Page 29 of The Write Stuff

“You’re going out at eight o’clock at night?” I asked dubiously. “That doesn’t seem productive.”

“Oh, you sound like Mom,” Lucy complained, a huge sigh escaping. “I’m not old like the two of you.”

“I’m not old!” I was offended at the suggestion. “I’m merely responsible.”

“You say potato,” she sang out blandly.

I forced myself to take a deep breath to calm myself. Lucy had little sister energy. Even if she weren’t my little sister, she would have irritated me. It wasn’t her fault that she’d grown up with almost no parental guidance, however. My mother had been much older when she had Lucy, so she hadn’t boasted the same energy as she had with me. And Mick? Well, he didn’t feel he should interject himself in parenting issues. He helped when we needed it — like when I moved into college one year and packed way too much stuff for one dorm room I had to share with two other people — but otherwise took a step back and let my mother make the decisions.

I knew why he did it, of course. Lucy and I had different fathers. Lucy’s father sent child support when she was growing up, but he rarely saw her. Mine didn’t bother to send child support and essentially disappeared off the face of the earth when I was five. Mom never talked about him. Lucy’s father was a different story. She badmouthed him at every turn without realizing how detrimental that was to Lucy.

It was a whole big thing.

Lucy was the way she was because nobody had ever told her no. The nannies gave in to her every whim just to keep her quiet. It was no surprise that she’d grown up with no sense of urgency. Everything had been done for her by somebody else. Every little thing she wanted had been provided. That’s why getting a job — and keeping it — was so foreign to her.

“And how is the job hunt going?” I asked, pinching the bridge of my nose to ward off an incoming headache.

“I’m on it,” Lucy said, annoyance flashing in her eyes. “Didn’t I say I was on it?”

“Yes, two weeks ago,” I agreed. “Meanwhile, I’m the one paying all the rent. I’m the one buying all the groceries. I know you took the money that was on the counter for the laundry delivery the other day.”

Lucy had the gall to look wounded. “I thought that was a thank-you gift. It’s not my fault you didn’t tell me what the money was for.”

“Thank you for what?”

“For coming here to help you.”

“I didn’t need any help.”

“You’re cute.” She patted my cheek. “You have that author event tonight, right?” She was clearly trying to change the subject.

“I have a book signing,” I clarified. “It’s at an area bookshop. I’m going to be gone a few hours.”

“Okay. I’m sure I’ll be gone when you get back. Don’t wait up for me.”

I wouldn’t dream of it. “You could start unpacking some of the boxes before you head out,” I suggested. She wasn’t going to take initiative and do it herself, even though I was on deadline and the move had already drained away some of my writing time.

“Oh, I wouldn’t feel comfortable doing that.” Lucy solemnly shook her head. “Those are your items. You should be responsible for putting them away.”

I considered arguing with her — what I really wanted to do was kick her out — but instead I just shook my head. “Try not to make a lot of noise when you get back tonight, huh? I have an early day tomorrow. I need to get a lot of words in so I can catch up.”

Lucy was already tuning me out because she offered up a familiar goodbye wave. “Have fun.”

I left her to do … whatever it was she was going to do. There was no point trying to shame her. She was who she was. Essentially, my mother had ruined her. And, yes, I’d contributed to the ruination. There was no fixing her now, though. I had to accept it. Period.

Right?

MY AGENT CASEY LENNOX WAS ALREADY at the bookstore on Whitaker Street when I arrived.

“You’re late,” she scolded, although there wasn’t a lot of heat to her words. “The readers are already lining up.”

They were? That was sort of exciting. “I didn’t realize there would be so much interest,” I admitted as I smoothed the front of my shirt. I’d gone with a simple fitted black tee because I was prone to dropping food and drinks on myself. This way, if I splashed coffee — or whatever it was they were serving — then I would be covered.

“Of course there’s interest.” Casey tucked a strand of blond hair behind her ear. I liked her a lot — she was friendly and fought for me constantly — but she had hair like a helmet. It was blond and never moved. Even in a windstorm, I feared it would keep its shape. It was … disconcerting.

“What’s up with this?” Casey waved her hand over my face.

Confused, I looked for a mirror to see my reflection. “What’s wrong?” I asked. “Do I have food on my face or something?”