Holly, the attorney we’d hired to make sure everyone kept their word, had copies of the ads that would go out the weekend after the fifth of May. She was also in charge of an escrow account with enough money to cover the bills from the newspapers. Neither Dad nor I trusted each other.
He added, “Or—if it’s hard to think from all the hormones—ask your lawyer. He vetted it. And it isn’t like the reviews said anything that isn’t true. Romance is the dumbest thing to waste your life on, and its so-called readers are so illiterate and stupid that they can’t see what they’re reading is trash.”
Oh my God. Grandma’s egg had to have been expired when this man was conceived. “Romance is not trash!”
“Well, what’s the word for something that’s unrealistic, badly written and basically just porn for bored women who have nothing better to do with themselves? I think ‘trash’ is good.”
“At least they aren’t fucking other people while they’re married!” I yelled as my vision went hazy red.
He laughed. He didn’t feel a smidgen of guilt that he wasn’t faithful to Mom. Nor did he care that the woman he’d just screwed might hear my shriek. “If they read less, maybe they’d have more time to screw around. I can’t wait to see the ads you’re gonna have to take out, admitting I was right. What papers did we agree on again? Oh yeah… the Wall Street Journal, New York Times, USA Today and L.A. Times. It’s not gonna be cheap! But if you don’t want to fork over your hard-earned money, you can always just tell me I’m right and post what you’re supposed to say in the ads on your author website. I’ll be nice and tell Holly we can cancel the whole deal. Get our escrow back.”
My hand was wrapped around my phone so tightly that my whole arm was shaking. “Over my dead body.”
“I’m only doing this because I’m your father and I care about you. I don’t want to see you waste your money like that. All the good things that have happened in your life are because of me—because I made it so.”
My ass, he cared about me! He only cared about himself. And he was pissed off that I wasn’t doing something he approved of—being a respectable corporate drone he could proudly bring up in public. Everything was about his self-image and selfish desires. It had gratified him to brag to everyone that I’d graduated at the top of my class at UVA…and that I’d gone to Harvard. But he told me the only reason I’d been able to attend those universities was because he’d hired tutors—which I hadn’t needed—to prep me for the SAT and GMAT.
And that was just a sliver of what he took credit for. As far as he was concerned, all my accomplishments were due to him, and it enraged him that I’d chosen a path he disapproved of.
“It’s going to be absolutely delicious,” I said between clenched teeth, “seeing you spend money to take out full-page ads admitting you were wrong—and that romance is the most wonderful, smartest reading choice for the most intelligent and discerning women. I’m going to frame those ads, take pictures of them and run a social media ad campaign targeting all your buddies and clients!”
He laughed. “Big talk, but you have to win first. Your last three books peaked at four, five and seven on the chart. The trend doesn’t look good…for you.” He hung up.
I struggled to suck air in around the iron ball of anger lodged in my chest and ignore the hot tears gathering in my eyes. It wasn’t that I was hurt; Dad was always like this. I was simply furious. Determined. Ready to show him he was wrong.
Shaking, I stared at the half-finished manuscript. Staying home and trying to type something up wouldn’t work. I needed to put on my big-girl panties and use the thermonuclear option.
I took off my glasses and put in contacts. Then I grabbed my keys, slipped on some running shoes and left. There was work to do.
Chapter Two
Emily
I ran along the only trail in my small town, which, naturally, was located at the opposite end from my house. Well, “ran”… What I was doing was more like a jog. A very slow jog because, like most writers, I wasn’t an athlete. And I was a clumsy writer at that—ten minutes in I’d snagged my pants on a bush and heard something rip. Plus I’d lost a contact lens somewhere on the dirt trail and hadn’t been able to find it, even with my phone light. Maybe I shouldn’t have switched from glasses to contacts before leaving the house, but I hated how the frames slid down my nose when my face got sweaty. I told myself it was okay to lose the contact because I still had my left one. It was enough to see with, especially if I squinted a little.
I pushed my body even though it wasn’t designed for anything more strenuous than speed-walking toward beer. I wasn’t stopping until my head was full of ideas. And not just any ideas, but good, usable ideas that would ensure I could finish my book in the next two weeks, then edit and publish it by May fifth.
Without a book to promote, I couldn’t win that bet with Dad. And the idea of losing was just… I shuddered.
I’d rather jump headfirst into some medieval torturer’s largest and most disgusting pit of vipers.
My head works in mysterious ways. When I push my body to its limit, my mind finally gives up being blocked. Probably my subconscious knew I’d jog until I collapsed if it didn’t do what I wanted. As I jogged, snippets of dialog and scenarios and scenes swirled in my head like a confetti storm, enough to make me slightly dizzy. Or maybe the lightheadedness was due to the fact that I couldn’t suck in enough air to sustain my out-of-shape body’s sad attempt to run.
Also, I hadn’t had much to eat. And my refrigerator didn’t have much to live on while I holed up to work on my book.
Not good.
Wars aren’t won based on which general is the smartest. They’re won based on who has the best supply lines and provisions. I had two weeks to go to finish my book and send it to my editor, and nobody can fight on an empty stomach.
I drove my car from the trail to Sunny’s Mart, parked and marched inside, snagging a huge cart along the way. I knew exactly what I needed and where to find it.
First, white wines from Virginia. The store had blended whites from Jefferson Vineyards, and I loved them, having discovered the brand while attending the University of Virginia. I took all seven bottles, then moved on to the section with flavored beers from the local brewery, Hop Hop Hooray. They made the most amazing raspberry and Virginia apple beer. The only problem was that their stock was limited. They usually sold them at their own bar and restaurant in Kingstree. I almost never went, because going out meant I had to people. (People was most certainly a verb.) Kingstree was a lovely, sleepy little town in Central Virginia, but people could be so…friendly and overly talkative, to put it kindly.
That fact should’ve been in the real estate brochures, I thought morosely. It might’ve made a difference in my decision to move here. I’d only wanted to settle down in a small town after living in D.C. because a tiny population meant very little human interaction, a delight to my small hermit heart. Or so I’d assumed.
I told myself the town had a well-stocked grocery store, so I should be happy. And I would be, as long as it had… I scanned the beer section, and—yes!—Hop Hop Hooray sat on the shelves. Woohoo! Doing a little victory shimmy, I grabbed the entire stock of Triple-H beer and placed it in my cart. Along with two bottles of decent whiskey, just in case. Then I went down the snack aisle and cleaned out the Animal Crackers section, too.