“Then . . . ?” she huffs, almost as a challenge. When Dad doesn’t argue, she turns back to me, her expression gentling. “I’ve heard of authors saying they write for an audience of one, but I don’t think the one they are referring to is themselves, sweetheart. Listen to me. You are a great writer.”
I open my mouth, but she cuts me off.
“No. I know you’re thinking I have to say that because I’m your mother, but that doesn’t make it any less true. You are a great writer. And you’ve only gotten better with every story you’ve penned. Mr. King was wrong to have told you to give up and not write anymore, but I’m just thankful you’re stubborn enough that you kept on creating despite that feedback.”
She pinches my chin. “I think it’s time you let that stubborn girl out again. You’ve spent all these years learning and growing and honing your craft. It’s time to prove to that man that he was wrong, that you have something to say, the talent in which to say it, and that the best decision he could ever make would be to acquire you as a King author.”
“I love you, Mom.” That is the only response a child can have after a speech like that. I’m lucky that I have two supportive parents in my corner, even if their support sometimes feels like a push in the wrong direction. Writing—becoming an author—that was a dream of a younger me. The library fulfills my passion for story now.
Well, mostly. Mom’s not wrong. I do still write, just not for publication.
“But you’re forgetting that I like my job at the library,” I say. “That’s why I’m doing this. To save the children’s programs, not to jumpstart a writing career.”
“Not sure why it can’t be both,” Dad mumbles.
Mom grins, and now that she has backup, she’ll never letthis go until I promise to present Julien with my latest manuscript, a book proposal, and zero other alternative authors. Which I won’t do. Hopefully she’ll settle for the next best option. “I’ll consider what you’re saying, okay? That’s all I can do.”
Mom beams. “That’s all I ask.” She looks down at her watch. “Dinner should be ready in about twenty-five minutes.”
“Do you mind if I take a walk around the pond?”
“Of course not.” She shoos me away.
“You might want to wear my boots. The mud around there is extra thick right now,” Dad warns.
“I don’t plan on getting too close. I’ll be fine.”
He shrugs and returns to trimming the azalea bushes.
The King property is vast. Honestly, I’m not quite sure how many acres they have altogether, but I do know they own a large portion of the mountain. The landscape around the house is manicured and well-maintained thanks to my father, but the back of the property is wooded and has been left in its natural state. There are a few trails that Dad works to preserve because Mrs. King likes to take strolls on nice evenings when the weather permits, one of those being to a small pond that used to be one of my favorite childhood haunts.
Twigs and leaves snap under my sneakers, and as soon as I’m under the canopy the oak, hickory, and poplar trees create, I pull my sweater more firmly around myself. The temperature is nice when the sun is warming you, but as soon as you enter the shade, it gets rather chilly. I remind myself that it is technically fall even though the leaves need a bit more time before they start to change into their spectacle of vibrant yellows, oranges, and reds.
A flash of blue swoops between the trees in front of me, and I watch as a blue jay lands on a lower branch of an oak tree. A few feet away, a squirrel pops its head out of a notch in the trunk, tittering loudly. He’s not happy about the visitor.Especially if the blue jay is interested in trying to steal some of his hoarded acorns. The two woodland animals are still in a standoff by the time I walk by them.
In a few more minutes, the pond comes into view, a small clearing where any number of wildlife can be seen. Mostly frogs and other small creatures, but I did one time see a deer stop to have a drink. I pause, taking in the scene, and pull in a deep inhale of breath.
“You cannot be serious.” A frustrated male voice carries on the breeze.
Who in the world? I squint because I don’t see anyone anywhere. I know I haven’t entered a magical Disney realm where woodland creatures speak to me, but how cool would that be?
“Hello?” I call.
Gray hair peeks up from behind a cluster of cattail stalks on the other side of the pond. “Martha?”
“Julien?” I begin to pick my way around the muddy bank. With as thick as the dark sludge is, one misstep and I can say sayonara to my sneakers.
“Do you think you can lend me a hand?” he asks, the end of his question coming out in a grunt of exertion, followed by a telltale squelching sound.
I step around the trunk of an exceptionally large oak tree that must be quite old due to its size and get a view that I never thought I’d see. Julien is standing knee-deep in mire. Speckles of dried muck splatter his white dress shirt and blue suit jacket, and his perfectly styled hair is askew and streaked with clumps of dirt. He tries to lift a leg, wobbles, then windmills his arms to stay upright.
“What happened here?” I press my lips together to keep myself from laughing out loud.
He gives me a deadpan look. “I’m stuck.”
“Yes, I can see that. But why did you walk out there to begin with? I know I said do research, but I didn’t mean you shouldpretend the pond on your parents’ property is the Swamp of Sadness and re-create one of the most traumatic scenes fromThe Neverending Story,” I tease.
He crosses his arms over his broad chest. “While we’re on the subject, why exactly are so many children’s books so sad? I’ve developed trust issues after readingStone Fox.”
