Not that she can see me, but I shake my head confidently. “Nope.”
The way her heart sinks is audible, but I don’t care because the sound my own heart makes as it soars is louder.
I’m in charge. I always have been, but now I finally realize it.
“Here’s the plan. No to most of the TV ideas. Their concepts are ridiculous. No cooking shows pretending thatI’ma chef. Like, I’m not even an at-home cook. Maybe most people are dying for screen time, but I’m not. Unless they want to come back with truly showing off small places in Boston or frankly anywhere I want to showcase? No. Give me aSomebody Feed Phil–type show, and I’d be down to hosting that.”
I love how ballsy, confident I am. This new me.
“Also, a cookbook is great, but only if it’s with recipes from local restaurants and chefs of my choosing. And with QR codes to their websites and such. I’ll happily write the intros and rave about the food, but the overall credit needs to go to the chefs.”
Barbara only takes a breath before she replies, “This is all doable.”
I know it is because these are reasonable asks.
I wink at Dave. He’s the person who reminded me—taught me—that I have power.
“My other idea is based on what my friend has already been doing.”
“Okay. Pitch it to me.”
“There’s a guy, Dave, with a wildly successful seafood truck here in northern Maine. After the season ends, he travels locally, making stops and selling his awesome seafood. But along the way, he also sources whatever local fruits and vegetables he can, mostly via donations, and then distributes it all to people in low-income housing at no cost. I’ve been able to approve andtransfer the needed licenses so that he can travel with his truck to Massachusetts.”
I wave my hand at Dave’s incredulous look.
“Most food banks are overloaded with canned goods and processed stuff. We can deliver vegetables and fruits to lower-income cities in Massachusetts and Maine. Like, we’d post days, and times, and locations, and our truck would park on a street. Residents could fill up bags with seasonal produce. And then we’d follow up with fun videos and recipes about how to cook affordable, healthy meals.”
I can hear my agent take a beat, but in a wonderful way. “Diana? I hear you.”
Now she gets it. Getsme. And after months of my feeling a bit pissy with her, she wins me back a bit.
“This should—must be—a show. An important one. One easily streamed by everyone.” She takes a big breath and then says with excitement, “Hey? What about if you and this Dave do cooking demos on-site? Like, you teach people in the neighborhoods you’re targeting?”
I want to scream with joy. “We’re in.”
Finally, I look back at Dave, and he’s thankfully all smiles. I wanted him to hear all of my ideas, but all of them could have been easily squashed.
“This Dave?” Barbara asks. “He’s obviously special. He loves kids?”
Ah, she actually watched my social media posts. The ones where I showcased not only Dave’s library, but specific books.
Of course he does. He likely wants ten kids, and I want none. Because I shouldn’t.
Because I’d be a terrible mother.
Because I’d probably damage them all, just as my own parents damaged me.
I pull myself together. “Yes, he does love kids. He’s a devoted fan of reading and sharing books. I already sent you a proposal for a children’s book. And a few illustration ideas. I want the illustrator I told you about.”
“Oh, that’s a given to happen. But I want to expand on how this Dave has been lending out books at no cost. We need more people doing the same.” She changes her tone. “Diana, I don’t even want to talk about this as an agent and client thing right now. I am just damn over that. What you’re wanting to do is so much more important. We’ll chat soon.”
I have to laugh because, as agents do, while she’ssoon board, she hangs up without so much as agoodbye,but Dave wastes no time in turning me around.
“You got your deals? The way you wanted?”
“I gotourdeals,” I confirm.
“Something about us and my truck? Touring? Little confused here.” He’s understandably lost. “A book?”
