Chapter 21
The guest speaker has a double-session lecture scheduled right after breakfast on Friday morning, which means I’ve been blessed with a couple of hours of free time.
I’d booted up my laptop to go over some of the manuscript proposals from the few authors Julien had requested more information from during the pitch appointments.
My computer hadn’t even loaded my internet browser before Julien’s shadow had darkened the screen and he’d told me to take the morning to think about and really consider his offer.
Publication. My stories.
It feels surreal. Like a Salvador Dalí painting.
Although now that I’ve been to Florida, melting clocks don’t sound as farfetched as they once did.
Still, it’s hard to wrap my head around the idea of my Layla and Max books being published.
Of holding them in my hands and seeing them on the shelves of bookstores and libraries.
My insides feel like what happens when you mix vinegar with baking soda. Excitement and anxiousness all bubbling and coalescing. With his suggestion, Julien has set off a reaction that can’t be undone, even though I haven’t yet decided what I’m going to do.
It should be a no-brainer. Even though I set the dream of becoming an author aside a long time ago, there are still what-ifs and what-could-have-beens echoing around inside my heart.
If there weren’t, then I wouldn’t have felt the pangs of residual loss when I’d walked through the King Publishing building or have this sense of an outsider looking in whenever I’m surrounded by the conference attendees.
I may have set the author dream aside, but I’m not sure I ever really and truly let it go altogether.
So, why am I hesitating? Why am I not jumping on this opportunity that any one of the authors inside the hotel would give their eyeteeth for?
I sigh and prop myself up on my elbows. I’d managed to snag one of the hotel’s palm-frond beach cabanas and have been laying out on a white lounge chair beneath it, listening to the sounds of the surf and the ocean breeze.
A wave crests in the break line, and two children paddle on boogie boards, shrieking in joy when the wave picks them up and pushes them toward shore. I can’t help but smile.
I kind of wish I’d asked Javier if the hotel had any loaner boards. Those kids make it look like a lot of fun. A lot more fun than sitting here giving myself a headache, trying to make a decision that should be easy but for some reason isn’t.
You know what decision is easy to make? The one where I don’t waste this opportunity of seeing the ocean for the first time. I can’t believe I’ve already been here four days and I’ve only dipped my toes in the water. That’s just wrong.
Standing, I pull my cover-up dress over my head and lay it over my cell phone and the hotel key card on the lounge chair. I adjust my bathing suit, then step out from the shade of the cabana and into the sun. My skin immediately begins to bake, and I squint against the brightness of the day.
The sand is hot between my toes, and my feet sink, creating little hills under my arches. As I walk, the sand crunches loudly under me. There’s a chuckle off to my left that draws my attention. A man smirks as he looks me up and down, then mutters something incredibly rude about my body.
My face flames, but I remind myself he isn’t worth my time or energy.
My suit is cute and modest—a vintage-style one-piece with a halter top and tiny shorts, pink with little strawberries on them.
But even if I’d decided to come out here in a G-string like some of the thinner women I’ve seen over the last few days, he still wouldn’t have any right to comment.
As far as I’m concerned, every body is a hot girl summer body, whether their tummies are flat or round.
I try to put his inappropriate and downright mean comment behind me as the sand beneath my feet turns from hot and soft to cool and damp.
I’m not going to let people like him deprive me of what could be a once-in-a-lifetime opportunity.
I don’t know when the next chance will come along to take a dip in the Atlantic.
A wave dances up the shore before covering my feet in a surprisingly warm spray of water.
The wave washes back out but is followed by another surge right behind it.
I walk farther out and try to jump over the white foamy caps of the next wave.
It pushes against my legs, nearly toppling me, and I laugh at myself.
The two boogie boarders ride in on the next wave, and instead of trying to jump over it, I turn my back and brace my feet.
The water rides up my back, causing me to suck in my breath.
Okay, the ocean is a bit colder than I’d originally thought.
I reach back and pat my hair, which is in a topknot, making sure it’s still dry.
I wish I could throw caution to the wind and dive right in the water, but I still have to go to that editors’ panel with Julien as well as a few more pitch appointments.
I don’t have time to make sure my hair doesn’t look like Medusa incarnate later on. Which means I can’t get it wet now.
The waves aren’t big—nothing you’d see in a surfing competition.
I’m able to make it past the break point and still touch the sandy bottom on my tiptoes, my arms outstretched and floating on the surface of the water.
Out here, I bob with the ebb and flow of the tide like a buoy.
It’s relaxing, this rhythmic up-and-down motion.
I’m used to swimming in lakes, which are pretty still, unless there’s a wake from a boat.
Something brushes against my leg. I let out a strangled squeak and reflexively bring my legs up to my body in a fetal position.
Which causes me to start sinking. With the water at my chin, I force myself to lower my legs again, but now I’m peering down into the dark water, trying in vain to see below the surface and what’s swimming around down there.
My mind, of course, immediately conjures up images of pointy teeth.
Pointy shark teeth sinking into flesh. My heart is trying to beat out of my chest while I will myself not to flail around.
Anyone who’s ever watched even a single Discovery Channel shark episode knows panicking and stirring up the water is the worst thing you can do.
It’s just a fish, I tell myself. Nemo or Marlin or Dory just swimming, swimming, swimming. Nothing to worry about.
I’m not sticking around to find out if the thing that brushed me is Flounder or Bruce or Ariel herself. Disney can keep all of their marine life, as far as I’m concerned.
As fast but with as little splashing as I can, I head toward the shore.
The water resistance works against me, making me put out a lot of effort for little reward.
Slowly, the water gets shallower and dry land gets closer.
By the time I’m up to my knees, I’m sprinting for the cabana.
The ocean is beautiful, but I think I’m going to stick to the rivers and lakes that I’m used to.
As I wrap my towel around me, I scan the horizon, looking for a telltale dorsal fin. I don’t see anything, but I’m not taking any chances by returning to the water.
With a sigh, I settle back down onto the lounge chair. The sun has shifted position, the chaise no longer in the shade. I could move it over a few feet but decide to let the warm rays help dry me off quicker.
My phone dings with an incoming text.
Evangeline
How’s the conference going? Find Squire’s savior yet?
And just like that, the burden weighing down my mind comes rolling back in full force.
I close my eyes and rest my head against the back of the beach chair.
It would be a neat little package, wouldn’t it?
Julien needs books to publish. I have a backlist written .
. . though whether they’re ready to be bound with paper and ink is debatable.
Is that what’s making me pause? Self-doubt?
I open my eyes and peer down at my phone. Maybe I need to talk it out with a friend. I tap the call button by Evangeline’s name.
She picks up after the first ring. “Hey! I wasn’t expecting you to call. I thought you’d be busy with meetings.”
“We have a small break right now before we have to get back to it. I’m sitting on the beach as we speak.”
“Must be nice. I haven’t been to the beach in years. Drink a fruity frozen drink with a little umbrella for me.”
I chuckle. A virgin pina colada does sound good.
“So, how’s it going? Any prospects for that next bestseller?”
“Hmm,” I haw. “Well, there has been a bit of a . . . development.”
“That sounds interesting. What sort of development?” Before I can answer, she jumps back in. “Hold on. Someone’s at my door.”
I wait, listening to mumbled voices in the background.
“Martha?” Evangeline says. “Hayley’s here. I’m going to put you on speakerphone, if that’s okay.”
“Sure.” Two opinions are better than one, right?
“Hey, Martha! I hear you’re out working on your tan.”
I look down at myself. My skin is a little pink. I’m not planning on staying out too much longer, so I don’t worry about not having any sunscreen.
“She was just about to tell me about an interesting development,” Evangeline supplies.
“Oh, I can’t wait to hear it.”
“Okay, so, you guys know the situation,” I begin, not exactly sure where to start. Evangeline and Hayley know I write with the kids at the library, but they don’t know it extends beyond that. “Well, you know Julien is looking for a miracle author.”
“Have you found one?” Evangeline asks.
“No. Yes. No. Not exactly.” I sigh. “Julien thinks he has.”
“But you don’t agree?” Hayley asks. “Who is it? What’s the book about?”
“It’s . . .” I bite the inside of my cheek. “It’s me.”
There’s silence on the line, then an excited “You? Martha, that’s great!” from Evangeline. And “I didn’t even know you wrote books. How cool is that!” from Hayley.
“Yes,” I mumble. “I write middle-grade chapter books.”
“Wait. Why don’t you sound more excited?” Hayley asks.
“Yeah. Why didn’t you just propose your own books in the first place?” Evangeline seconds.
“Because.” I fiddle with the hem of my bathing suit. “It’s not any good.”
“Psh.” Either Evangeline or Hayley makes a dismissive sound. I can’t tell which.
“We’re always our own worst critics. I’m sure it’s amazing.” That’s from Hayley.
I swallow the lump in my throat. The rejection is always hard to talk about. “It isn’t just me. I’ve tried submitting it before, but no one has ever shown interest in it or thought it was worth exploring further.”
My friends let that sink in.
“Manuscripts, even really good manuscripts, get rejected all the time. You know that,” Evangeline says.
“Sure. But bad manuscripts get rejected too,” I answer.
“Julien didn’t seem to think it was bad,” Hayley points out. “Otherwise he wouldn’t be trying to talk you into letting him publish it.”
“But Julien doesn’t know anything about children’s literature.
He really isn’t an authority to know whether my work is any good or not.
” I pause before continuing with one of the thought threads that has woven itself into a tangle.
“He only has one shot. What if he gambles on me and my books—books that industry experts who know a lot more than him have rejected, by the way—and they don’t sell?
He’d have wasted his one opportunity to prove himself to his father, his dad won’t turn over the business to him and will continue to work himself into an early grave, and it will be all my fault. ”
“Okay, wow, that’s a lot of pressure,” Hayley admits.
I nod in agreement, even though I know they can’t see me.
“First off,” Evangeline starts, “whatever Mr. King, Senior, does or doesn’t do, no matter how any of this turns out, isn’t on your shoulders.
Those are his decisions that he’s making.
He can’t put the consequences of his actions on anyone but himself.
He could have decided to follow the advice of his business associates and close Squire.
He could have decided to make changes a long time ago so Squire wouldn’t have gotten to the point it’s at now.
I’m sure there are all sorts of decisions he could have made. Those are on him, not you.”
That sounds logical, but it still feels like it would be my fault if Julien published my books and the outcome wasn’t what we hoped for. They would be my books. My writing. Surely at least some of the blame would be at my feet.
“Let me ask you this,” Evangeline continues. “Have you guys had any better leads than your books?”
The accelerated reader series immediately comes to mind. I desperately want to see books like that get published. But I understand what Julien was saying too. For the income Squire needs, a niche market might not be the best route at the moment.
“There have been some good sample pieces and a few interesting hooks,” I say, not wanting to admit that we haven’t found the needle in the literary haystack.
“But nothing that you think will take the children’s book market by storm,” Evangeline states.
“No,” I agree. “But to be fair, I don’t think my series is going to do that either.”
“If you don’t agree to let Julien publish your stories, what will happen to Squire and his chance at King?” Hayley asks.
“He’d have to publish something else, I guess. Gamble on another author.”
All three of us seem to think on that.
“Will you let us read it?” Hayley asks. “And maybe a couple kids from the library, since they’re your target audience?”
“Yes.” Evangeline jumps on board. “You don’t trust Julien’s enthusiasm and opinion because of his lack of knowledge about children’s literature. We know books. Let us read the first story, and we’ll give you our feedback.”
“You guys are my friends.”
“We promise to be unbiased if you promise to still love us if we end up agreeing with the other editors who said it wasn’t ready to publish.”
My heart pinches at the vulnerability they’re asking of me.
“Although I highly doubt that will be the case,” Hayley chimes in.
“Okay. I guess . . . I guess I’ll wait to hear what you guys think before I tell Julien yes or no.”