“Hi, Mom.”
“I was just talking about you,” her mother purred, sounding cheerful and blissfully unaware her world was about to implode. “You need to come visit me after the holidays. England can be quite dreary in the winter, but you’ll love Oxford. It’s a literary powerhouse, producing prodigies like Percy Shelley, Oscar Wilde, and Harper Lee. You may even stumble upon some inspiration for your next book.”
Juliet’s heart twisted. Had her mother actually invited her to visit? She couldn’t remember a single time in her life when her mother had requested her presence anywhere. This phone call was going to be even harder than she anticipated.
“There’s something I need to tell you.” Her fingernail found its way between her teeth again. So much for her manicure.
“What is it, sweetheart?”
“I just sent Debra my manuscript.”
“That’s fabulous news! We should celebrate. I think I have a bottle of champagne here somewhere.”
Muffled noises filled the speaker, and Juliet gazed up at the ceiling, her eyes burning at her mother’s unsuspecting happiness. “Mom, wait. Before you get too excited, there’s something else you should know.”
“What is it?” An edge of caution crept into her mother’s voice.
Juliet gathered another breath, exhaling in a single puff. “I didn’t submit the novel you and Debra discussed.”
“What does that mean?”
“I—I don’t want to write literary fiction. At least, not right now.”
“I don’t understand. If not literary fiction, then what else is there? Nonfiction?”
“Romance.” Once the word escaped, Juliet clamped her bottom lip between her teeth, prepared for the worst. She expected her mother would follow the textbook stages of grief,starting with shock and denial, then lingering in anger and bargaining before firmly planting herself in depression. She doubted they’d ever make it to the acceptance stage.
After the longest pause known to mankind—during which Juliet’s bottom lip swelled two sizes from her incessant gnawing—her mother asked, “Why?” in an ice-cold whisper.
Juliet shivered. She would’ve preferred yelling and shouting over the eerie calm before the storm. “I tried to write the kind of book we talked about. Truly, I did. But it just wasn’t in me. But this story, the one I sent Debra, flowed out of me, like I’d been holding it inside for far too long. And—”Keep going. Say everything in your heart. No regrets. “I think it’s good, Mom. With some editing, I think it’s publishable. And more than that, I think readers will like it. And that’s why I want to write. To connect with readers. To write something that will make other people smile. I know that sounds silly to you. Demeaning, even. A waste of time. But it’s what I want to do with my life. And I hope, even if you can’t understand it, you’ll at least respect my decision.”That you’ll respectme, her heart silently pleaded.
When Juliet finally stopped speaking, she felt like she’d chugged a thousand espressos—wired and exhilarated and, also, bizarrely at peace.
She waited for her mother to unleash her rebuttal, explaining how she’d just made the biggest mistake of her life.
Instead, her mother said the last thing Juliet expected. “I’ll withhold further comment until I hear what Debra has to say. But Juliet”—her voice dropped an octave, low and ominous—“I hope you won’t live to regret this.”
“I won’t,” Juliet said with a level of confidence that surprised her. If Debra didn’t wantA Soldier’s Christmas Promise, she’d query somewhere else. Or publish it herself. She believed in the story too much to give up on it.
And perhaps even more startling, she finally believed in herself. Maybe even enough to bet on herself.
As she hung up the phone, her mind reeled with what-ifs. What if this novel was only the first of many? What if she stayed in Poppy Creek and focused on her writing? She could work remotely for Reclaim, driving into the city for the monthly company-wide meetings. Eventually, she could pare down her hours, as needed. She doubted she’d ever leave the nonprofit completely, but her role could change. She could also donate a percentage of royalties and bring more awareness to the cause through her writing.
Excitement fluttered in her chest at the myriad of thrilling possibilities, of her and Nate staying in the idyllic town together.
A knock at the door drew her attention from her daydreams. The door creaked open, and Frank poked his head inside. At the look on his face, Juliet’s heart stopped cold. She jumped from the chair. “What’s wrong?”Please, don’t tell me something happened to Aunt Beverly.
“Have you seen Nate?”
“Not in a while, why?” Her pulse sputtered.
“I need to find him. I’ve checked all over the house—”
“Is he with Vick in the barn?” Nate had been hanging out with Vick quite often during her writing sessions.
“Vick’s already left for the day. And I checked the barn. No sign of Nate. And his car’s gone.”
“Frank, what’s going on?” There was something he wasn’t telling her.
