The Promise of Change (16 page)

The in-person interview with Harper Legal finally came through. Next week Sarah would fly to Atlanta, the company headquarters, for a full day of interviews, including lunch and dinner, before flying home the next day.

It was a grueling process, and one she was not looking forward to. It didn’t help that the potential job just wasn’t doing it for her. But it was income, and distraction, both of which she could use right now.

Ann came over to help her decide what to wear: the conservative black Tahari suit with the python Stuart Weitzman pumps, or the slightly edgy chocolate brown Mark Jacobs, with the croc peep toes of the same name.

“Oh, definitely the Mark Jacobs,” Ann confirmed. “Gives you an I’m-confident-yet-understated look. And the peep toes add a little sex-appeal,” she added as she stepped into the shoes and struck a pose in front of the mirror. “A girl’s gotta use all the weapons in her arsenal.”

Sarah chuckled at her friend’s antics.

The phone rang. Ann followed Sarah into her sitting room strutting her stuff like a runway model. “Ooh. Love these shoes. If you ever decide you don’t want them anymore, remember me, your best friend in the whole world.”

“Hello,” Sarah said into the phone while shaking her head at her friend.

“Hi, Sar, it’s Kim.”

“Oh, hi, Kim. What’s up?”

“Listen, I’ve got some horrible news. Ken’s dead.”

“What!” Sarah collapsed into the armchair, her hand to her chest.

Ann gazed at her in alarm.

“When?” Sarah asked.

“They found him on his sailboat this morning. They think it was a heart attack.” Kim was crying on the other end of the line. “I gotta go. I’ll let you know when they arrangements have been made.”

“Right. Okay. Let me know when you find out. Okay. Bye.”

“Sarah, what is it? You look like you’ve seen a ghost.”

“Ken’s gone.”

Perched on the sofa with a cup of tea, Sarah surveyed the other black-clad mourners who had come to the post-funeral gathering. Some assembled in groups of three, talking in somber tones, others in larger groups, joking and laughing. All had some form of refreshment in their hands.

She’d always thought it was an odd tradition. Someone dies, and the grieving family invites the hordes back to the house and feeds them.

Her wandering gaze landed on Ken’s wife, Cindy. Only now she was his widow. She still looked dazed, like she’d woken from a bad dream only to find it wasn’t a dream at all. Her eyes were red-rimmed and swollen, but she managed to play the consummate hostess, ensuring that her guests wanted for nothing.

Sarah realized then how self-absorbed she’d been the last year. Her heartaches, discontent, and mid-life setbacks were nothing compared to Cindy’s devastating loss. Sarah’s marriage was long over, and any possibility of a relationship with Alex non-existent, so she needed to get over herself. Move on.

She also needed to come to a decision about her career. If she was going to continue to practice law, then she needed to recommit herself to finding a job and then give one-hundred-ten-percent. If she decided to give writing a try, then she needed to devote herself to that task with the same level of dedication.

Life was too short. Ken’s death had made that all too clear. No one knew how much time he or she had left, and she wanted to leave this earth with the knowledge that if she didn’t accomplish her dreams, at least it wasn’t for lack of trying. As Alex said, in not even trying, she’d already failed.

What was that saying, be bold and courageous. When you look back on your life, you’ll regret the things you didn’t do more than the things you did.

She didn’t want to look back and regret that she’d spent this opportunity tidying her closets, instead of pursuing a dream. On a more practical level, her savings weren’t going to last forever. Time was not a luxury she could afford at this point.

“Baby, we’re worried about you,” the Admiral said, his voice filled with concern. “We thought you’d return from England recharged and renewed. Instead, you seem even more miserable than before you left. And Becca tells me you’ve cancelled the job interview.”

Sarah and her father sat in her garden taking advantage of the unusually dry, temperate August dusk. Citronella torches flickered, keeping the ravenous mosquitoes at bay.

“What’s happened to my steady, sensible Sarah?” He nudged when she didn’t respond.

Sarah tucked her legs up under her chin and wrapped her arms around her knees. “Oh, Daddy, it’s everything. Alex, my love life in general . . . or the lack thereof.” Sarah blushed to the roots of her hair to be discussing her love life with her father. “Ken’s death, my career, in that order. I’ve just got a lot on my mind.”

The decision to cancel the interview had felt like cutting a lifeline. Biting her lip, she finally said, “I think I need a change . . .”

“You need a change. But, baby, you hate change.”

“Yeah, I know. But maybe it’s time.” They listened to the first cricket song of the evening. “I’d just like to take a little more time, you know, figure out what I want to do. Maybe the time will give me some perspective.”

She knew he wanted to protest, to talk her out of it, but he held his tongue.

She hesitated, wondering if she should confess her real plans. “You know, Dad, I’ve always wanted to write. Maybe I’ll give that a try for a while.”

Her dad looked up, pain and uncertainty flashing across his face. “What would you write about?”

“You remember my sophomore year when I said I wanted to be a writer? Well, I’d actually finished a manuscript.”

“You did? You never told me that?”

“You weren’t too thrilled with my revelation. In fact, you talked me out of it, remember?”

“Oh, baby.” He put his arm around her shoulders and pulled her close, trying to hide the unmanly tears that threatened his composure. “I thought it was just a silly flight of fantasy that would soon pass. I never considered that you might be serious.”

Sarah could hear his heart beat reassuringly where her head rested on his chest. She felt so secure in her daddy’s arms. There was only one other pair of arms which made her feel so protected, cherished.

“Okay. Then I think you should do it.”

“Really?” She sat up in surprise. “But, Daddy, I don’t want to disappoint you.”

The Admiral, brow creased in worry, sat back, pushing her away so he could look directly into her eyes. “Disappoint me? Baby, you could never disappoint me. Your mother and I were always the proudest parents on the planet.

“You and Becca turned out better than any parent could have hoped for. I’d like to believe I had something to do with it, but it was all your mother’s doing.”

“But I thought . . .” She looked down, picking at the frayed hem of her old cut-off shorts.

“Thought what?”

“When I said I wanted to be a writer, when I gave up teaching, got divorced, didn’t get Ken’s old job . . . that I’d disappointed you.”

“Baby, I’ve never been disappointed in you. I’ve only been disappointed for you. And afraid.”

“Afraid?” She looked up, confused.

“I only wanted you to have a good, steady career, something that would always provide you with stability.” He took her hand in his calloused one. “Your heart is so easily broken and becoming a writer, and staying successful is fraught with so many disappointments that are completely out of your control. Failure has never been an option for you.”

Thinking of Alex’s challenge, she said, “A wise man once pointed out that not having tried is the equivalent of failure.”

The Admiral considered this a moment. “That is wise. Who said that? Churchill? Kennedy?”

She chuckled. “No, Fraser.” At his puzzled look, she said, “Oh, never mind.”

Her father’s face grew serious again. “I’m so sorry. I never knew that I’d effectively crushed your dreams. The only thing your mother and I ever wanted for you and your sister is your happiness. In career, in love, in life.”

“Oh, Daddy.” Sarah leaned over and kissed his weathered cheek. “I love you.”

He cleared the tears from his throat, giving her a gruff “I love you” in return. “While you’ve always been cautious, you’ve never been afraid. Don’t let fear of the unknown get in the way of your dreams. Sometimes the reward is worth the risk.” He chuckled.

“What’s so funny?”

“Oh, I was just remembering when I tried to teach you to ride your bike. You were adamant that I not hold on to your seat, wanting to do it all on your own. You always were a stubborn little thing when it came to accepting help. What you never knew was that I was no more than a breath away, ready to grab you if you started to go down.”

Sarah smiled at the memory.

“You know, too much self-reliance can often be mistaken for stubborn pride. Remember, baby, we all need help from time-to-time. There’s no shame in asking, and no shame in relying on those around you once in a while.”

They sat quietly as the birds settled in for the night, Venus rose on the horizon, and the sky turned from dusky violet to black. Fireflies flickered like little sparks.

“Well, no point in putting it off,” he said suddenly, slapping his thighs. “What is right to be done cannot be done too soon.”

“You just quoted Jane Austen,” she said in astonishment.

“I did? Well, what do you know?” He grinned at her obvious approval. “So, tell me, what’s this book of yours about?”

She looked dubious, “Really? Are you sure you want to hear about it?”

“Of course.”

Seated at the breakfast table, Sarah stared in bored fascination at a squirrel sitting on the windowsill tearing apart a sweet gum ball to get to the seeds inside. After a couple of minutes, the little tree rat hopped away, apparently exhausting the supply of seeds, taking her excuse to procrastinate with it.

She couldn’t postpone this any longer. It was time to put words to paper, or rather pixels to screen. She would never know if she could really write, if she didn’t start writing. There was no other way.

Grabbing her cup of tea and the yellowed, dog-eared manuscript, she sat down at her desk and began to write.

Summer passed into fall, such as it was in Florida. The flora remained green, the air continued heavy and warm, necessitating the steady hum of air conditioners, and the swimming pools still enticed their owners to dive in and splash around.

Sarah padded around her house in shorts and bare feet, picking up the mess that was strewn about. By nature and by nurture she was a tidy person, but she’d been so completely absorbed in her manuscript that she’d become the slob she never was in college.

She hadn’t done laundry in so long she’d feared she wouldn’t have anything clean to put on. As it was, she wore a pair of shorts with a hole in the crotch and paint stains on the seat.

But today that would all change. She’d finished the rewrite of her old manuscript, and was awaiting a return phone call from Sam, who’d been in a meeting when she phoned to tell her the news.

Remembering her father’s advice, she’d decided to seek Sam’s help. Sarah had no idea if her novel was any good, but she knew she could trust Sam to tell her the truth. Friends or not, Sam wouldn’t risk her reputation on a manuscript that sucked.

She tried to still the flutter of nerves in her stomach. She had so much riding on this. Not a gambling woman, this long shot she’d bet her career and her savings on would either make or break her. She knew the odds of getting struck by lightning were better than getting a first manuscript published, or even a second . . . or third.

But no matter the outcome, she tried to tell herself, she’d proven that she could do it. She could write a full-length novel. And not just once, but twice, if you counted both manuscripts. That had to count for something.

She still missed Alex. In the months since she’d left, she’d been tempted to call him, but she always stopped short.

She had to get her life in order. Figure out what it was she wanted, before she could be any good to anyone else. Which would likely mean Alex would be lost to her forever, and in all likelihood already was, but she was determined to accept this. Sort of.

The phone rang, making Sarah’s heart leap to her throat.

“Hello.”

“Hi, Sarah, it’s Sam.”

“Sam.” A hummingbird fluttered in Sarah’s stomach. “Thanks for calling me back. Do you have a minute?”

“Sure. What’s up? Did you change your mind about the job?”

“No, or rather I have changed my mind, just not about the job. About writing.”

Sam squealed on the other end. “Really? Great. Send me the manuscript. I’ll get it to our agent who handles historical romance—”

“Sam. Take a breath. It’s not the college manuscript. At least not anymore. I rewrote it . . . in the 21
st
century.” Silence reigned on the other end of the line, and panic socked Sarah right in the gut. “Sam? Is that bad?”

“No. Of course not. It just took me by surprise. Listen, send it to me via e-mail. I’ve got a transcontinental flight this weekend. I’ll read it on the flight and get back to you next week.”

“Okay. I’ll send it this afternoon. And Sam, you’ll tell me the truth, right? I mean, just because we’re friends doesn’t mean you can’t be brutally honest with me.” Well, maybe not brutally honest, Sarah thought, sugar coat it a little.

“Sarah, I’ll be honest, but remember this isn’t my genre. I’ll have to get it to Elizabeth Bouchier for her read. But I’ll let you know if I think it needs work before we go there.”

“Thanks, Sam.” Sarah hung up the phone and finally let her legs give out, slumping to the sofa. This was it. So why did she suddenly feel like a death row inmate who’d just lost her last appeal?

Sam turned on her laptop as soon as the flight attendant gave the all clear. She hated red-eyes, but oftentimes they were the only way she could wade through her gigabytes of electronic submissions. Unable to sleep on planes, the dark, quiet aircrafts provided her with uninterrupted reading time.

Clicking open Sarah’s manuscript, she chewed her lower lip, nervous for her friend. She knew that having one’s manuscript read was like standing naked on a street corner.

For writers, good and bad, allowing someone . . . editor, friend, or both . . . to read the words the writer labored over, anguished over, was deeply personal, soul-baring. Sam thought it was nothing short of brave. For that reason, she gave each submission the respect it was due.

Sarah had had such a gift for the language of the Regency Period, so Sam was surprised that she’d chosen to write a contemporary novel, and was a little concerned that Sarah wouldn’t be able to pull it off.

The American and the Aristocrat.
Catchy title, she thought. She clicked on page one:

“It is a truth universally acknowledged, that a single female in possession of little fortune must be in want of a rich husband. A title didn’t hurt either.”

Good start, Sam thought, love the allusion to Jane Austen. Sipping on her wine, Sam settled in for what she sincerely hoped was a good read.

A fretful week passed with still no word from Sam. Sarah didn’t want to nag her about it. She was busy, right? And not just avoiding her. Maybe.

With the manuscript completed and no job, Sarah found herself at loose ends. The glut of nervous energy meant her house was spit and polished, her running shoes were worn out, and her legs toned from frequent endorphin-releasing runs, and her weeds were afraid to show their faces for fear of being yanked out of her garden by their roots. She’d had lunch and dinner with Ann and Becca so many times, that they, and their husbands, were probably sick of her.

It also meant she had more time for introspection, particularly where Alex was concerned. She often wondered what he was doing. Was he working on his next film? Had he mended the rift with his brother? Were the tabloids still dogging his well-heeled heels?

More importantly, did he have some glamorous super-model, actress, or entertainer on his arm, or worse, in his bed? Someone who could handle the heat of the limelight?

She frequently questioned what he saw in her, given his apparent penchant for illustrious, sophisticated women, and what Robert called his “playboy lifestyle.” Of course, from what she’d seen of his conservative brother, anything short of the priesthood would be deemed a playboy lifestyle.

The phone rang, startling her into awareness. She hadn’t realized she’d stopped in front of the French door with a load of laundry in her arms, and stood staring out at her garden.

Dropping the laundry on the sofa, she dove for the phone, thinking it must be Sam.

“Sam?”

“Er, no. Sarah, it’s Albert Cheswick.”

Mr. Cheswick? What could he possibly want? Dejected, Sarah said, “Hello, Mr. Cheswick. What can I do for you?”

“I was calling to ask if you were available for lunch tomorrow. We can meet wherever is convenient for you,” he continued, as if she’d refuse otherwise.

“Sure.” Even more confused, and not a little curious, she said, “We can meet at J.J.’s Grille on Park, if you’d like.”

“Okay, say around noon?”

“That’s fine. Mr. Cheswick, what is this about exactly?”

“Sarah, I don’t mean to be so secretive, but I’d rather discuss it in person.”

“Okay. I’ll see you tomorrow then.” She hung up the phone and plopped down on the couch. Had they found a problem with one of the legal matters she’d handled?

Maybe he needed some legal advice. But no, he probably had a team of lawyers who advised his accounting firm. He couldn’t be offering her job back. Impossible. The Bitchkrieg would never stand for that.

She’d just have to wait until tomorrow. Just one more thing she’d have to wait for. And whatever it was would be a surprise. Waiting and surprises. Neither of which sat well with her.