Second Song (The Parent App #4)

Chapter 1 Seraphina

SERAPHINA

Authors have two favorite words.

The End.

I typed them into the last page of my manuscript on a warm April afternoon, with the sun bright over the Pacific Ocean, and waited for the familiar rush of exhilaration that came after finishing a book.

The sense that I’d done something important and meaningful.

Work that fed my soul. If not that, then something.

Relief, maybe. Satisfaction. Pride even?

Instead, I felt nothing. Except a bone-weary exhaustion.

I leaned back in my chair, staring at the blinking cursor on the screen. It pulsed at me, patient yet expectant, knowing I would be back tomorrow. Or was it demanding I return? Even if I didn’t want to?

My office windows were open, letting in the scent of lilacs and salty air.

The full sweep of the Pacific was before me, ever-changing, unfolding in its varying hues of the ocean.

A deep jade clung close to the cliffs where the water churned white against the rocks, fading to slate blue at the horizon and lit to silver where the afternoon sun broke through.

The marine layer had burned off hours ago, leaving the air scrubbed clean and sharp.

Light spilled across my desk, happy and hopeful, but couldn’t penetrate the numbness.

Outside, the planters on my patio were returning to life, greenery pushing through the damp soil after months of rain.

The tulips were in full bloom, their red and apricot heads lifting bravely toward the sky, petals still tight from the chill.

Beyond the patio railing, where my garden gave way to the cliff's edge, sea thrift clung stubbornly to the rock in small pink pom-poms, defiant against wind and salt.

A scatter of California poppies flashed gold in the grass.

Farther down the bluff, purple lupine had begun to rise in soft spikes.

The twisted cypress that had been there since before the house was built stood at its permanent angle, shaped by decades of wind, refusing to succumb to the changes of season or the onslaught of time.

The world was renewing itself right on schedule. I, apparently, was not. Yes, I’d finished another book. Another love story with a happy ending. My sixty-first book. All those happily-ever-afters for my characters and never one for myself.

I pushed away from the desk and stood, my body heavy with a kind of exhaustion sleep wouldn’t fix.

And my office was in a state of disarray, kind of like me in my canary yellow lucky writing sweater and my thick red hair in desperate need of a good washing.

Or, at the very least, a thorough brushing.

My tangles had tangles. Three coffee mugs in various stages of abandonment were lined up on the desk.

One with herbal tea, the others with cold coffee, cream separated and giving off a sour, just turned smell.

Notebooks cluttered every surface including the floor beside my head, one of them splayed open to a page that said only the word momentum underlined three times and then nothing.

A pair of reading glasses perched on top of my head, with another on the desk and yet another on the loveseat where I sometimes stole a cat nap.

I told myself I should tidy up before Tyler arrived home from baseball practice.

Otherwise, he’d take it upon himself to do so.

Before he’d left for school, he’d brought eggs, toast and a fresh cup of coffee to my office, the remnants of which were on the table next to the door.

I’d been up for hours by that time, finishing up my final polish that always took more time than I thought it should.

Instead, I lay on the floor in the middle of the room and watched the blades of the ceiling fan turning slowly, round and round, almost hypnotic. But not enough to distract me from my last call with my editor.

“The marketing department’s driving a lot of decisions right now,” Sylvia had said. “They’re looking at the list. Thinking about who’s connecting with readers… and who isn’t.”

Who isn’t. I hadn’t asked the question. I hadn’t needed to.

“People want more angst. More edge. High concept hooks.”

“But that’s not what I write,” I’d said.

“Maybe it’s time to try something new. A pivot.”

A pivot. I had no idea what that meant.

“We need to connect to younger readers if we’re going to stay alive in the world of TikTok,” Sylvia said.

Meaning younger. Edgier. New. Not a thirty-nine-year-old author who wrote love stories people often described as emotional but comforting.

Comforting.

When had it become a bad word?

What if it had finally happened? What if I’d lost my touch? Maybe my best books were behind me. Or worse, what if I was never as good as people thought? Maybe I’d just gotten lucky. Sixty times in a row.

A tear drop slipped down the side of my face and into my ear. I was not a crier. I was tough. But that conversation had me reeling. What was I if not a bestselling author? A mediocre mom. A woman no man wanted. My work meant everything to me, and I felt it slipping away.

I’m not sure how much time passed, but I dozed off, waking to the sound of Tyler coming up the stairs. I should sit up, act energetic, so he didn’t worry, but I didn’t have it in me. He knocked softly on the door. “Mom, you okay?”

“Yeah, come on in.” I remained on my back.

He appeared above me, his brow creasing in worry, holding his glove against his chest like he used to do with his stuffed rabbit. Time was snatching away my little boy, day by day.

“Are you sick or did you finish?” He was dressed in his practice jersey, cleats in one hand and his hair damp at the temples under his hat.

“Finished.”

He lay down beside me, bringing the scent of fresh grass, dirt, and the rich, oily smell of his leather mitt. “And what are we doing here on the floor?”

“I was too tired to remain upright for another second,” I said.

“And how do you feel about the book?”

“There’s always more I could have done, but I guess I feel okay. It might be terrible.”

“Mom, you always say that, and then your readers love it.”

“Is that true?” I turned on my side to look at him.

He laughed. “Mom, look at your reviews.”

“You know I don’t do that.” God forbid I saw anything critical. I wouldn’t sleep for a week. “How was practice?”

“Awesome. I hit a home run during a practice scrimmage. Coach Alex made a big deal about it too. Peter’s so lucky.

” The wistfulness in his tone hurt my heart.

He would never say it out loud, but I knew he wanted a father.

His biological one had not walked, but ran, when I’d told him I was pregnant.

In the man’s defense, we’d only dated a few months when I woke up one morning feeling nauseous.

If he had hung around, it might have helped financially, but I knew he wasn’t the type of man who would make a good husband and father.

I’d decided to have the baby on my own and never looked back.

“That’s wonderful. I’m looking forward to tomorrow’s game.”

“It’s supposed to be great weather.” He sat up. “I think we should go to The Pelican to celebrate you finishing your book.”

I, too, sat up, sitting cross-legged, noticing a coffee stain on my sweatpants.

“And your home run.” It was a Wednesday evening.

Which meant Hunter would be behind the bar.

The man I could not stop thinking about.

I couldn’t go like this. My hair probably smelled like a greasy floor at a diner.

Some makeup wouldn’t hurt either. How long had it been since I’d left the house?

Was it Saturday at Esme and Grady’s wedding?

“I don’t think a home run counts if it’s at practice,” Tyler said, sounding modest.

“Oh, it counts, young man.” I made a prayer gesture with my hands. “Give me an hour to get ready. I need to shower.”

“Thank God you know that.”

“Very funny.”

“I’ll shower too and meet you downstairs in an hour.” Tyler headed toward the door, turning back to look at me. “I think Hunter works tonight.”

I played dumb. “Yeah?”

“Wear something nice.”

“What are you up to?” I asked.

“Nothing.” He raised his hands, looking way too innocent. “I told you, I’m out of the matchmaking game.”

I wasn’t the only one who could play dumb in this house.

The shower felt like heaven. Like I’d been camping for a week in the great outdoors.

My dad had taken me on camping adventures every summer when I was a kid.

He’d been an English teacher with summers off, and we’d enjoyed every one of those sun-drenched days.

As much as I’d enjoyed our time together, nothing had ever felt as good as a shower after one of our epic trips.

I stood under it longer than necessary, working conditioner through the full weight of my hair.

My mother’s hair. She’d given me my hair and my love of romance novels.

Georgia Sinclair died when I was two, so I had no memories of her.

But I had her paperback romance novels, with her notes in the margins and underlined sentences.

I’d read the same books over and over, in a hopeful search to know my mother.

What I’d found instead was an innate sense of how to craft a romance novel.

I had photos of Georgia. They were like looking in a mirror.

We shared the same wild red hair and bright green eyes.

I had my dad’s stories about her. Their courtship in Mobile, Alabama, starting when they were just fifteen years old, their time at university getting their teaching degrees.

How excited she was to be a mother. How doting and interested she’d been in my every moment.