by Ami LeCoeur
“Have they given you any idea about success rates?” Thompson’s voice brought me back to the Suburban and I realized my mind had wandered away to my conversation in the doctor’s office.
At the time, I’d been so excited about the possibilities Peggy had discussed with me, that I’d forgotten to even ask such a basic question. So I told him what I did know.
“They’re having good results. Real, concrete results,” I smiled at him. “Not just promises of maybe. Some people are actually… walking.” My voice choked up and I turned away.
Would I be one of the lucky ones? I couldn’t make myself ask the question out loud. I took a deep breath, remembering how Peggy had finished the interview by setting me up with appointments. Tests, specialists, more tests. So many appointments, I felt like my entire dance card for the next six months was full. They would be the ones to determine if I’d be one of the successful candidates.
Thompson’s hand gripped mine and I turned back, realizing we were sitting at a traffic light. “My money goes on you being one of those with the concrete results. At the same time, you need to know that I, uh, care for you, just the way you are. Regardless.”
Tears blurred his rugged face and I squeezed his hand back, turning my face to look out the front of the huge car. He’d landed on my biggest fear… could I love myself if my body failed to do what I wanted it to do? To heal? To walk again?
They say the only way around a problem is to go head-on through it. How else was I going to find out if my fantasies could become realities?
As I thought the words, the light turned green. ‘Go!’ it seemed to say in answer to my silent question. I shivered and decided to take that as a good omen.
Chapter 9 — Maria
A few moments later, we pulled up in front of a tall high-rise in the midtown area. The sculpture in front of the building was different from what you would’ve expected to see in this location.
A giant dolphin broke forth from the surface of a wave, splashes of water dancing up its back and around the base where his tail was. To me, it represented unexpected ideas breaking forth from below the surface, sort of like what most books do. Or, at least in my imagination, that’s what they did.
“You want me to come up with you? I’m happy to wait in the car. You can call me when your meeting is over and it’s time to come pick you up.”
I looked over at the sound of Thompson’s voice. I’d been lost in my own thoughts again and nearly forgotten he was there.
“Oh, no problem,” I said. “That’s not necessary. Unless…” I looked down at my hands, for some odd reason, suddenly feeling shy. “Unless, you want to…” I looked back up at his carefully composed face, and saw the tiny grin creep onto his lips as his eyes lit up.
“And why would I not? After all, my two best girls are pitching a story,” he said, picking up my portfolio from the back seat and setting it onto my lap. “But that’s up to you. It is, after all, your story.” His two best girls. I liked that. A lot.
“Oh, heck yeah I want you there,” I laughed as he helped me out of the car, relieved that he was so willing to accompany me to this meeting. “You’re a big part of why this is happening at all.”
He wheeled us in through the massive doors at the base of the building. I was glad I didn’t have to maneuver myself through them. I’m strong and all, but I’m sure it would still have been awkward.
I looked back up at him as the elevator doors pinged open.
“I’m glad you’re coming in with me¸” I said. “You can represent Emily.”
His face brightened even more at that. “I’m happy to, unless you think I’d just be in the way. Then, of course…” He lifted his eyebrows as we paused in front of the office door. “I only want to make it easier for you.”
I reached back over my shoulder to pat his hand grasping the handle of my wheelchair. “No, seriously. I’m sure you’ll be a big help.”
Then I leaned forward and opened the door, taking a deep breath as he pushed us through into the reception area.
“Hello!” said a perky young woman. “You must be Maria Tilson. Let me ring through for you. Please have a seat over there, and I’ll let Miss Johnson know you’re here.” She gestured toward a small sitting area.
Thompson wheeled me over to the corner, next to an exquisite burl lamp sitting on a low table. Several books and magazines lay scattered across the surface. He smiled down at me and squeezed my shoulder before sitting in the chair next to me.
I was a surprised at how relieved I was to have Thompson there with me. Not that I was afraid, and not that I was concerned about the meeting, but just having him here had a wonderful calming effect on me. Then I laughed to myself. One minute I was lusting after his bones, and the next I wanted to curl up into a little ball and have him put me into his pocket.
“Miss Johnson will see you now,” came the voice from behind the desk. I looked over at Thompson, my eyebrows raised in a final question. He just smiled and stood up, pushing out the wheelchair as he moved me into the room behind the receptionist.
The office was neat and tidy, almost austere. A polished, professional energy seemed to permeate the walls. The woman wasn’t much older than me. She stood, holding out her hand, smiling up at Thompson, and then down at me.
“It’s such a pleasure to meet you, Ms. Tilson. I totally enjoyed looking through your submission.”
“My pleasure,” I said. “This is Thompson, he’s the writer’s father.” She looked up at him, a small smile playing at the edge of her lips. She tilted her head, looking at him and waiting.
“I thought you were the author?” she said finally, turning towards me.
“Oh no,” I laughed. “I’m simply the illustrator. The story was entirely Emily’s. She’s a very creative nine-year-old.”
“I’m just here for moral support.” Thompson cleared his throat. “That’s all.”
“A nine-year old? How delightful!” Miss Johnson said. “And surely you’re here to look out for her interests.”
He grinned. “Gotta take care of my girls.”
She laughed at that. “Good. Well, I’m just the first stage here—you could think of me as a kind of filter. I look at stories to see if they’re suitable and will fit into our marketing model.”
“And so far, so good?”
“Yes,” she smiled at me. “I wanted to meet you personally before I sent you to meet the actual editors. So, hmmm, this book was written by a nine-year old? Or it came from a nine-year old? Well now, that’s even better,” she said, half under her breath, shuffling the papers on her desk before turning her attention back to us.
“So, then. Do you have an agent? No, I didn’t think so,” she continued as I shook my head. “We don’t normally accept many submissions from Indies.”
Indie? Is that what I was? It was all so new to me, I hoped I’d be able to follow the jargon without getting too lost.
“But of course, if you sign with us, you won’t be an Indie any longer.”
“I won’t? How will that change things?”
“Well, as a signed author, you would have a contractual agreement, of course. You would be under our protective wing. And you wouldn’t have to worry about editing, covers, advertising.”
“But I’d still have a say about the book, right?”
“Mmm, yes, about some things. The specifics would depend upon the final contract, certainly. But, listen,” she gushed. “You would be free to create. To do what you do best. We would take care of everything else. After all, our company has been doing this for quite some time now.”
Something about her tone of voice bothered me. She was pleasant enough, and her smile seemed genuine, but there was an edge to her words. Almost as though she was talking to a recalcitrant child. And if there was one thing I wouldn’t put up with, it was being treated like a child.
“So, in signing with you, what kinds of things would we no longer have a say about? Or, rather, what might we be giving up?”
“Oh, not much. We’d be making the final decisions about how the book would be printed, how it would look, and how to best market it.”
“How it would look? What’s wrong with it the way it is?” I asked, starting to become upset about the direction of the conversation and doing my best not to get my hackles up.
“Well, for a first book, we might decide that black and white is better than full color. I mean, realistically, this is, after all, an experiment for us. And color is about eight times as expensive to publish as black and white.”
“Really? But these illustrations are meant to be seen in color. That’s how the writer described them and that’s how I drew them.”
“I understand, but we don’t even know yet how your book will be received.”
I looked over at Thompson, my patience straining to the max after everything I’d already been through that morning.
“I’m sorry,” he said. “It’s been a long day for us.”
I shut my eyes momentarily. ‘For us’, he’d said. It’s been a long day For Us.
“I had a pretty extensive meeting today with a specialist,” I said in response to the look on Miss Johnson’s face.
“Specialist?” she asked.
“Yes, they’re exploring some experimental surgery. There’s a chance I might walk again with the proper treatment.”
A frown creased her brow. “Really, that’s wonderful.” But her look belied her comments. “So when will this all be happening? I mean, we were expecting to promote you as…” she paused, but I couldn’t help notice her eyes glance down at my legs. She cleared her voice and stuck a bright smile back on her face. “Well, now we might have to change our approach. I guess there’s always the child angle—”
“Looks like this is your lucky day,” Thompson’s gruff voice interrupted the woman. “Emily is physically challenged too.”
The woman’s eyes grew wide and shining, clearly missing the irony in Thompson’s words. “Oh, she is?”
“Do you have a sample contract?” I interrupted, impatient with her tactics and not liking the way the conversation was progressing so far.
“Well, yes, actually. But it isn’t even close to what the actual contract might contain. I mean, nothing has been drawn up yet. We’re still in the early stages regarding your submission.”
I looked at her for a moment, tired beyond words, and decided it was time to take things into my own hands.
“I’d still like to see your sample contract.”
Her face took on the same edge as I’d heard in her voice a few moments earlier. “If you really think that’s necessary.”
“I do.”
She shuffled in her desk for a moment, then brought out a stapled set of papers. Setting it on the desktop, she looked up at me.
“Remember, nothing here is set in stone,” she said smoothly, with that same professional smile. “But the conditions as stated here in the sample are industry standard. Once we have a signed contract, everything will fall into place.”
“So, when would we be able to move forward?”
“We’d prefer that you have an agent first. They are more familiar with how we do business, and they will help smooth the process for you. And for us.”
I did my best to keep the edge out of my own voice, fatigue threatening to take over.
“Miss Johnson. Why am I here? I thought this meeting was to discuss the potential publication of our book?”
“Well, of course it is,” she said, smiling that smile that I was beginning to believe was more surface than anything else. “And that’s why I’ve taken the liberty to draw up a list of agents we trust.”
She placed a single sheet on top and handed me the stack of papers across the desk. I sat there for a moment, looking down at the list on top. A list drawn up by the publisher. If I remembered correctly, agents got a hefty percentage of royalties. So, they wanted to add an agent, someone who was supposed to look out for my interests, into the mix. But the agents they were recommending all came from their list?
“Thank you for your concerns,” I said, turning to glance at Thompson and inclining my head slightly as I slipped the papers into my portfolio. “I’ll look over these documents. Is there anything else I should consider?”
“No. Just have your agent get in contact with us once you’ve signed. Then we can move the negotiations along.”
“And, how long will these negotiations take?” Thompson asked, picking up my cue.
“No more than six months,” came the reply. “We should be able to schedule your book for production by early next year. Um, when are you thinking about this surgery?”
I looked at Thompson, noticing the subtle shift as his eyelids dropped almost imperceptibly and the muscle in his jawline tightened.
Turning back to the woman across the desk, I held out my hand. “Thank you for taking the time to meet with us.”
“My pleasure,” she said, shaking first my hand and then Thompson’s. “We’ll be back in touch once your agent contacts us.”
“Understood.”
Thompson and I were silent as the elevator returned us to the ground floor. Still not quite sure what to make of the conversation we’d just participated in, I was glad Thompson had accompanied me. There would be time enough to sort it out later. And at least I wouldn’t have to try to explain what happened in there.
“That was interesting,” Thompson said as he wheeled me to the car.
I held back the involuntary laugh that bubbled to my lips “Yes. Very. And a little disturbing, I think.”
“You’ve been through a lot today. Anyone would be feeling a bit overwhelmed at this moment. I think you need something to cheer you up.”
I looked up at him, tilting my head back and squinting against the sun behind his head. “Oh yeah, and what would that be?”
“I have just the thing, but you have to trust me on this.”
“Right now?”
“No time like the present.”
I wasn’t sure what to expect. With Thompson it could be anything. I thought of him as a sweet, gentle giant, someone who took care of other people. But, the last few days had shown me that there was much more to this man. There were things about him that I wanted to explore, as well as things about myself I needed to share with him.
“Don’t worry, you’ll like it. And it’ll give us a chance to talk about that Very-Interesting-and-Somewhat-Disturbing meeting we just had,” he said with a sardonic touch of laughter in his voice. “I know you, and if we don’t talk about this soon, you’re just going to let it worry itself into your brain. This will be a good break from the stress of your doctor appointment, and now this.”
I took a deep breath. He was right, of course. After being poked and prodded mentally and physically today, I could definitely do with something different.
“You think you know me so well?” I teased.
“Maybe better than you know yourself,” he snarked back at me.
“Okay, I’m game. Do your worst.”
“My worst? Now where did you get that idea?”
“Well look who’s being secretive,” I said with a grin on my face. “Are you afraid I’ll veto you?”
He laughed as he shook his head. “Just sit back and enjoy the ride, Miss Maria. We’ll have you back to your normal charming self in no time.”
I smiled at that, already starting to relax a little. Here was my gentle giant again, protecting me, and making sure that I was taken care of in more ways than one. I closed my eyes, grateful to not have to make any decisions at the moment. I let my thoughts drift as the car moved out onto the roadway.
###
Ding. Ding. Ding.
The sound of Thompson’s car door opening dragged me back to the present.
“We’re here,” he said as he jumped out of the car and walked around to my side. I looked at our surroundings and noticed the brightly painted building splashed in shades of pink, blue, orange and yellow.
“Ic
e cream?” I asked when he opened my door. “You brought me to an ice cream parlor?”
“This is Emily’s favorite,” he grinned as he helped me from the car. “Since you were a good girl at the doctor’s office, I thought maybe you deserved a treat.”
“How do you know I was good?” I smirked, lifting my eyebrow in a ‘you don’t know all my secrets’ tilt.
“I have my ways, Miss Maria. Believe me, I have my ways.” He winked at me.
I just shook my head and reached out to him, feeling his large hands grasp my waist to lift me from the car. I circled my arms around his neck and held on when he tried to sit me in my chair. Surprised, he shifted his head slightly to look at me and we were nose to nose. I could feel his warm breath on my lips.
His pupils grew larger, eclipsing the blue of his eyes. “There’s hope, Thom. Real hope that I might walk someday. That I might feel some day. Really feel. Everywhere.”
He swallowed, an audible click that accompanied the lowering and raising of his Adam’s apple. His hand slipped from my back, over the curve of my ass and down the back of my thigh. “That’s wonderful news, but right now, you feel pretty good to me just like you are.”
I smiled and leaned in closer, until my lips were almost touching his. “I want to know what it feels like to make love before the procedures begin. To know how it feels with my body the way it is now. And then, afterwards…”
His hands tightened on me, fingers gripping my body as he pulled me against his chest. Even tighter than before. He turned his head and our lips met with a softness that I’m sure would have curled my toes—had they been able to make the movement. His tongue traced the seam of my lips and I opened for him, welcoming the warmth and sensuality that penetrated my mouth.
“Yuck, get a room.” The high pitched voice of a child jerked my head back and I looked around, remembering where we were.
