Our Ivy was about to become Jack’s Ivy.
Seraphina
The eveningafter the epic recording, Hunter, Tyler and I were on the patio grilling steaks when my phone rang.
“It’s Sylvia,” I said, looking at the screen.
Hunter raised an eyebrow. “On a Saturday?”
“She said she’d call when she finished reading.” My heart was pounding. I’d sent her the first hundred pages of the new book two weeks ago. The book I’d been terrified to write. The one about women and music and the South—about mothers and daughters and the songs that carry us through.
“Answer it,” Tyler said. “And put it on speaker. I want to hear.”
I took a breath and accepted the call. “Hi, Sylvia.”
“Seraphina.” Her voice was strange. Thick. “I just finished.”
“And?”
A pause. Then: “I’ve been your editor for fifteen years. I’ve read everything you’ve written. And I have never—never—read anything like this.”
I gripped the phone tighter. “Is that good or bad?”
“It’s extraordinary.” She laughed, but it sounded like she might be crying. “I stayed up until three in the morning. I couldn’t stop. The mother in 1956, working at that café, dreaming of something bigger, and then her daughter in the seventies, and the granddaughter now. Seraphina, this is the book you were born to write.”
Tyler pumped his fist silently. Hunter was grinning.
“The way you weave the music through all three timelines,” Sylvia continued. “The way each woman finds her voice through song, even when everything else is telling her to be quiet.It’s universal and specific and heartbreaking and hopeful all at once.”
“I know it’s different than my usual books,” I said. “Do you think any of my readers will take a chance on it?”
“We’ll market the heck out of it,” Sylvia said. “There are readers. Some of your current ones. Gobs of others. I have a feeling about this book, and you better brace yourself for what’s to come. It’s going to be a whirlwind.”
I was speechless.
Sylvia went on. “Enjoy your weekend. Kiss that songwriter of yours for me. And start working on another book.”
She hung up. I stood there, staring at the phone.
“Mom, you did it.” Tyler crossed the patio and wrapped me in a hug.
“She loved it. I kind of can’t believe it. ” I’d spent the last few weeks on edge, not sure what she would think.
“She more than loved it.” Hunter set down the tongs and took his turn hugging me while the steaks sizzled and the California sun sank toward the ocean.
“I couldn’t have written it without you,” I said. “Either of you. You gave me the courage to try.”
“This was all you, baby,” Hunter said. “And we’re proud of you.”
“Totally,” Tyler said.
Hunter headed back to the grill. “Can’t burn the steaks. This is a celebration dinner.”
“We have a lot to celebrate,” I said.
“That’s right,” Hunter said. “The book. Tyler’s team making playoffs. The album being done. All of it.”
“I’ll grab the steak sauce and salad from inside,” Tyler said. “Mom, text your friends. They’ll be so excited for you.”
