“No. The piece was a mistake. I can send you the diversity article in minutes.”
He chuckled. “Calm down. I rather enjoyed the piece. Almost too hot to touch—much too hot to put down. Different from anything we’ve ever run. That’s why I called Kevin. We did an impromptu reading using Ethos staff. You’re in as their debut novelist. Kevin is certain your writing will garner a shitload of readers. Damn, I think you got a lot of people hot and bothered. We had the most productive meeting this morning. A regular reading orgy, over bagels and coffee. When you come back, people will want to shake your hand.”
Sure, along with making some crude jokes and sly winks. Not on her life. Her mind raced. “That writing is private. I don’t want the story released. It’ll ruin my chances of being taken seriously. I don’t want to get ugly but you have no right. I refuse to give Ethos or Olympia my permission.”
Silence. “Hold on.” Another pause. Mike said something but not to her. Claire listened to paper being rifled and a female voice whispered in the background. “When you came on staff you signed a waiver and an agreement. Do you remember?” Tension pulled his words tight.
She gripped the steering wheel so hard her fingers went numb. She remembered signing an employment contract with a blanket permission agreement with Olympia West. She lowered her head on top of her hands, resisting the urge to bang her forehead against the steering wheel.
“Yes.” She exhaled the word, unable to say anything else.
“Then you also remember that on page three, you initialed the permission stating that whatever you submit, you release to Olympia to use as the publisher sees fit. There’s an agreement for compensation and permission to publish with any of the publisher’s lines.”
“Don’t I have a say in this?”
“I can’t help that you sent a story that is just what this publication house needs. It’s already gone out for a test read. We’ve come up with graphics, and a blog has already been started with over five hundred hits. This could very well go viral. Can you imagine?”
“You only received the story a few hours ago.” Her head pounded.
“You know how fast we move here. Upstairs has already funneled money into this piece. The marketing expense alone is more than a month’s salary. Be reasonable. You can understand why we’re not going to pull the piece. The higher-ups absolutely loved the writing and are thinking of a new e-pub erotica line for publication. Hell, you could be our savior. Hot is the new gold.”
“No. It’s not. You don’t understand.”
“Wrong, you don’t understand. Don’t you realize readership is down? We’re facing the possibility of downsizing. You live in that little cubby like a mole. You never seem to notice what’s going on in the world unless it involves work. Christ, I think the only reason you go out for drinks is that we discuss upcoming issues and toss around ideas. Think on this. Who do you imagine would be one of the first people to go when we need to re-channel our finances? I don’t want to pull your chain, but truth is truth. So, either way, you’re earmarked. Decide your path. Up or out.”
He was threatening her, but she no longer cared about returning to Ethos. It was her career he wanted to sacrifice either way. “I’ll be ruined. Any chance of being taken seriously will be over. How can you sacrifice my career for money?”
“You’re too dramatic. What career? You’re just starting out. Only two years out from grad school. Don’t be so serious. Look, if you’re so worried, publish the piece under a pseudonym.”
“What?” Claire was in a daze.
“A pen name. But I need to know a name within the hour. I’m betting when you see how well this story does, you’ll shed a pseudonym in no time. Shit, most writers would be tickled to know that something they’ve written is so well received. The editor-in-chief’s office wants a meeting with you to go over the test readers’ responses. Do you want to see a list of concerns and what is being proposed? Some of them are pretty comical.”
“I wasn’t going for infamous. There’s a difference, you know.”
“Many writers start out with edgy stories, and, sure, some aren’t acceptable to the masses. Heck, there’s a publishing holiday designated for celebrating banned books. Just change your perspective. Infamous or famous, both categories will get you noticed. As a writer, you can reinvent yourself at any moment. Only you can box yourself in with false boundaries. Let go and find yourself. Stop living according to someone else’s rules. Shit, if everyone had such high standards, nothing would ever get published.”
“Thanks for the pep talk. I’ll let you know if I’m going with a pen name.”
Her knuckles had turned white. She threw her phone on the passenger seat and drove down Dustin’s driveway. She still didn’t know what story she’d released.
Yes, you do, the critic whispered. She recalled the office sex story she’d worked on last night and moaned loudly. That was no short story, it was a full-blown novel length manuscript with enough sex scenes to make her face glow. Dear Lord, what next?
Claire opened the car door, still dazed, and labored up the steps. She walked into the small entrance and met her reflection in the mirror. She looked out of sorts. Her hair was messy, her skin a deep pink, and her eyes stared back.
It was time to take a stand.
What was so bad about writing stories that provoked, if not ignited, passion? She wasn’t trying to be the next Virginia Woolf. To hell with people from the college publications; to hell with people in general. She blew out the breath she’d been holding for far too long.
She looked back at her reflection. “Stop worrying about other people. Live your own damn life for once. This time, take what you want.”
The critic was quiet for once. She nodded and gathered her thoughts. She walked past the stairs and into the kitchen. She poured a glass of ice water and drank without stopping. A few droplets dripped onto her chest, and she relished the cool feeling against her skin. The house was heating up with the windows closed. She walked around and opened each window. The cross ventilation worked well enough once the ceiling fans moved the air around. Soon there was a regular breeze, cool air, and the sweet smell of fresh hay. She looked over at Dustin’s fields, which were mowed. Hay bales dotted the land.
She went to her laptop and sat down at the table. She reread what she’d sent to Mike. Just as she’d suspected. She’d sent him the completed manuscript on one of her hottest novels. Definitely a scorcher. One she’d written after finding her author stilettos and whip. The story had come directly from her heart and soul and imagination. Oh yeah, she could just see their faces. But nothing so far gone. Nothing she couldn’t learn to feel comfortable owning. Mature content for a mature audience with a kick, a very sexy kick. She loved the story, loved the romance and heat between the characters, especially the hero, who reminded her of Dustin. Just reading the story made her want to go find him and feel his lips again. She twirled her hair and bit her lip.
Did she have enough courage to write under her own name or did she want to keep her stories a secret? She wasn’t so silly as to believe that if someone wanted to find out who the author really was, she’d not remain a mystery for long. She’d never asked other writers about the desire or need to use a pseudonym. If she was going to come out of the closet, she might as well come out and stand proud.
Claire sent a text to Mike. She was onboard and writing under the name C. L. Robertson. That’s as brave as she could get today. He sent her a text back. A contract would be sent to her detailing the specifics for publication. A weight the size of an unabridged print dictionary lifted from her shoulders.
Her parents enjoyed whatever she wanted to write, but she’d never shown them her dabbling in romance, let alone the fiery tales she wrote. She shook her head, unable to imagine handing her father an erotic story and then sitting back while he read it.
Fran would say…she had no idea how her sister would respond. Fran rarely commented on her writing. She’d given her sister copies of di
fferent stories, but then Fran would inevitably say she’d misplaced the story or apologize for being so busy. Her sister excused her lack of interest by begging for a moment when she could sit, decompress, and give Claire’s writing the attention her stories deserved.
Anger stabbed at Claire. She stopped as if hit. As far as she knew, Fran had never once read anything she’d written. Or if she had, Fran had failed to say anything either positive or negative. Her sister ignored her accomplishments. Claire’s eyes stung and she blinked back each tear.
The truth of what Dustin had said rang in her ears. Fran was self-serving and self-centered. Claire had grown up with her sister’s character and didn’t need to dissect Fran’s actions. Her sister’s personality was overly forceful. As a twin sister, Claire didn’t question Fran or try to change her.
Their parents had never discussed their children in terms of good or bad qualities. They’d used a softer approach and tried to feed each of their souls with outlets for expression. She’d never thought it strange, but rarely did she and Fran do any common activities as children. Each parent would usher a child somewhere, stay, cheer, and pilot them, separately, to and from places. Each child was openly praised, if not equally adored. Claire enjoyed doing her activities; she just didn’t want to sit around discussing them. Fran on the other hand, liked to relive her experiences with a captive audience.
If Claire had wanted the limelight too, yes, she admitted, life at home would have not been as smooth. Fran could be very rude and mean if she didn’t get her way. Underhanded, perhaps, was the best way to describe Fran’s behavior.
Claire decided she’d had enough with being the welcome mat of the Robertson house. The critic all but saluted. Claire dialed her sister’s number. She got Fran’s voice mail. “Hello, Fran, it’s Claire. Call me. You’ll need to book a flight home. This is not a request, and you don’t have an option.”
Within minutes her phone rang. “Hello, Fran.”
“What the hell happened? For the love of God. One simple estate. How difficult could that be to handle? Do I have to do everything?”
“Not exactly. Mom and Dad’s estate is larger than we imagined. You, dear sister, are now required to take part.” Claire stiffened her spine. The words she wanted to fling at her sister went unspoken, sawdust on her tongue, and her face burned.
“I don’t like your tone. So unlike you. What’s wrong? Stress, well yes, you’re stressed.” Fran was trying to use her corporate management techniques.
Claire’s back was against the wall. “Do you want part of the estate or not? Right now, the valuation of the estate is over a million.”
“Excuse me? Did you say one million, as in dollars?”
“Yes. So, if you want your part you’d better come home and help with the estate. I’ve got a career too, and I don’t expect to have my life interrupted while you go on with yours.” There, she’d spoken her mind and exhilaration surged within her veins. Finally, her darn critic was doing backflips. Claire’s neck and shoulders relaxed instead of reacting like curdled milk. Every other time she spoke with Fran, her muscles tensed and she’d ended up with a headache if she tried to negotiate a position that involved standing up for her rights.
“Fine. But I expect to arrive and not have a fight on my hands. If you have something you want to say, then now’s the time, sister. You seem to have a large chip on your shoulder ever since arriving home.”
“It’s high time you learned to compromise and get along. I’m not your serving girl. I’d appreciate your help with the estate. As I’ve said, it’s more complicated than what we first believed. You stand to inherit a nice sum, and your involvement isn’t asking too much. I don’t know if I want to sell the house. I’m more than willing to buy your portion or we can own it jointly as long as you’ll agree to the upkeep. I think an estate sale is ludicrous. Nothing is really worth much, and I’d think Mom and Dad would rather donate what little there is than try to make a few pennies.”
“Hah. That’s how little you know. In estate sales, even the household cleaners are sold. People are scavengers and will buy anything if they think it’s a good deal. How do you think I make my money? Put on a price tag and hang a sale sign and buyers will come. But that’s your choice. I’ll have an estate consultant come in and determine what everything’s worth. Afterward, we can decide if you think it’s worth selling or if you want to buy out my share.”
“You’re going to sell me things like the plates, glasses, and rugs? Should I clean out the refrigerator or should the condiments be included in the estate?”
“Don’t be crass. Yes, please clean out the refrigerator and whatever perishables are around. Otherwise, we’ll have to spring for a pest control company to come out. Mom never would have allowed her home to be dirty. Why start now?”
She didn’t want to continue bickering with Fran. Her sister would just keep going to get the last word. She’d already planned on cleaning out the kitchen, and nothing needed to change on that front.
“Call me and let me know when to expect you.”
“I’ll have my assistant make arrangements and let you know. Probably just email the itinerary, if that’s fine with you.”
“Yes. I’ll look for it. There’s another appointment at the attorney’s office day after tomorrow. We need to sign some legal documents for the probate court. It takes about sixty days to hear back and then another thirty days or so for the estate to be finalized, taxes paid, and the money disbursed. Shall I let Bob know you’re coming?”
“Bob Chase, Sr. or Jr.?” Fran had softened her voice.
“Bob Jr.” Claire closed her eyes. Dustin was right. Fran had dated around. She’d been less than interested in her sister’s activities during high school. They’d hung out with separate crowds and didn’t go to the same parties. Dustin hadn’t been part of either group but sometimes hung out with her friends. Then she couldn’t recall seeing him in any group. He became a loner of sorts, hanging out with some guys who raced motocross. Well, she certainly knew now what Fran had done to make him drop out of sight. They’d both been trapped. Well, not anymore.
Chapter Seven
Claire hung up and walked out the front door. She approached the gate between her house and Dustin’s property and lifted the latch. The white wooden boards had been recently painted and the gate swung back on some kind of spring. Stepping stones and pavers formed a walk between Dustin’s home and the barn. The siding on Dustin’s house no longer dipped and splintered. He was right about fixing up the house. Raised, landscaped beds of shrubs and flowering plants were mulched and landscape lighting had been installed. New shutters were up. The back porch opened up to a tiled patio equipped with a new gas grill and wrought iron furniture.
Dustin’s dog ambled up next to her and whined. She scratched his head. He ran off and came back with a red ball. She threw the ball, and he raced off after the airborne toy.
Claire approached the barn and heard pounding. She stepped inside and gasped. Dustin was bent over his bike engine. He stood up and Claire bit her lip, seeing him without a shirt. Sweat poured over his chest and down his abdomen. His jeans hung off his hips. She’d been right. He had a flat stomach with a mega six-pack. He turned around. His back and shoulders were an amazing set of grooved muscles at work. He twisted, his muscles contracted, and she had to remind herself to stop staring.
Dustin set down his wrench on the workbench. He wiped his hands on a rag, still unaware that she’d entered.
She carefully walked along the dirt floor. The barn smelled of hay mixed with fuel, reminding her of being inside here with Dustin long ago. The silver motocross bike was held up by a metal stand. A space where something had been removed was leaking gasoline into a small container.
“What are you working on?”
He turned toward her. A smile overtook his face and her breath was lost, much like next question. His body was a work of art. He could have been a cover model for any story she’d ever written or imagined.
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“The carburetor is busted. I’ll rebuild it but need to get some parts.” He gazed back at her while holding the grease-covered rag. “It’s really a mess in here right now. I’ve been busy with the house and haven’t had a chance to rebuild these motorcycles properly.”
“How many do you have?”
“Two tore apart. Down to the frame. I was able to use the parts to rebuild the Honda. But I hit a hole today, damaged the carburetor. Oh, well, it was fun while it lasted.” He threw the rag onto the bench.
“I didn’t go inside the house. I didn’t need to after all.”
“Able to take care of business over the phone?”
“Sort of. A mess of sorts. I guess sometimes when mistakes are made they can help open a person to being aware of things…that things happen.”
“If you’re talking about compassion, then I agree.”
“I’m trying to say, I understand about the past and mistakes.”
He remained silent, so she stepped closer. He stood on one side of the motorcycle and she on the other.
Claire wound her fingers around the handlebar grips, remembering she’d ridden on the back of his motorcycle plenty of times.
“This is a great-looking bike.” He nodded, his lips pressing tightly together. She side-glanced him, his face, and then lower.
He picked up some contraption. “I’m trying to see if this part can be salvaged.”
He wiped off the grease and held up the part, squinting with one eye closed. She languidly observed him and his body. He was a mass of sharp, muscled angles. There were swirls of dark hair matted against his chest. Fine wisps of hair trailed over his stomach in a line to his navel. She quickly flicked her gaze back to safer ground. A silver necklace with a pendant hung down from his neck. It was the same medallion he’d worn in high school.
The air stilled inside the barn with only the barest of breezes stirring the level where they stood. Movement above caught her attention. She looked up at the rafters. Sparrows came and went from nests. The second story windows were open allowing light to enter. She recalled climbing the ladder to the hayloft and lying down with Dustin. They’d talked about their dreams. Their future. She glanced at him, and the truth dawned on her. She didn’t want to lose him again.
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