Chapter 20
CHAPTER 20
FRANK
F rank stood at the kitchen window and sipped his morning coffee, watching Nate and Juliet build a snowman in the backyard—Day 5 on the Christmas Calendar. Something had happened last night while he and Bevy stayed over at Dolores’s, waiting out the storm. Even from afar, he could see the change in their interactions, the playful way they threw snowballs at each other, their easy laughter.
As soon as they got home that morning and Bevy noticed two mugs and dessert plates drying on the dish rack, she’d predicted the shift in their relationship. “Mark my words,” she’d said with a satisfied smile, “those two finally had a real conversation last night and realized they’re perfect for each other.”
Based on the lovey-dovey display he was witnessing—Nate pulled Juliet into his arms before diving into a powdery snowdrift while she squealed in feigned protest—Bevy was right. Too bad she had to rush off to the library and couldn’t bask in the success of her matchmaking scheme. Maybe they should invite Nate to stay with them a little longer so he and Juliet could spend Christmas together?
Frank harrumphed into his coffee cup. He really had gone soft in his old age. When had he ever wanted to extend the visit of a houseguest? Muttering about Bevy’s bad influence, he served himself some mince pie.
He’d moved on to a second slice by the time Nate and Juliet stumbled through the back door, pink-cheeked and breathless.
“Good morning.” Nate tugged off his knit cap. His blue eyes shone clear and bright, the look of a man unabashedly smitten. “That coffee smells great.”
“Help yourself.” Frank nodded toward the French press on the counter.
“Thanks, but I gotta get going. I’m meeting Luke at the middle school to work on the sets.” His gaze flickered to Juliet, as if he dreaded the thought of leaving her. Ah, young love .
“If you see Cassie,” Juliet said, hanging her coat on a hook by the door, “please tell her I’m almost finished with the script. I should have it done by tomorrow. Or the day after, at the absolute latest.”
“I’ll let her know.” The two lovebirds stood staring at each other for several seconds until Frank cleared his throat.
Nate snapped to attention. “Well, I’m off. See you guys later.”
“Bye.” Juliet blushed as Nate shot her a lingering glance before slipping out of the kitchen.
Good grief . The romantic chemistry between those two hung so thick in the air he could almost chew it, and he vastly preferred the taste of pie. He took another bite and washed it down with a gulp of French roast.
Juliet poured herself a cup and joined him at the kitchen table, plopping onto her chair with a blissful sigh. She wore the same besotted expression as Nate.
Frank remembered the early days of falling in love, when eating and sleeping gave way to thoughts of Bevy and Bevy alone. The constant daydreams of the future, both thrilled and terrified by the endless possibilities, the uncertainty of it all. If he’d met Bevy during the time he wrote his first book, he doubted The Mariposa Method would’ve made it into existence.
“How’s the novel coming along?” he asked Juliet, taking advantage of their first moment alone.
“Smooth sailing.” The light in her eyes dimmed, and her features strained, revealing her lie.
“I milked a giraffe this morning,” he said casually, taking another sip.
“S-sorry?”
“I thought we were both sharing things that aren’t true.”
“Oh.” Her shoulders slumped. “Is it that obvious?”
“You have a tell.”
“What is it?”
“Your face.”
Juliet sputtered with laughter, caught off guard by his remark. Some of her tension slipped away. “Okay. You’re right. It hasn’t been going well. At all .”
“Writer’s block?”
“I guess.” With both hands wound around the mug, she stared intently into the velvety liquid, studying the tendrils of aromatic steam. “To be honest, ever since I got here, I’ve had plenty of inspiration, just not the right kind of inspiration.”
He nodded, encouraging her to elaborate.
Instead, she asked, “When you wrote The Mariposa Method , how did you know that was the book you were meant to write?”
“It was the story only I could tell.”
“And it revolutionized the coffee industry, hitting all the bestseller lists.”
“I didn’t set out to revolutionize anything. Or make any list.”
“So, your success came without even trying?” The possibility seemed to depress her even more.
“Oh, I tried. I’d never worked harder on anything in my life. But I had my own goalposts.”
“What were they?”
“For starters, to end the world’s biggest crisis: bad coffee.” He flashed a wry grin.
She smiled and toasted him with her mug. “And the world thanks you.”
Taking a more serious tone, he asked, “You want to know the truth?”
“Very much.”
“I’d found something I was passionate about and couldn’t keep it to myself. Like a compulsion. I needed people to see their daily dose of caffeine differently. To see what I did. Because it made my life a bit better, and I wanted it to do the same for them.”
“That sounds pretty revolutionary to me,” she murmured.
“You know what’s revolutionary? Writing what’s in here.” He tapped his chest above his heart. “You can study the market and write what you think will sell to the masses or appease the critics. There’s nothing wrong with that. But you can’t control other people, which means you can’t guarantee that kind of success, even if you give it your best shot. Besides,” he added, softening his tone with a note of compassion. “I don’t think that’s what you really want. Otherwise, you wouldn’t be having so much trouble getting your horse out of the starting gate.”
She met his gaze, and he could see her internal struggle reflected in her dark, expressive eyes.
“I won’t lie and say writing the story of your heart will secure you a spot on the bestsellers list,” he told her. “But it can guarantee you success, as long as you redefine your definition and make it your own.”
She dropped her gaze, peering into her mug thoughtfully. The aromatic tendrils of steam had long dissipated, which meant her coffee would be lukewarm soon. Normally, he wouldn’t abide such an atrocity.
But today, he’d let it slide.
Some things—like the personal breakthrough of an aspiring author—were more important than coffee. Although, he’d never admit that aloud.