Chapter 26
CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX
BLAIR
I’m perched on my favourite boulder on the pebble beach down from Lachlan’s house, phone in hand, the afternoon sun warm on my shoulders. Finn and Gus are closer to the water and in the midst of a fierce but giggly tug-of-war battle with a long strand of seaweed.
Self-publishing. Why couldn’t I do that?
Lachlan’s words from last night have been rattling around in my head, so here I am, scrolling through author blogs and success stories, trying to wrap my head around it all.
Seven figures. One author earns that. Actual millionaire money, for writing books on her laptop in her PJs.
Okay, I’m sure only a tiny minority reach those dizzy heights, but it seems plenty of others are earning six figures.
Buying houses. Quitting day jobs. Supporting their families, all from stories they wrote themselves and published independently.
I wouldn’t even need to earn that much. But if I could make enough to survive on, doing something I love, being my own boss... No more reporting to anyone. No more taking the fall for decisions I disagreed with. Full creative control over my work.
The idea sends a little thrill through me. I could actually do this.
Then a voice pipes up in the back of my head: For every success story, there must be a hundred failures you’re not reading about.
I shake my head, annoyed at myself. What’s with the imposter syndrome?
Why can’t I believe I’m capable of this?
Lachlan does. If he thinks I can do it, why don’t I?
I used to read submissions from debut authors all the time.
I know what a good story looks like. So why can’t I trust myself to write one?
“Blair!” Finn calls. He’s standing by the shore now, scanning the waves like a pint-sized marine biologist. “See any otters yet?”
“Not yet, but keep looking, buddy. They’re sneaky.”
I’m just beginning to picture it—a life of writing in the mornings, walking this beach in the afternoons, answering to no one but myself—when my phone buzzes.
Clara Levinson.
I blink. Clara is a publicity associate at Everhart & Greene. I always liked her, but I never thought I’d hear from her again. Not after my very public fall from grace.
Hey Blair,
Hope you’re doing okay after . . . well, everything.
I was at a networking event last night and got chatting with Nora Cartwright from Cedar House. She asked after you, specifically whether you might be available for work.
I’m not sure what she has in mind, but thought you might be interested. Let me know if you want me to pass along your email.
I stare at the message, my heart doing a little skip. Cedar House. A real player in children’s publishing. I’ve always respected Nora Cartwright, their editorial director.
I assumed I’d burned every bridge. What could Nora possibly want with me? Maybe she needs freelance help—some remote editorial work?
Well, there’s no harm in finding out more, right?
I tap out a quick reply.
Thanks, Clara. Yes, please do pass along my email. Appreciate you thinking of me.
I send it then just sit there staring at the screen, trying to process what this might mean. Maybe my career in children’s publishing isn’t dead in the water after all.
“Blair!” Finn’s excited voice snaps me back to the present. “Do you think an otter and a boy could really be friends?”
I slip my phone into my pocket and give him my full attention. “It’s not impossible. When I was looking up otters for our story, I found this documentary called Billy & Molly . It’s set in Shetland.”
“That’s in Scotland!” Finn says knowledgeably.
“It is! A man named Billy found a young otter who’d lost her mom.
He fed her until she was strong again, and they became friends.
But before winter, Billy stopped feeding her so she could learn to fend for herself.
After that, she visited him less and less.
.. until she stopped coming altogether. ”
Finn’s shoulders slump. “Oh. Is that what happens in our story? The boy never sees the otter again?”
“Well, sometimes life surprises you. Molly did come back one day. And she was pregnant.”
His face lights up. “She came back! Will your otter come back too?”
“You’ll just have to wait and see.”
Finn grins, cheeky as anything. “Then you’d better get writing.”
That evening, I’m hanging out by myself in the granny flat. Well, correction, Gerald’s here too.
These days I only come back to water him or to grab something I haven’t moved into Lachlan’s bedroom yet.
I pretty much live in the main house now.
But tonight I’ve got my weekly video call with my parents, and that’s still a granny flat activity.
They don’t know about Lachlan and me, and honestly, I’m not sure what they’d think if they did.
I set my laptop on the little table by the window and call them. Within moments Mom and Dad’s faces pop up on-screen, both grinning from their kitchen in Staten Island, coffee mugs in hand.
“There’s our Scottish lass!” Dad beams. “You look well, Blair. Is that sea air working its magic?”
I laugh. “Either that or all the walking. Finn’s got more energy than a golden retriever—and I’ve been walking one of those too.”
“Gus, yes?” Mom says warmly. “So sweet. Go on, tell us about your week.”
We chat about the weather (gorgeous), the local food (I’ve developed a serious addiction to tablet, which is basically Scottish fudge), and my adventures with Finn.
I find myself editing carefully, talking about our trips to the library and the beach, but leaving out the parts that might make my parents ask awkward questions about my living arrangements.
“And how’s everything else going?” Mom asks. “You seem so much more relaxed than when you first arrived.”
If I were going to tell them about Lachlan, this would be my opening. The perfect moment to admit he’s become more than just my employer. To tell them how he makes me laugh with his dry humour, how he looks at me like I’m something precious, how Finn has wormed his way completely into my heart.
But something stops me. The words won’t come.
It’s not that I don’t trust my parents. We’ve always been close, and I’ve never been one to keep secrets from them. But this feels different. Like Lachlan, Finn, and I exist in this perfect little bubble here in Ardmara, and talking about it out loud with my mom and dad might pop it.
Or maybe I’m just not ready to put words to whatever this is yet. Especially when I’ve no idea where it’s going.
“Everything’s good,” I say instead. “Really good.”
Dad adjusts his glasses. “And you’re still enjoying the nannying?” Then he quickly adds, “And that wasn’t my way of asking about jobs back in New York! I know better than to ask about that.”
I grin at his hasty backpedal. “Well, funnily enough, I heard from an old colleague today.” I tell them about Clara’s message and Nora Cartwright asking about me.
Both their faces light up.
“That’s encouraging!” Mom says, leaning forward. “Maybe there’s a chance for you to get back into children’s publishing after all?”
“I don’t have any details yet,” I say, trying to temper their expectations. “All I can do is wait and see if Nora even gets in touch.”
Briefly, I wonder why I’m telling my parents about Clara’s message when I’ve already decided not to mention it to Lachlan yet, at least not until I’ve heard from Nora herself. Maybe because they’re part of my New York life and Lachlan isn’t? I’m not sure I’m ready for those worlds to meet.
“Still, it’s exciting,” Dad says. “We both miss you, you know. This is the longest we’ve ever gone without seeing you.”
“I know. I miss you guys too.” And I do, I really do. But the thought of leaving here, leaving Lachlan, Finn, and Gus...
“How much longer are you acting as a nanny for this boy?” Mom asks.
“Well, he goes back to school on the fourteenth of August, which is...” I pause, doing the mental math.
“In a week,” Mom supplies helpfully.
A week. How did that happen? When I first arrived, six weeks felt like forever. Now, with Lachlan’s arms around me every night, and Finn chattering about otters and whatever else every day, time has somehow slipped through my fingers.
What happens in a week? When Finn doesn’t need me anymore? When Lachlan doesn’t need me anymore? We’ve been so caught up in the spell of this summer that we haven’t talked about... after.
Mom, Dad, and I chat for a few more minutes before saying our goodbyes. When I close the laptop, the granny flat feels too quiet, Gerald’s leaves stirring in the sea breeze drifting through the open window.
One week.
I need to talk to Lachlan. Tonight. We can’t keep pretending this summer will last forever.