I stare at my editor, my heart racing. This . . . this . . . Is. So. Big. This bypasses the column I’ve finally begun writing and fulfills a lifelong dream I wasn’t certain would come to fruition, especially after my conversation with Tricia.
Am I living experiences which give me wisdom? Or am I still floating in the current of life?
“They’re thinking of asking Simon Goodwin to write it,” Doug interjects.
Simon Goodwin? Who the hell is Simon Goodwin? And why aren’t they asking me? I work for this company. I’ve been writing here for ten years. I know the subject intimately. She was my grandmother!
“No.”
“Excuse me?” My boss looks up at me, his eyes bloodshot from reading under fluorescent lights.
“No. No, I will not let some man named Simon Goodwin write my grandmother’s story.”
Doug straightens in his seat, placing his elbows on his desk. His fingertips are steeped at his lips. His mouth gapes, but I continue.
“I’ve worked for this paper for nearly a decade, and I’ve been passed over for every Tom, Dick, and Harry to write articles I’ve researched or newsworthy stories I’ve followed, but I draw the line at this. This is everything I’ve ever wanted and more than I could have ever asked for, and I will not let someone else have it.” My voice rises, and my blood races within me. “If I have to get a lawyer to investigate my rights, I will, because I won’t let someone else write her story. It’s me or no one.”
“Emily . . .” Doug begins, but I can already hear his retort. Some insult about a better man for the job. Not journalist. Man.
I hold up my hand to interrupt him and speak. “You know what, Doug? Save it. I’ve heard enough over the years. I quit.”
I turn on my heels, still not certain I just said what I said and stalk to my desk. Within three minutes, I’ve collected my things, noting how sad it is that after a decade of sitting in this spot, I can fit all my personal effects in a printer paper box.
“Don’t be rash,” Doug says, finally approaching me in the outer office. “We gave you the column.”
“Gave me?” I stammer. “I deserved that column. I earned it,” I tell him. I’m already doing better with the two I’ve published than Frank did in the past three years of writing it. Gave it to me? Like a concession. “I’m not being rash. For the first time ever, I’m . . . I’m going to be happy.”
I brush past my boss—the man who has passed me up for other men, time and time again—and make my way to the elevator, but I’m not a total fool. I’m a woman on a mission, and I press the up button instead of down and head for the top floor. I plan to have an impromptu meeting with the president of our company, who happens to be a woman.
Estelle Prescott takes me without an appointment.
“I’ve heard of you,” she says after introductions.
“Because I just quit or because of my work?”
“You just quit?” The fifty-something brunette stares at me over horn-rimmed glasses which look trendy and stylish perched on her nose. She dresses like a power-bitch, and she’s something I’ve never aspired to be, but I admire her tenacity and her climb to the top. “Tell me what happened.”
Speak from your heart. Tell it like it is. Say what you want. Nana’s advice rushes back to me.
I explain the years of dedication and disappointment while the box sits on my lap. I’m not looking for her sympathy, just stating the facts. I’m a journalist, so that’s what I do. When I arrive at the issue at hand, I try to keep my voice steady—and fail.
“I can’t let some man write her story. And if it can’t be me—as it obviously won’t be—I also won’t approve of it.”
Estelle narrows her eyes at me and tilts her head. “Sometimes, family is too close to a situation to write objectively.”
“I understand what you’re saying, but in this case, I respectfully disagree.” It’s my only defense, but a plan is forming. I know how I’d write Nana’s story. I’d incorporate her column. There’s your wisdom, Emily. I can already see it laid out in my mind’s eye, and excitement over the possibility blooms in my chest.
“Let’s do this—you write me a proposal of how you’d outline the book and submit it directly to me. Then we can talk.”
It’s more than I could have hoped for, but I have another demand. “I’m not returning to that office. If you accept my proposal, I’ll be employed as an independent contractor, and I’ll be working remotely.”
She continues to stare at me. She notices my fingers gripping the corners of the cardboard box on my lap. It’s the most unprofessional position I’ve ever been in, yet somehow, it’s completely satisfying.
“We have writers based all over the world,” she states. “Keep the column and write me a proposal for the book.”
This is the push I needed. See, Jess Carter? Being pushy has it benefits.
And in the land of make-believe, it’s time for me to chase some new stars and wish upon a few of them.
Rule 24
Say what you need to say.
[Jess]
“Jess, it’s Sue. I think you need to come to the house. There’s a problem here.”
Not again. It’s been one headache after another. We ordered a new sink for Elizabeth’s house only to find it didn’t fit the cabinet. I investigated replacing the cabinet to find it isn’t a standard size, and this means a custom rebuild. The whole kitchen needs to be gutted, just as I suggested to Emily in the first place, but I can’t call her and tell her these things. I can’t explain to her how I canceled all her contractors and took on each project myself. I wanted to do these things for her. I told myself it was my thank you for all she did for Katie.
In reality, I did it because I love her.
It’s a truth I’ve refused to admit to her. I’m doing all this, hoping one day she’ll come back to me.
You chased, man. Now you have to let her go.
“Okay, give me fifteen, and I’ll be there,” I tell Sue. She’s been a good neighbor, looking after the place. She’s nosy but still a decent person. After that business with Gabe, when I exposed what he did with my wife to the Town Tavern, I thought word might get back to her. I worried she might resent me for what her precious son did, but she hasn’t mentioned it. Joe, on the other hand, can’t quite look me in the eye. He knows the truth, and he’s ashamed about the way his son behaved.
Katie’s at school, so it’s easy to hop in my truck and head over. I drive to Mrs. Parrish’s on autopilot, dreading the ache in my heart I feel every time I’m there. I’ve missed Emily every day like I said I would, and the silence between us has killed me.
When I pull up in front of the house, a car is parked in the driveway. I pull in behind it and stare at the license plate. Not the numbers and letters specifically, but the name of the state spelled out across the top of the metal. The red Jetta isn’t anything special, but I’d know it anywhere.
Slowly, I exit my truck. For some reason, I go around to the back instead of letting myself in the front door.
And there she is on her hands and knees, halfway in the playhouse, ass in the air, looking around inside.