12. Solenne #2
Same exposed brick, same natural light, but now there’s an energy in the air that wasn’t there during my first meeting with Rachel. People are moving with purpose, and when I give my name at the reception desk, someone appears almost immediately to escort me to a conference room.
Rachel is already there, along with a man I recognize from industry events but have never met personally.
Marcus Webb has the kind of presence that fills a room without trying, silver-haired and sharp-eyed, the sort of person who’s seen enough pitches to know the difference between something real and something polished.
“Solenne.” He stands to shake my hand. “I’ve been wanting to work with you for years. Never found the right project.”
“Thank you for reading the treatment.”
“Thank you for writing something worth reading.” He gestures to the chair across from him. “Sit. Tell me about this woman of yours.”
I take my seat, suddenly aware of the folder in my hands, the pages I’ve been revising for days. Rachel gives me an encouraging nod.
“She’s not based on anyone specific,” I begin. “But she’s real. She’s a woman who built her life around someone else’s world, and when that world rejected her, she had to figure out who she was without it.”
“What does she want?”
The question cuts straight to the heart of it. I think about the scene I rewrote, the one where she goes back for the job.
“She wants to matter. Not to be saved or rescued or taken care of. She wants to know that who she is, separate from anyone else, is enough.”
“And the husband?” Marcus leans forward. “Rachel says you haven’t decided if they reconcile.”
“I haven’t. Because I don’t think she’s decided yet either. She’s angry and hurt and she has every right to be. But she also loved him once, really loved him. That doesn’t just disappear because he failed her.”
“So the question isn’t whether he deserves her forgiveness.”
“The question is whether she can build a life that has room for him in it. Or whether the space he used to fill is better left empty.”
Marcus is quiet for a moment, studying me with those sharp eyes. I resist the urge to fill the silence.
“That’s honest,” he says finally. “Most writers would give me the ending they think I want to hear.”
“I don’t know what you want to hear. I only know what feels true.”
He glances at Rachel, some communication passing between them that I can’t read.
“We want to develop this with you,” Marcus says. “Formally. Bring you on as writer and producer, see what we can build together.”
The words take a moment to land. Development deal. My project. My name on it in a way that matters.
“I…” I stop, collect myself. “Thank you. I’d like that.”
“Good.” Marcus stands and offers his hand again. “Rachel will handle the details. But I wanted to tell you myself. This is good work, Solenne. I’m glad you’re doing it.”
I shake his hand, thank Rachel, say all the right things. I don’t remember walking to the elevator or riding it down to the parking garage. I just know that at some point I’m sitting in my car with the engine off, and I’m crying.
Not sad tears. Something else entirely. Relief, maybe. Or recognition. The part of me that makes things, that tells stories, that existed before I was anyone’s wife or mother. She’s still here. She survived.
I let myself cry until I’m done, then wipe my face and start the car.
I have a daughter to pick up.
***
The playground near the preschool is small but well-maintained, with a climbing structure and swings and a sandbox that’s seen better days. I spot them before they see me.
Valentin is on his knees in the sandbox, his expensive clothes covered in dust, helping Summer build what looks like either a castle or a very ambitious pile of dirt.
She’s directing him with the authority of a construction foreman, pointing at spots where he should add more sand, rejecting his architectural suggestions with cheerful disdain.
There’s chocolate on her face. Chocolate on his sleeve too, where she must have grabbed him. And he’s smiling, really smiling, in a way I haven’t seen in months.
I stand at the edge of the playground and watch them. Summer pushes a bucket toward him, and he takes it without looking away from what she’s showing him. I stay by the gate a moment longer, letting them finish.
Summer spots me and waves frantically. “Mama! Mama, come see!”
I walk over to the sandbox, stopping at the edge. “What are you building?”
“It’s a castle for Bunny.” Summer points at the rabbit, who is propped against a bucket with sand in her ears. “She’s the queen.”
“Queen Bunny. I like it.”
Valentin looks up at me, brushing sand from his hands. “How was your meeting?”
“Good. Really good, actually.” I can feel the smile trying to take over my face. “They want to develop the project.”
“Solenne.” He stands, sand cascading off his knees. “That’s wonderful. Congratulations.”
“Thank you.”
He doesn’t ask for details, doesn’t try to make this moment about anything other than what I’ve accomplished. He just looks genuinely, uncomplicatedly happy for me.
“How was the classroom?” I ask. “Did she meet her teacher?”
“Miss Patricia. She has a turtle in the classroom. Summer is very excited about the turtle.”
“His name is Sherman,” Summer supplies. “He’s very slow.”
“Slower than your caterpillar?”
“Way slower. But he has a shell, so that’s good.”
Valentin catches my eye over Summer’s head, the shared amusement of parents who understand their child’s logic even when it makes no sense to anyone else.
“She showed me all the drawings,” he says. “In the car, and at the school, and during ice cream. I have been thoroughly educated on the subject of purple dragons.”
“Purple is the best color for dragons,” Summer explains to me. “Daddy said green, but he was wrong.”
“I was wrong,” Valentin agrees solemnly. “Purple is clearly superior.”
Summer nods with satisfaction and returns to her castle construction. Valentin steps out of the sandbox, trying to shake sand from his shoes.
“Thank you,” I say quietly. “For today.”
“You don’t have to thank me. She’s my daughter.”
“I know. She was excited about today.”
“So was I.”
A phone sounds from his pocket. He checks the screen, silences it, and puts it away.
“Do you need to take that?” The question is out before I can stop it.
“No.”
He crouches to retrieve a shovel Summer has dropped over the edge. She takes it without thanking him, already explaining where the next tower needs to go.
I wait for him to step aside and call back.
He doesn’t.
We stand there in silence, watching our daughter play. It’s almost comfortable. Almost like the family we used to be, before everything went wrong.
Almost.
“I should get her home,” I say eventually. “Bath time, dinner, the whole routine.”
“Of course.” He bends down to Summer’s level. “Hey, monkey. Time to go with Mama.”
“Already?”
“Already. But I’ll see you again soon, okay?”
Summer considers this. “How soon?”
“Your mama and I are going to arrange it together.”
She looks at me, calculating. “Can Daddy come to dinner?”
“Not tonight, sweetheart. But we’ll figure out another time.”
She accepts this with minimal protest, gathering Bunny and the folder of drawings she insisted on bringing everywhere. Valentin brushes sand off her clothes, a gesture so natural it makes my chest ache.
“I’ll text you,” I say. “About the next time.”
“Okay.” He doesn’t push for more, doesn’t try to negotiate a schedule or extract promises. He just nods and steps back, giving us space. “Goodbye, Summer. I love you.”
“Love you too, Daddy.”
We walk to my car, Summer chattering about Sherman the turtle and the ice cream she had and the way Daddy built the castle wrong but she fixed it. I buckle her into her seat and drive home, listening to her happy monologue.
She falls asleep halfway there, exhausted by the day, Bunny clutched against her chest.
That night, after the bath and the dinner and the story, Summer presents me with one more drawing.
“I started this one at the playground,” she says. “I finished your shoes just now.”
It’s three figures standing in front of a lumpy brown shape that might be the castle. The smallest figure has yellow hair like Summer. The other two are taller, standing on either side of her.
“Who’s that?” I ask, pointing to each figure in turn.
“That’s me. That’s Daddy. That’s you.”
“My shoes are purple.”
“I ran out of black.” Summer yawns. “You were standing there. By Daddy. Remember?”
I stare at the drawing. I try to remember the last time she brought me a picture with all three of us in it. Lately her drawings have been animals, flowers, her and me beside the sea.
“Can you keep it?” Summer asks. “So it doesn’t get lost?”
“I’ll keep it.”
“Good.” She closes her eyes, and within minutes she’s asleep.
I take the drawing to my room and set it on the nightstand, next to my phone. A text came in while I was putting Summer to bed. Valentin’s new number, the one I haven’t blocked.
Thank you for trusting me with her today. It meant everything.
I look at the message, then at the drawing. The paper has a crease down one side and a grain of sand caught in the fold. I brush it away with my thumb.
I don’t reply.
There are still things I cannot say to him. One afternoon hasn’t changed that.
I prop the drawing against the lamp and move my water glass so it won’t get splashed. Summer has drawn his hand reaching toward hers, the way he held it crossing to the car.
For once, I don’t have to invent the moment she put on paper.
He was there.