Chapter 31
THIRTY-ONE
Less than twenty-four hours after her last meeting with Nate, Melody paced her apartment on a continuous loop that would put Formula-One drivers to shame, her mind replaying the argument with Nate on an endless loop.
The nerve of him, suggesting she should compromise her artistic vision for a quick Hollywood payday! She grabbed a throw pillow from her couch and screamed into it, letting out all the frustration and anger that had been building up.
"Stupid, handsome, traitorous editor," she muttered, tossing the pillow aside. "I bet he thinks he can just flash those blue eyes and I'll roll over like some starstruck groupie."
Her phone buzzed for the umpteenth time. It was probably Nate, trying to smooth things over. She ignored it, but the constant notifications were driving her crazy. Finally, she snatched it up, ready to give him a piece of her mind.
But it wasn't Nate. It was Carmen.
Melody took a deep breath and answered. "Carmen, hey. I was just about to call you."
"Melody, my love!” Carmen's voice chirped through the speaker. "I've been trying to reach you all day. Just wanted to check in on ya. I bet you’re still buzzing from the movie deal news, huh? Isn't it exciting?"
Melody winced. "Yeah, about that..."
She launched into a recap of her meeting with Nate and the subsequent blow-up. Carmen listened quietly, which was unusual for her. When Melody finished, Carmen let out a long sigh.
"Oh, honey. What a mess."
Melody flopped onto her couch. "Tell me about it. Carmen, please tell me I have some legal recourse here. They can't just... change my entire story without my consent, right?"
There was a pause on the other end of the line. "Well, technically, no. Your contract with Carlisle gives you final say on creative decisions. But..."
Melody sat up straight. "But what?"
"But Hollywood can make things sticky for you. For us. These producers hold a lot of weight in this town.”
Melody's stomach dropped. "So you're saying I should just give in? Let them turn my book into some generic rom-com?"
"Not necessarily," Carmen said slowly. "But it might be worth considering a compromise. Something that maintains the core of your vision while making some concessions.”
Melody fell back onto the couch. "I don't know, Carmen. The whole point of this book was to challenge romance novel stereotypes. How can I do that if I'm pandering to Hollywood clichés?"
"I understand, sweetie. But think about it this way – even with some changes, like Nate stated, your story will still reach a much wider audience through film. Isn't that worth something?"
"I guess. But where do I draw the line? How much compromise is too much?"
"That's something only you can decide, Melody. But remember, you're in a position of power here. They want your book. Use that leverage to negotiate terms you can live with."
After hanging up with Carmen, Melody felt even more conflicted than before. She needed a second opinion, someone who knew her better than anyone. She needed Hannah.
An hour later, Melody was sitting in Hannah's cozy living room, nursing a glass of wine—stolen from Marco’s cooking class Cucina Bella, of course, and pouring her not-yet-drunken heart out.
Hannah listened attentively, occasionally offering sympathetic nods or outraged gasps at all the right moments.
"...and then I stormed out.”
“What’s that, like, the thousandth time you’ve done that on Nate?"
“Thousand and one,” Melody finished, taking a large gulp of wine. "God, Hannah, what am I going to do?"
Hannah leaned back. "Well, first of all, I think we need to address the elephant in the room."
“And what elephant is that?”
“The fact that you're completely out-of-your-mind, no-turning-back hot for your editor."
Melody choked on her wine. "What? I am not!"
“Don’t even give me that. We’ve been over this a million times already. You and I both know that every time you talk about Nate, you get this look in your eyes. Like you can't decide whether you want to kiss him or kill him."
Melody felt her cheeks burning. "That's... that's not relevant to the situation at hand."
"Isn't it? Because it seems to me that a lot of your anger stems from feeling betrayed by someone you care about. Someone you trusted."
Melody opened her mouth to argue, then closed it again. Hannah wasn't entirely wrong. "Okay, fine. Maybe I have some... complicated feelings where Nate is concerned. But that doesn't change the fact that he's asking me to sell out."
"True. But is he really asking that, or is he just doing his job? Coming up with ideas that might actually help him keep his?”
Melody frowned, thinking back to their argument. Had she given Nate a chance to fully explain? Or had she jumped to conclusions, lashing out because she felt hurt and betrayed?
"I don't know," she admitted. "Maybe I overreacted a bit."
"A bit? Honey, you went full nuclear. But that's okay. Now, it’s just a matter of figuring out what you’re going to do now?"
Melody sighed, swirling the wine in her glass. "I don't know. Part of me wants to stick to my guns, to refuse any changes on principle. But another part..."
"Another part sees the potential in this opportunity. The chance to reach more people, more readers, to make a real impact in the industry."
Melody nodded, surprised by how well Hannah was reading her. "Exactly. But how do I reconcile that with staying true to my own vision of how I see myself, see my work?”
Hannah leaned forward, her expression serious. "Melody, listen to me. Your artistic vision is important. It's what makes you a great writer. But part of being a great artist is also knowing how to adapt, how to reach your audience. Sometimes, that means making compromises."
Melody mulled over her words. "So you think I should take the deal?"
"I think…that you should consider it. Really consider it. Look at all angles, think about your long-term career goals. And then make a decision you can live with." Hannah hesitated, her lime-green eyes lowering to the floor. “And you know…I’m not the only one you could talk this out with.”
Melody frowned. “You’re not?”
“I’m not. You could always talk to…you know.”
Melody nodded, the back of her throat burning.
As Melody left Hannah's place, her mind was whirling with possibilities. She thought about her original goals when she started writing this book. She wanted to challenge romance novel stereotypes, yes. But she also wanted to reach people, to make them think and feel in new ways.
She never wanted to consider that there's a way to do both.
That’s why her footsteps were steady when two hours later, she exited her car out onto a field full of headstones.
The Seattle drizzle fell in a fine mist as Melody picked her way through Mount Pleasant Cemetery, a fresh manuscript tucked under her jacket to keep it dry.
Some might find it morbid, bringing her latest chapters to a gravesite, but old habits die hard.
Mom was her first reader in life—why should death change that?
"Hey, Mama," she said softly, settling onto the damp grass beside her headstone. The granite was simple, elegant—like her.
Deborah Marie Archer. Beloved Mother, Teacher, and First Reader of Many Stories.
"So," Melody began, pulling out the manuscript, "you'll never guess what happened.
Hollywood wants my book." She laughed, but it caught in her throat.
"Remember how we used to joke about who'd play us in the movie version?
You always said Meryl Streep, but only if she could nail your Seattle accent. "
The rain pattered gently on the pages as she smoothed them across her lap.
"The thing is, Mom... they want to change it.
All the messy parts, all the real stuff—they want to sand it down into something shiny and perfect and...
fake." She traced her fingers over the words, remembering all the times she read them to her in the hospice.
"They're offering a lot of money. Like, never-have-to-worry-again money. "
A gust of wind ruffled the pages, and Melody could almost hear her voice: Money's nice, baby, but can you live with the changes?
"I don't know," Melody admitted, pulling her knees to her chest. "Carmen says it's an opportunity. Nate says..." She swallowed hard. "Well, that's complicated too. Everything's complicated these days. You'd love that—you always said I needed more complications in my life."
She leaned back against the headstone, letting the cool granite ground her. "Remember that time I wanted to change my first novel's ending because Mrs. Peterson from my writing group said it was too depressing? You read both versions and then..."
"Tossed the happy ending in the trash," Melody said along with the memory of her voice. "Some stories need their darkness, Melody. That's how we find the light."
"I miss you," she whispered, the words carried away by the wind. "I miss reading you my rough drafts and hearing you laugh at all the right moments. I miss your terrible coffee and your perfect advice and the way you always knew which story I was really trying to tell."
The rain was falling harder now, spotting the manuscript pages. Melody should protect them, put them away, but somehow the water marks seemed fitting. Life leaves its marks on our stories, one way or another.
"They're offering seven figures, Mom. Seven. And part of me thinks—maybe I could do both? Keep writing my real stories and just... let this one be different? But then I hear your voice in my head: Every story matters, especially the ones that make people uncomfortable."
She rested her forehead against the cool stone. "What do I do, Mama? What's the right choice?"
The cemetery remained quiet except for the soft patter of rain and distant traffic. But in that silence, Melody felt something settle in her chest. A certainty, a clarity that felt like her hand on her shoulder, her kiss on her forehead.
"Yeah," she said softly, gathering up her damp manuscript. "I think I knew what you'd say all along." She pressed her palm flat against her name, feeling the carved letters beneath her skin. "The messy stories matter. The complicated feelings matter. The imperfect endings matter."
Standing up, Melody brushed grass from her jeans. "I'll bring you the next chapters soon. The real version, not whatever Hollywood wants it to be. Because you taught me that the best stories..." She smiled through sudden tears, "are the ones that feel like truth."
As she walked away, the rain started to ease. A shaft of sunlight broke through the clouds, and Melody could swear she heard her laugh on the wind. That's my girl, it seemed to say. Now go make some trouble.
Don't worry, Mom. That's one promise I know how to keep.
The manuscript under her arm might be a little water-damaged, but that felt right too. Real stories should show their scars. You taught me that.
Time to go tell Hollywood exactly what they can do with their seven figures and their happy endings.
After all, she was her daughter. And Archer women don't compromise on what matters.