“Hi,” Merritt said warmly.
Willa sat down and adjusted the place setting before her. Her hair was in long box braids now, and she wore a flowy white blouse tucked into an equally flowy maroon skirt, patterned with little paisley shapes. Merritt watched her look around the room, which was cast in a coppery light in contrast to the dreary day outside. Whelk Harbor was still stuck in the foggy gloom that had descended just before Christmastime.
Willa seemed happy to see her, but somewhat tentative. Merritt knew she was thinking about Whit and what Merritt might want from her as it related to him. She was about to put her at ease when Willa spoke first.
“I’m sorry things didn’t work out with Whit.”
Merritt waved her hands before her. She did not want to talk about this.
“It’s okay. This has nothing to do with that. Not really.”
Merritt felt herself make some kind of face, and Willa laughed.
“Well, okay. What are you getting?”
They discussed the menu, small-talked about the holidays, and ordered wine and food.
“Okay,” Merritt said once they were waiting to be served. “I’ve finished the manuscript I started back when I was in an MFA program.”
Willa’s eyes widened, excited.
“Can I read it?”
“What?”
“Do you need a beta reader?”
“What?” Merritt said again.
“Let me read it, give you some feedback, and then maybe I can connect you to my agent.”
Merritt was floored. She wanted to leap across the table and hug this woman, but she felt frozen, too, overwhelmed by her generosity.
“I was just going to ask you what you thought I should do next,” she said, stumbling a bit with her words. “You don’t have to... I didn’t mean to—”
“You didn’t. I’m offering. I’m answering your question. What you should do next is let me read it—I’m a really fast reader—”
“It’s kid lit,” Merritt said, as if offering a warning.
Willa shrugged. “Sounds great. I love kids’ books.”
Merritt’s eyes were stinging. Something like joy, or maybe shock, prickled across her skin.
“But,” she said, her voice dropping and her words tripping over themselves again, “but what if it’s bad?”
Willa’s attitude shifted. The exuberance and excitement on her face softened into compassion.
“Oh, Merritt. Do you think Whit didn’t talk about you? Do you think he hasn’t told me all the wonderful things there were to say about your writing?”
Merritt swallowed, willing the swell of emotion to stay within her rather than pouring forth right here and now.
“Besides,” Willa continued, “I don’t know much about you, but I do know one thing. You’ve got something to say. You need to believe in yourself enough to say it.”
Merritt thought of the promise she’d been urged to make, about not being surprised by compliments. Well, she was glad she hadn’t made it. She hoped this feeling never went away.
Chapter Thirty
And then on January14, Joan called again. Whit was in Helen’s office, hoping thegenius lociwould possess him. He had written fifty or so pages, but then, he would not call what he was doing writing. He was transposing, taking Helen’s notes and writing them out in grammatically correct, well-punctuated sentences. He was Helen’s posthumous amanuensis, and he was bad, bad, bad at the job.
