Читать книгу A Heart's Refuge - Carolyne Aarsen - Страница 8

Becky Ellison pressed her back against the outside door of Going West’s office, balancing her muffin, coffee cup and a batch of folders. Don’t panic. You’re just a little bit late.

“Hey, hon. Welcome back. How was the holiday?” Trixie sang out as Becky entered the reception area.

Becky set everything on the waist-high divider separating the entrance from Trixie Langston’s domain and blew her breath out in a gusty sigh. “Breakfast on the run my first day back. Orders from our new boss that I’m deciphering late last night after spending ten days with hormonal teenage girls at Bible camp.” She grabbed her hair in a ponytail and twisted an elastic around it. “You fill in the blanks.”

“And such a lovely hairdo to impress our new boss.” Trixie frowned as her eyes flicked over Becky’s plaid shirt and blue jeans. Trixie, as usual, was immaculately groomed. Artfully windblown hairstyle. Pale pink sweater and gray skirt. Makeup. Earrings. Becky had never sought to emulate Trixie’s style, but once in a while she wondered if people would take her more seriously if she did. “If this is your good impression,” Trixie continued, “I would hate to see the slob version.”

“Mom’s wash machine broke down. The sewer backed up while Dad and Dennis were out in the orchard. After cleaning up that mess, this was all I had left to wear.” Becky anchored a few loose strands behind her ear and bit her lips to make them red. “Okay, enough primping. I’ll get my messages after the meeting. By the way, how late am I?”

Trixie glanced at the clock in the foyer of the magazine office. “I’d love to say everyone else is running their usual fifteen minutes behind, but for once everyone is early. Except you.”

Becky pulled a face at Trixie, stifling the dread that clutched her midsection. Rick Ethier. Here in Okotoks. What were the odds that he remembered who she was? Probably slim to none. She probably knew more about him than he did about her. She sucked in another breath. “My friend, wish me luck.”

“Give him your best smile and you’ll do fine,” Trixie said, flashing her a thumbs-up.

The door of Nelson’s office was shut and the only sound she heard was an unfamiliar deep voice. Rick, most likely. New publisher of the magazine her father started and Rick’s grandfather, Colson Ethier, recently purchased.

Up until three weeks ago, office gossip was Nelson, the previous publisher, would stay on after the purchase. Then, just before she left on her so-called holiday—camp counselor to ten teenage girls—she was stunned to discover that Rick Ethier, Colson Ethier’s grandson, would take over Nelson’s job. Now she would be making an entrance, and a poor first impression, in front of the man who had shattered so many of her hopes and dreams.

She smoothed one hand over her still damp hair, drew in a slow breath, sent up a quick prayer and carefully opened the door. Flashing everyone an apologetic smile, she dropped into her usual chair beside Nelson’s desk, uncomfortably close to her new boss. She dropped her papers on the corner of Nelson’s desk and chanced a look at Rick Ethier standing beside her.

His face was all too familiar, though the grainy magazine picture indelibly imprinted on her mind didn’t capture the reality of his good looks in person. Shaggy blond hair framed the kind of face that would make women of any age stop and take a second look. The hint of a dimple in his cheek balanced out the self-assured cockiness of his smile, and his eyes were so intensely blue it was as if they glimmered with an interior light. His clothing was a mixture of casual and stylish. He wore a soft cotton cream-colored shirt, a deep brown corduroy blazer and fitted blue jeans.

And as he glanced Becky’s way, a frown.

Please don’t let him state the obvious, she thought, carefully setting her coffee cup on the floor beside her.

Instead he glanced at his watch. Almost as bad.

“Sorry I’m late,” she said with a quick smile as she reached over and shook his hand. “I’m Becky Ellison.”

“Our editor,” Rick said, returning her smile with a cool one of his own. “Glad you could make it.” He held her gaze a moment, as if establishing his territory, then he turned to face the rest of the gathered staff of the magazine, dismissing her. “As you all now know, I’m Rick Ethier, grandson of Colson Ethier, the new owner of Going West. I’m sure you’re wondering why my grandfather, whose holdings are fairly substantial, would bother himself with one small, regional magazine. Trust me, I’m as baffled.”

A few titters greeted that comment, but Becky heard the faint cynicism in his remark. A trademark of his.

Rick Ethier was a travel writer for Colson Ethier’s flagship magazine. Though he couldn’t be more than thirty, his stories and articles usually held a shadow of world-weariness. As if he’d seen it all. Done it all.

And as Becky listened to him, one part of her mind easily resurrected other words of one particularly scathing article. “Sentimental claptrap” and “shamelessly manipulative.” These less than flattering descriptions came from a monthly book review column Rick wrote for the same magazine. A column in which Rick wrote about the first book Becky had published. Her pride and joy. And thanks to that negative review, Becky hadn’t been able to get a second contract with her publisher.

Focus on the now, Becky, she reminded herself, taking a long slow breath to ease away her irritable emotions. This was her new boss, and no matter what, she had to learn to get along with him. The past was past.

“I’ve done my research on this magazine,” Rick was saying, “but for now, I want to go around the room and ask each of you what you see as the purpose of Going West. The vision, so to speak.”

Feet shuffled, a few throats cleared as the staff glanced around the room at each other. Becky sat back in her chair, crossing her feet at the ankles, surprised at the momentary blankness in her own mind.

Going West was supposed to have a vision?

Nelson, the previous publisher and her father’s partner, had set the tone and layout of the magazine from its inception. He had reviewed, accepted and or rejected freelance articles. Since Becky started working as editor, she had simply followed his lead, hoping she caught the idea of what he wanted for that particular issue.

Never had they sat down and reviewed—or even spoke of—any kind of long-term vision.

“Why don’t we start with you, Becky, now that you’ve deigned to join us.” Rick stood beside his presentation board, his arms crossed, his legs apart, his head tilted to one side.

Definitely hostile body language, thought Becky with a surge of anger. She shouldn’t have been late. But that was also past.

“We can do that.” Becky licked her lips, buying time as hazy, insubstantial thoughts slipped past her defensive emotions. C’mon, Becky. Think. This is your chance to show Rick Ethier that you are intelligent and articulate. Not sentimental in the least.

“I’ve always seen Going West as firstly a regional magazine,” she said, grasping at an idea that she knew to be true. “Our second mandate is to be a magazine disseminating a viewpoint peculiar to Western sensibilities.”

Rick nodded, his lips pursed. “Can we try that in English?”

Becky held his direct gaze, trying not to be unnerved by his glinting eyes. In spite of her resolve to forget, snatches of his nasty book review sifted through her head. “Verbose, treacly and unrealistic.”

“It’s a cowboy and farmer magazine,” she snapped.

“That’s probably closer to the mark,” Rick said with a humorless half grin.

Becky held his gaze a moment, as if challenging him, but she was the first to look away.

The meeting went downhill from there. People who had received minimal guidance from Nelson or, to be honest, her father, now had to come up with a thumbnail sketch of what the magazine was supposed to accomplish.

Advertising. Art. Circulation. While they struggled through their answers, Becky felt embarrassed and exposed.

They should all know, she thought, taking a pencil out from behind her ear. But Nelson’s editorial meetings tended to be haphazard. He and Becky sat down once a week going over articles and their status, laying out the magazine’s plan for that particular month. When they wrote up the schedule for the upcoming magazines, there was an underlying cohesion, but a person had to go looking to find it.

But vision? Simply not there.

She scribbled a few things down on paper, took a few notes from what people were saying.

“So you can see—” Rick flipped over the first page of the presentation chart “—all this vagueness has translated into this.” He pointed to a listing of numbers he had written down.

“Circulation is down, subscription is down. Advertising revenue is down. And I’m going to attribute all that to what I’m hearing in this room this morning.” Rick looked around, letting his direct gaze tick over each of them, then finally coming back to Becky. “Which is a lot of vague words, but no single, clear statement that outlines what this magazine is really about. And that is going to change. As of today.”

He had done his homework, Becky thought with grudging respect.

“So what’s your first step?” Becky asked. Rick’s language made it very clear that he was lead dog. She just needed to know where he was heading.

“Sitting down with my editor and laying out my vision for this magazine.”

A cold finger of apprehension snaked down her back. “Your vision?”

Rick shrugged, rocking lightly back on his heels. “Media is all about communication. I haven’t heard much in this room, other than your cowboy and farmer comment, that creates a concise and clear idea of what Going West is supposed to be.”

He didn’t know the community. The surrounding area. How was he going to come up with the direction of the magazine? And where did he see it going?

“Branding is the name of the game in publishing,” Rick continued. “Now I need to figure out what brand of magazine we are going to become.”

His words were not comforting.

“I’ve already commissioned a marketing analysis team to do surveys, interview focus groups and send out questionnaires to our current readership. That won’t be coming in for a couple of months, but that doesn’t mean we can’t make some changes now.” He perched on the edge of Nelson’s desk and glanced around the room. “I’m going to be sitting down with each member of the various departments and going over what we’ve got coming up and what we can possibly change for now.”

Becky rubbed the back of her neck. Rick’s plans translated into work she didn’t have time for. She had a long-term commitment to the youth choir at church. She had promised the school librarian she’d help weed through books that needed to be sold or discarded. A fund-raising committee had asked her to write copy for their brochure.

She had Bible study. Book club.

And somehow in the middle of all this she needed to put together a stellar proposal that would negate any second thoughts her publisher had about working with her.

“I hope this isn’t going to be a problem, Miss Ellison?”

Becky looked up. Had her disappointment shown on her face?

Rick faced her, his eyebrows raised, his eyes boring into hers. “You seem disheartened.”

It had shown.

Becky glanced around the room. She wasn’t the only disheartened one, but somehow Rick had zeroed in on her.

She stifled her resentment and chose her words carefully. “I’m just thinking about all the work ahead for each department. It’s going to be difficult to turn the direction of this magazine around midstream.”

Rick flipped his hand to one side, as if dismissing her concerns. “Any change we implement is going to take some sacrifice and time.” He gestured toward the chart behind him. “The figures speak for themselves. If this magazine keeps going in the direction it is, most of the people in this room are going to be out of a job. The only choices available to you now are hard work.” Rick looked around the room, his arms crossed, his legs spraddled in a defensive posture. “Or no work.”

There was nothing more to be said. Rick waited a heartbeat more. “Meeting’s over,” he said. “You’re dismissed.”

Cliff Thiessen let his chair drop back onto the floor with a thud and got up. “Well, better get back to it,” he muttered to no one in particular. As the rest of the staff left, there was some muttering, but for the most part people were subdued by what their new boss had told them.

“Becky, I’d like to see you a moment,” Rick said as she gathered up her papers in preparation for leaving.

Panic tightened her chest, but she masked it with a vague smile. She thought she had done pretty good up till now. She didn’t know if she could handle a face-to-face meeting quite yet.

She shuffled through her papers while the room emptied, buying some time.

“What can I do for you?” she said, once the door closed behind the last person.

“I just wanted to take a moment to speak with you privately.” Rick walked around to the other side of Nelson’s desk, glancing out the bank of windows that filled one wall. Becky couldn’t help follow the direction of his gaze. Beyond the roofs of Okotoks, the golden prairie rolled toward the soft brown of the Porcupine Hills, which nudged against the jagged peaks of the Rocky Mountains, faintly purple in the morning sun.

“It’s a beautiful view, isn’t it?” she said quietly.

“It will help compensate for having to live out here for a while.”

Cynicism again. She shouldn’t have been surprised. “What do you mean?”

Rick turned back to her and rested his hands palms down on his desk. “You may as well know, I’m here a maximum of twelve months and that’s it. My grandfather issued me an ultimatum I have a lot of incentive to keep.”

Becky frowned lightly, but held his steady gaze. “What ultimatum?”

“Turn this magazine around in twelve months and he’ll leave me alone to go back to traveling and living my life as I see fit.”

“And then what happens to the magazine?”

Rick shrugged and pushed himself off from the desk. “Not my concern.”

“Will your grandfather still own it?”

“I don’t know. You could buy it if you wanted.” His casual words held a lash of mockery.

“I’ve got my own plans,” she said softly.

“And what would those be?”

Try to ease away from the relentless deadlines of magazine work. Write a book that would make her current editor sit up and take notice. Offer her the temporary stability of a multibook contract.

But Rick Ethier was the last person she was going to dump her “treacly” dreams on.

“I’ve got a few things on the go.” She drew in a slow breath and looked up at him again. He was watching her, his head canted to one side, his mouth softer now that it no longer was twisted into a cynical smile.

And in spite of her negative feelings toward him, she felt a nebulous connection spark between them, then lengthen into a gentle warmth.

She was the first to look away, confusion fighting her initial antagonism. What was wrong with her? So he was good-looking. So he possessed a certain charm that it seemed even she wasn’t immune to.

He was her boss. And the man who had a hand in delaying her dream.

Rick cleared his throat and shuffled some file folders on his desk. “I understand from Nelson that you have been working on setting up an appointment with the Premier of Alberta?”

“I don’t have a firm commitment, but I’m in communication with his secretary.”

“Congratulations. That’s quite a coup. I’ve been trying to get an interview with him since he was voted in with such an overwhelming majority.”

“Jake’s pretty private.”

“I’ll say. He guards his private life like a Doberman. I’ve tried a few times to get an interview for Colson’s magazine, but I’ve always been turned away with a polite but firm no.”

Becky knew this about Jake. In fact, he had said the only reason he would consider an interview with her was because he knew it wouldn’t turn into a gossipfest. Before he had become premier of Alberta and after, she and Jake Groot had been members of a province-wide committee devoted to preservation of native grasslands. They had gotten to know each other on a social as well as committee level and Becky had used that leverage to snag this formal interview.

“I’d like to help you with that article.”

The cold finger she had felt before became an icy fist. “Actually, I always work on my own,” she said quietly but firmly.

“When is the interview?” he asked, ignoring her comment.

“Not for a few months.”

“Keep me in the loop, then.”

He’s your boss, Becky reminded herself when she looked up at him. “Okay, I’ll do that,” she said quietly. More than that she wasn’t going to promise. Jake would not be pleased if she dragged along a whole phalanx of people.

She gathered up her papers and Rick laid his hand on hers. She flinched as if she’d been burned.

“Sorry, I believe that’s mine.” He pointed to the small burgundy engagement calendar in her hands.

“I don’t think so,” Becky said, shifting the papers that were threatening to spill out of her arms. “It has my initials on it. R.E.”

Rick held up a similar calendar and frowned down at it. “This one has the same initials.”

Becky flipped hers open to a page with a butterfly sticker in one corner and a reminder to pick up butter scribbled in purple pen on a stained and dog-eared page.

“This is mine,” she muttered, closing it and slipping it between her papers and her chest.

“I’m sorry,” Rick said, tapping the folder he held against his other hand. “I’m guessing Becky is short for Rebecca.”

Good-looking and smart, Becky thought with a touch of her own cynicism. “You’ve got that right,” she said, flashing him a quick smile.

And as she left his office, she blew out a sigh. One day down. Only three hundred and sixty four to go.

“You knew Rick Ethier was going to be taking over from Nelson, so why are you so angry?” Sam Ellison asked, crouching down beside another sapling.

“I guess the reality was harder than the idea.” Becky dug her hands into the sun-warmed dirt of the new apple orchard. An early-evening breeze fanned away the warmth of the sun, and she could already feel the peace of the orchard easing away the tension of the day. “I mean I just found out before I went to camp. That hardly gave me time to get used to the idea.”

“You’ll get used to it. Hand me the budding knife please.”

She pulled the small, but deadly sharp blade out of the toolbox her father carried with him and watched while he painstakingly cut a T shape in the bark of the young sapling. “I got the impression from Colson that he’s quite proud of his grandson,” Sam continued. “Rick’s travel articles are quite insightful.”

“As are his nasty book reviews.” Becky couldn’t keep the disdainful tone out of her voice, netting her a light frown from her father. “I still don’t understand why such a prestigious magazine chose my book to review.”

“That was a year ago, Becky.”

“And since then, the publisher has been pretty hesitant about buying another book.”

“Your editor is behind you.”

“He’s been great, but if he can’t sell it to the marketing people who seem to have a copy of that nasty review branded on their brain tissues, I’m just spinning my wheels.” She leaned forward, yanking an isolated stalk of grass from the newly cultivated dirt. “I don’t know if Rick even realized it’s my book he slammed—a casualty of his cutting words. I’m left bleeding on the sidelines while he moves on, blithely unaware of what he had done.” With a dramatic flourish she raised her face to the sky and pressed her hand to her chest.

“When you’re finished declaiming, you can hand me that whip please. The Alberta Red.”

“See, not even my own father appreciates my pain.” With a grin Becky plucked a tree branch out of the bucket of water. She carefully sliced the bud off it herself, taking a large piece of bark with it. Turning it over she plucked the pith away from the backside of the slice and handed it to her father.

“Change isn’t always a bad thing, Becky. Life is always about adapting.” He inserted the slice in the cut, against the live flesh of the sapling, pulled the bark back over top and secured it with a rubber band. “Rick can bring in a new way of looking at things.”

“He talks about finding a new direction for the magazine, but how can he when he doesn’t know the community it targets?”

“That can be good. He’ll bring his own perspective and skills to the magazine. Like bringing new genetic material into the orchard and grafting it onto established and mature stock.”

“Except he’s only here for a while, which makes me wonder if the ‘graft’ will take. He’s a wanderer, just like Trevor was.”

“Don’t tell me you’re still mooning over him?” Sam held out his hand. “Can I have that pine tar please?”

Becky handed him a small tin and a flat stick. “Hardly mooning. Trevor was a high school romance and a reminder to stay away from guys who can’t commit.” She curled her legs closer to herself and hugged them. “Anyway, Rick said he’s only going to be around a year. Maybe less. That’s hardly long enough to make a real difference. I’m sure he wants to go back to his traveling. Last I heard it was Malta. Before that Thailand.”

Sam wrapped protective covering over the wound and gave Becky an indulgent smile. “Seems to me you know a fair bit of what is going on in Rick Ethier’s life.”

Becky avoided his eyes. She could try to make some lame excuse about her knowledge of Rick’s comings and goings but she had never been a very good liar.

“How in the world did you and Colson even connect?” Becky asked, handing her father his toolbox as he pushed himself to his feet.

“Years ago, Colson lived in Calgary and had courted your grandmother. He decided the real money was back East, but she wouldn’t leave Okotoks.” Sam gave Becky a hand up. “Maybe he is taking a short trip down memory lane, buying this magazine.”

“And taking a very reluctant passenger with him. Rick.”

“Well, you make sure to invite him out here sometime.”

Becky sighed as she slipped her arm through her father’s. “Give me some time to get used to the idea that he’s even here in Okotoks. In my office.”

The heat emanating from the dark plowed ground gave way to a soft coolness as they entered the older orchard.

“I’m going to have to get rid of some of these trees,” her father mused, looking up at the gnarled branches. “Though I hate to.”

“‘Every tree that does not bear fruit must be cut down and cast into the fire,’” Becky quoted, giving her father’s arm a jiggle as if to remind him.

“God gives us lots of chances. I think I might let these trees go another year or two.” He reached up and touched one branch, the dearth of apples on it a silent testimony to their uselessness. “I can still take a few cuttings from them.”

“You say that every year, Dad,” Becky said with a smile.

Becky’s maternal great-grandfather started this orchard when he first immigrated from Holland. It was a gamble to expect to create an oasis on the harshly bald prairie. But the soil proved fertile and the poplar trees planted as windbreaks shot up, creating a refuge necessary for the apple trees to flourish. Irrigation came from a creek that flowed through the property.

The orchard had gone through three generations and various changes. Becky’s mother, Cora, inherited the orchard. When Cora Bruinsma married Sam Ellison, he slowly worked his way into the family business, helping to cultivate the orchard and keeping the magazine going at the same time.

Becky grew up with her time split between the hustle and bustle of the magazine and the peace of the orchard. Her first love was writing, but her home was her sanctuary. Her plan had been to stay at home until she had her second book published and a contract for another. Only then would she feel she had the financial wherewithal to buy a place of her own and move out.

Which hadn’t happened yet.

And if she didn’t get working on this next book, wasn’t likely to happen for at least another year.

“Going West. Becky speaking.” Becky tucked the phone under her ear, she pushed the sleeves of her sweater up and drew the copy of the article she had been working on toward her. Sneaking a quick glance at her watch—2:15 p.m. She had fifteen minutes yet.

“Becky? This is Gladys Hemple. I do the cooking and preserves column.”

“What can I do for you, Gladys?” Becky’s pencil flicked over the paper, striking out, putting in question marks.

Gladys didn’t reply right away. Becky heard a faint sniff, then…

“You know I get a lot of compliments on the column,” Gladys said, her voice suspiciously thick. “Lots of people say they read it all the time.”

“So what’s the problem?” Becky frowned when she heard another, louder sniff over the phone.

“I’ve been asked not to do it anymore.” Another sniff. “By some man named Rick who says he’s the new publisher.”

Becky laid her pencil down, her full attention now on her caller. “What exactly did he say, Gladys?”

“That he’s changing the focus of the magazine and that what I do didn’t mesh with the vision. Or something like that.” Gladys paused and Becky heard her blowing her nose. “Becky, I’ve been doing that column for the past twenty-five years and I was never late. Not even once. What did I do wrong?”

Becky clutched the phone in her hand and leaned back in her chair. “Gladys, I’m sure there’s been some mistake. I’ll go talk to Mr. Ethier.”

“Could you do that please? I’ve just finished taking pictures of the chocolate cake for this week’s recipe. I hate to see it all wasted.”

“You just get those pictures developed. I’ll deal with Rick.”

And bring that cake over here.

Becky stomach growled at the thought of Gladys Hemple’s chocolate cake. She hadn’t eaten or taken a break since she’d grabbed a couple of bites out of the stale muffin she’d found while scavenging through her desk for a pen that worked. That had been eight-thirty.

In fifteen minutes she had a meeting with Rick and she still had a couple of articles to go over. Becky had re-edited half of the articles already slated for the next issue to nudge them in the direction Rick wanted to take this magazine. The extra workload had meant she’d missed her bible study and had to cancel another library board meeting.

The phone rang again.

Becky stifled her resentment and put a smile on her face. “Going West. Becky speaking.”

“This is Alanna Thompson.”

Becky closed her eyes, massaging the bridge of her nose with her fingers, and sent up a prayer for patience and peace. Alanna wasn’t known for her reticence. And noting the restrained fury in Alanna’s voice, Becky was pretty sure she knew the reason she was calling.

“How can I help you, Alanna?”

“What in the world is going on there? I just got a phone call from some guy named Rick Ethier. He just told me he’s returning the four articles that the magazine bought. Who is this guy?”

Becky blew out her breath, suddenly aware of the tension in her shoulders. Which columns to cut and which articles to send back should have been her call. Not Rick’s. At least he could have waited until their meeting this afternoon to consult with her.

“Rick is our new publisher.”

“What does that have to do with anything?”

“With a new publisher comes a new direction,” Becky offered, struggling not to let her own anger seep into her voice. “Rick obviously has a different idea of how he sees Going West than Nelson did.”

And from the sounds of things Rick’s vision didn’t include baking or horses, cowboys and farmers.

“You know how much time I spent on those? How many horse trainers I interviewed? All the pictures I took? And not on spec. You told me the magazine would buy them all.” Alanna’s fury grew with each sentence she threw at Becky. “I got some great material together.”

“You’ll be released to submit them elsewhere,” Becky said, her frustration growing. “And of course there’s our kill fee.”

“There had better be.”

“Look, I’m sorry.” A faint nagging pain started at one temple, threatening to take over her whole head. Alanna’s yelling only intensified her frustration with Rick. And her headache. If she didn’t get something to eat pretty soon, she was sure it was going to become a full-blown migraine. “I’m sorry about this, Alanna,” Becky said, trying to keep her voice quiet. Soothing. “You’ve done great work for us in the past and I appreciate all the hard work you’ve put into all your articles. Good luck selling the articles somewhere else.”

The harsh click in her ear told Becky how soothing her words had been.

Becky shoved her hands through her hair and grabbed the back of her neck. It felt as tight as a guitar string.

And in five minutes she had to face Rick Ethier.

She wondered if she had time to run across the street and grab a bite to eat. Better not. Instead she pulled open her desk drawer and pulled out the grease-stained bag. She shook out the rest of the muffin into her hand and popped it into her mouth. Two days old, but it was a much-needed snack.

She gathered up her papers and slipped them all into her portfolio, along with her Day-Timer. A paper covered with scribbles fluttered to the floor and she bent to pick it up. Notes for her most recent book.

Since Rick had come, she hadn’t had a spare minute to work on it. And if the past few days were any indication of the work Rick required to change the magazine’s direction, she wouldn’t have any time until Rick left.

In twelve months.

Dear Lord, am I ever going to get anywhere with my writing? The prayer was a cry of despair. She looked over at her crowded bookshelf. Her own book sat tucked away amongst all the others. But one book does not a career make, and if she wanted to live her dream, she needed at the least a multibook contract.

All her life she had wanted to be a fiction writer. But she had loans to repay and she had to live. So she took the job her father offered and for three years she had poured her heart and soul into that first book in her infrequent spare time.

When she received the call that this, her first book, had been bought, she broke down and cried like a baby. Then she celebrated.

Though her parents were overjoyed for her, her mother had given her the best advice. Advice, she was sure, countless other authors had received.

“Don’t quit your day job.”

So she stayed on with Going West, editing and writing nonfiction during the day, writing fiction in the evening, begrudging each minute away from her work as she put together her next book.

Then came Rick’s review, the sales figures just behind that, and her publisher started stalling on a contract for her option book. And now she didn’t have the time to work on it.

Becky pushed herself away from her desk. Enough wallowing. She had other things to discuss with Rick.

Such as maintaining her “day job.”