you send the synopsis to any other editors?”
“Yes, but I haven’t heard back yet. If you were further along with the writing, I’d light a fire underneath them and let them know if they don’t act they’ll lose the chance to land you. But since you’re still a few months away from finishing the first draft, that won’t work now.”
“A few months? Now that I’m working full-time, it will take eight or nine months for me to complete the first draft.”
“You did three bang-up chapters in two weeks. What was the word count on the stuff you submitted?”
“About ten thousand words.”
“Multiply that by ten or eleven, and you’ve got a bona fide novel. That doesn’t compute to eight or nine months.”
“But my writing process isn’t linear. The book will continue to evolve as I get to know the characters better and new wrinkles pop up for the plot. Then I have to go back and revise what I’ve written.”
“Draw a straighter line. Look, I’m doing all I can for you, and I need you to do your part.”
Amy didn’t like the new, harsh taskmaster side of Bernie, but she knew he was prodding her for her own professional good
.
“I’ll put my nose to the grindstone,” she said.
“Good girl. When you do, you’re going to produce diamonds.”
The call ended with Amy shaking her head at Bernie’s final comment. She laid her cell phone on her desk and pulled up the dictation queue on her computer.
While she’d been at lunch, Chris had sent her information related to the Dominick estate litigation. Amy started typing. The first part was a summary of all the parties currently involved in the case. Chris wanted her to organize the information into a flowchart he could use as a visual aid during depositions and when presenting the case to the judge. The first step for Amy was to type out the data in narrative form. She’d worked on it for about fifteen minutes when she heard Chris say, “A year after he returned from World War II, Dominick was engaged to a woman named Mildred Burris. Dominick’s father worked in a mill owned by Ms. Burris’s father. For unknown reasons, Dominick abruptly broke off the engagement. Ms. Burris is a former client of the firm and serves on the board of directors for the Second Chance Foundation, a local charity that is a beneficiary under the disputed will executed shortly before Dominick’s death.”
Amy rewound the dictation and listened again. It was one thing for Ms. Burris to date Sanford Dominick. That was hard enough for Amy to imagine. But for them to be engaged was the stuff of fiction. She left her desk and went into Mr. Phillips’s office. The lawyer was sitting at his desk and looked up.
“I was transcribing a memo for Chris,” she said. “Did you know Mildred Burris and Sanford Dominick were engaged to be married?”
“Not until the other day. It’s hard to believe, isn’t it? Mildred is an odd duck, but she’s about as straitlaced as they get.”
“Odd duck?”
“I know Mildred means well, but she’s a religious fanatic. Now that I know more about her history, it makes sense as a way to atone for her earlier sins with Sonny.” Mr. Phillips paused. “You’ve cut off contact with her, haven’t you?”
Amy had been so caught off guard by the revelation from Chris she hadn’t considered what might happen if she started a conversation about Ms. Burris with Mr. Phillips.
“No, sir,” she admitted. “A friend and I had lunch with her a few weeks ago. The luncheon was something Ms. Burris and I discussed before you talked to me. She wanted to meet my friend Natalie. The three of us were only together for an hour or so.”
Mr. Phillips’s face darkened. “I can’t control what you do with your free time, but I certainly have the right to decide if you’re going to work here another minute.”
“Yes, sir. I understand.”
“And I want to keep you as an employee. You’re an outstanding secretary.”
“Thank you.” Amy licked her lips.
“Is ongoing contact with Mildred Burris more important to you than keeping your job?”
Like a witness withering under cross-examination, Amy was being backed into a corner from which she knew there was no escape.
“No, sir.”
“Then will you promise to stay away from her until this estate matter is concluded?”
“That could take years.”
“And it probably will.”
Mr. Phillips might say he couldn’t control Amy’s free time, but every word from his mouth spoke otherwise. Her shoulders slumped in surrender.
“Yes, sir, I won’t have any contact with Ms. Burris. All I ask is that I be able to give her a reason. It would be terribly rude to simply ignore her.”
“What would you say?” he asked.
“That I can’t communicate with her because I’m working here, and the need to avoid the appearance of impropriety related to the litigation of Sanford Dominick’s estate requires it. She’s already received your letter discharging her as a client, so it won’t be a total shock.”
“Did she mention the letter when you had lunch with her?”
“No, Sanford Dominick didn’t come up.”
“Or the letter?”
Amy felt a rush of anger rise up inside her.
“No! And I’ve agreed to what you want! Why do you have to keep on attacking me?”
“I’m not attacking,” Mr. Phillips said with the steady calm that had kept him in control of countless courtrooms, especially after he’d gotten his way. “I’m clarifying. And I’m satisfied. I appreciate your cooperation. Anything else?”
“No,” Amy muttered.
“Good.”
Mr. Phillips returned his attention to the documents on his desk. Amy went to her office and put her head in her hands.
twenty-three
Amy’s emotions swirled as she drove home. She’d never secretly wished the firm would lose a case, but it would be more just for Sanford Dominick’s children and grandchildren to inherit his estate than the bleached-blond Natasha. At home Jeff’s questioning expression when he saw her gave away his suspicions that something bad had happened at work, but all Amy could tell him was that she’d had a difficult conversation with Mr. Phillips.
“Would it help if you went upstairs to the writing room after supper?” Jeff asked. “You can get your mind on something besides the office. I’ll help Ian with his homework.”
“I’ll try,” Amy replied. “But I’m not sure if I’ll be able to focus.”
Upstairs, Amy turned on her computer and tried to channel the frustration she felt into her main character. Toward the beginning of many books, the protagonist has a crossing-the-threshold moment in which she has to choose whether to go forward into the unknown or maintain the status quo. Even if the character initially refuses the call to adventure, an author can create circumstances that overwhelm the character’s will. But Roxanne didn’t need to be manipulated. Her seething rage at the injustice visited on her family fueled her decision to confront the evil in the local sheriff’s office. As Amy rapidly typed, Roxanne crept into a restricted area of the sheriff’s department and found a folder that hinted at the illegal activity she suspected.
When she finished the writing session, Amy stood and stretched. Between the stress of the law office and the concentration required to write, her brain was a frazzled mush. But she was satisfied with what she’d accomplished. The inciting incident for Deeds of Darkness rang true.
She went to Ian’s bedroom and peeked inside. He was already asleep. The cast on his arm prevented him from lying on his preferred side, so he’d had to adjust. With his mouth slightly open, he was a picture of the total relaxation only children possess. Watching Ian, Amy made a note to use what she saw when describing the carefree sleep of the baby boy in her book. His lack of concern would be a nice juxtaposition to Roxanne’s fear and anxiety. Amy kissed Ian on the forehead. Once he was sound asleep, there was little chance a gentle kiss would awaken him.
Megan’s light was still on. Amy knocked and entered. With her legs propped up on the bed, Megan was lying on her back on the floor and holding a textbook in front of her face.
“Why are you reading like that?” Amy asked.
“I have a chapter test tomorrow in history, and if I get in a different position, I can remember what I read. World War I was a huge mess. What were the European politicians thinking?”
Amy didn’t attempt an answer.
“Is the test essay, multiple choice, or fill in the blanks?” she asked.
“All of the above, but GR tells us the essay questions in advance.”
“GR?”
“Mr. Ryan. Bethany and I have been calling him GR for Greg Ryan.”
“But not to his face.”
Megan lowered the book to her chest and gave Amy an exasperated look.
“No, but now that you’ve brought it up, we might give it a try.”
“There’s no need to get sassy with me.”
Megan rolled her eyes and went back to studying the book.
“Good night, Mom,” she said.
“Good night.”
Amy backed out of the room in retreat. Jeff was in the family room watching
TV. When Amy approached she saw that he’d fallen asleep.
“Do you want to go to bed?” she said in a normal tone of voice, hoping she wouldn’t startle him.
“Uh, yeah,” Jeff mumbled, opening his eyes and rubbing them. “This show is almost over. Did you get a lot of writing done?”
“Yes, but I don’t feel right abandoning the family for the entire evening. I can’t do this every night of the week. It’s not fair to you or the kids.”
Jeff stood up and stretched. “There will be plenty of nights when you won’t be able to grab this much time, but when you can, I want you to do it. Finishing this book is your number one priority.”
“You sound like you’ve been talking to Bernie.”
“He has his reasons for pushing you along,” Jeff said, looking Amy in the eyes, “and I have mine. If you get a big contract, you can quit working at the law office and never go back.”
“Yeah.” Amy thought about her conversation with Mr. Phillips. “I need to remember that.”
In the middle of the night, she had a divine dream.
Even as a grown woman, Amy experienced a childlike wonder each time she came into the living room. Stress peeled off her soul like dead skin. If God’s mercies are new every morning on earth, they are even more magnificent when revealed in glory. Faint voices of praise fluttered at the edge of her hearing.
Bathed in thankfulness, Amy’s heart felt renewed. Just as she reached the point of overflowing gratitude, she felt herself being pulled away, and a rapid succession of images flashed across her mind. Once again, she couldn’t slow them down. The next thing that happened was auditory, not visual. She heard an unfamiliar name accompanied by a sick, sinking feeling in the pit of her stomach: Larry Kelly.
Amy woke up lying on her back in the darkness. Usually she felt refreshed after a trip to the living room. Tonight it took a few moments for the nauseous sensation to go away. She couldn’t think of anyone she knew named Larry Kelly. Jeff was asleep on his side with his back turned toward her. She turned on the lamp on her nightstand and wrote the name Larry Kelly on a piece of paper.
The Living Room Page 23
