Oriane arrived half an hour later, amid the high voices of thirteen-year-old girls chattering. A third girl had been included more often than not. She was human, but her parents were both shifters; Alejo was glad to see that Oriane’s inclinations were for inclusion, rather than exclusive girl gangs.
Mindful of various people’s food preferences, he fixed burritos, so that each could build their own. They’d just sat down to eat when he sensed the new car arriving, and here was Wendy, tired from the long day, but happy.
“How was it?” he asked in private, once she’d greeted everyone, and washed her hands.
He already sensed her answer, but it was good to hear her say it: “Looks like we’re going to contract.”
There was time for a hug and a kiss, and then attention was drawn by the children. It wasn’t until later that Alejo and Wendy were alone, and he gave a quick account of the day. Then he said, “Tell me everything!”
She did, her eyes lighting with delight now and then. Whatever came of it, he relished her pride now.
Her good mood carried into the next couple of days, faltering a little before the weekend, when Bill broke his usual pattern of neglect, and sent a curt note to make sure Sam was ready on Saturday morning.
“You’re worried about Sam’s parental visit?”
“Yes,” she admitted. “I’m afraid that Bill is going to give Sam the third degree about our marriage, and there isn’t anything I can do to stop it. Not that there’s anything wrong with us, it’s just…”
“I think I know. It’s the questioning itself, right?”
“Yes,” she breathed. “That and what he’ll say. Though Sam seems to be getting pretty inured by now to Bill’s unflattering opinions of me.”
They dropped the subject then, and went on to other things. But Alejo fumed to himself. Bill Champlain seemed to be doing his damndest to spread his poisonous anger through innocent Sam to Wendy. The best way to win right now was not to let the poison in.
Did that mean giving in? No. It did not.
He reached for his phone.
* * *
Sam came back on Sunday weary, and all he’d say when Wendy asked very softly how the visit went, was, “I know what nice lies and mean lies are.” Sam shrugged, then said, “I told Pater that you are going to be my dad, since he is Pater. He said I have to say Step-Father, but I don’t, do I?”
“Not if you don’t want to,” Wendy assured Sam.
Monday, Sam had bounced right back to his new, happy self. Wendy only had time for a kiss before she had to head for the freeway. As soon as she was gone, Alejo whirled into action. He had a lot to do before the end of the week, when Wendy had promised to talk to the writers’ group.
Wendy had also settled with Linette at the bakery that that Friday would be her last day—though she would be glad to pinch hit if Linette ended up short-handed. But from now on, Wendy was going to be a full-time writer.
Wendy arrived back late, and smiling—Linette had surprised her by inviting Doris and Bird to tea and pastry, with Wendy as the guest of honor. “At the end of the party, we toasted Godiva with our tea. I wish she could be there!”
“She promised to make it for our wedding.”
Wendy gave her deep, delightful chortle. “Good. It won’t seem real without her.”
Later on, Alejo was so proud of her when they drove to Baker Street that Friday night. Oriane was doing a sleepover with her girl gang, so Sam was home alone with Lily, who had volunteered to stay with him. They’d left him with his own bowl of buttered popcorn and his anime collection.
When they parked, Wendy pressed her hands together and breathed deeply.
“Nervous?” Alejo asked.
“A little,” Wendy admitted. “But Linette will be on the watch if Bill chooses to be rude. And I’m going to keep my back to him, so I won’t see his reactions. The rest should be fun,” she said with a determined air. “And I love the idea of providing inspiration to fellow writers. It is fun, but it can be a lonely sort of career. One based mainly on hope. That’s difficult to sustain by yourself.”
He agreed, and they entered the bakery.
Linette was there, of course, welcoming them with a bright smile. She introduced Wendy to the writers most interested in writing for film or television. While she did that, Alejo took the opportunity to glance around, taking in the men in the room. Which was Bill? That one with the crew cut? Maybe… Then his eyes lit on one with a sullen face and a blond combover, busy digging into an ostentatiously expensive, gold-embossed, leather briefcase. It was the only such briefcase in the room. The man had his legs spraddled out, so that he took up not only all the personal space around his own chair, but half of that to either side. No one as yet had sat next to him.
That had to be Bill. There was only the slightest resemblance to Sam in this man, mostly in his pale skin, and his small hands, with short fingers whose stubbiness was emphasized by a huge, gaudy class ring from some university on one hand, and on the other an equally gaudy gold ring with a glittering gemstone.
“All right,” Linette said. “It’s seven o’clock, and we have a guest today, in addition to our regular readings, so we ought to get started. I’d like to introduce Wendy Poulet, who will be joining us soon—she is a screenwriter who just sold a series pilot to a company that produces content for Netflix.”
