My aunt’s face freezes in a look of abject horror. I’m mortified by her reaction, but Lettie seems delighted.
“Is . . . that . . . so?” Aunt Kate sputters.
“Yes.”
“Goodness! Why romance!? I don’t read romance.”
“I figured as much,” Lettie says with a shrug. “But I don’t write books for you, Dr. Debourgh.”
“Take it from me, darling,” my aunt continues in an authoritative tone. “Don’t waste your education on romance.”
“Would you rather I write depressing quasi-literary drivel where all the characters make poor decisions and wax poetic about their miserable existence? Few people need more reminders that life is hard. I want to give readers a reprieve from the stress of real life and a happy ending.” Listening to Lettie defend her writing is my new favorite pastime.
“But romance is so formulaic and predictable,” counters my aunt.
“When you operate, are there standard procedures you follow to achieve the best outcome?”
“Well, yes . . . ”
“That could be called formulaic?” asks Lettie.
“Surgery and books are not the same,” my aunt says in her most haughty voice.
“True, but both benefit from using best practices, what some might call formulas. Romance readers expect a happy ending. Likewise, your patients expect to survive their surgery. Neither my reader nor your patient wants anything but the expected outcome.”
“Not me,” maintains my aunt. “I like to be surprised by the books I read.”
“But you said yourself, you don’t read romance,” I interject. My aunt gives me a withering glare, which I interpret as, “Shut up, this is my conversation.”
“I might read a romance if I knew it would surprise me,” she says.
“My books would surprise you.” Lettie’s confidence is so hot. “A good romance should be a series of delightful twists. I’m only arguing that the ending should never be a surprise.”
“You’re awfully opinionated for someone so young.”
I’ve been mesmerized by the verbal sparring. It’s supremely satisfying to watch someone stand up to Aunt Kate. And Lettie has been more than holding her own. However, I can see my aunt is about to lose her temper. It’s time I step in.
“Aunt Kate, you, of all people, should welcome an opinionated woman.”
“When you’ve lived as long as I have, one is entitled to an opinion.” She turns to Lettie. “But you are a wisp of a thing. How old are you? You look like you just graduated from high school.”
I wince. Women like to be told they look young, but not that young. Lettie might have a youthful freshness about her, but she looks her age. My aunt is needling her on purpose.
“I’m 26,” Lettie answers without emotion.
“I see... ” Aunt Kate looks her up and down, searching for a flaw—good luck with that. Lettie’s absolutely radiant tonight. Finally, my aunt breaks into a sly smile. “That explains the freckles.”
Lettie rolls her eyes. I grimace. “We’re done here,” I say to my aunt. I place my hand on the small of Lettie’s back to guide her away. I’m momentarily startled. I didn’t expect to touch bare skin. Earlier, when I guided Lettie, she was wearing the fur wrap. As soon as we are out of my aunt’s sight, I remove my hand and immediately miss the warmth and softness of her back.
“Sorry,” I begin. “Aunt Kate can be opinionated. But I didn’t expect that! She’s not used to anyone speaking back.”
“But you just did,” Lettie points out.
“Only because she was rude to you.”
“I like my freckles” she says sounding a bit vulnerable.
“Me too, but my aunt meant to insult you because she was losing the debate. For the record your freckles are adorable much cuter than mine.”
