Read Online Mr. Fix-It by Crystal Hubbard - Free Book Online Page B

celebration of her liberation, meaning her divorce almost four years ago from a man who’d forced her to pinch pennies while he secretly spent her royalty checks as fast as they came in.
    The clutch and the earrings were pretty, but not thousands of dollars pretty, and they spent more time at Daphne’s than they did at Khela’s, as they were two of Daphne’s favorite items to borrow.
    Khela eyed Daphne fanning herself with her hand as she whispered to her nearest tablemates, each of whom seemed to nod in agreement as they stared at the back of Carter’s head.
    Right then and there, Khela knew that Carter wasn’t to be shared. Prop or no prop, he was hers for the weekend. She caught Carter’s eye, and without changing his flat expression, he winked at her.
    The playful gesture sent a sense of ease through her, starting at her mouth, which finally formed a tiny smile. He had been gone when she awakened that morning, and with all the workshops, readings and meet and greets she’d had before lunch, she’d had no time to dwell on his absence.
    But he was here. Clean-shaven, with his short hair neatly combed off his face, he was the picture of casual masculine coolness, even with her girlie clutch on his lap. Despite her attitude malfunctions of the day before, he hadn’t fled. Her relief was so great it washed out the shame she might have felt at having behaved so badly toward him.
    His presence was a comfort, which Khela attributed to one fact: with every woman’s eyes on Carter, they were no longer on her. She cleared her throat once more, and began her speech.
    “ ‘All women, as authors, are feeble and tiresome. I wish they were forbidden to write, on pain of having their faces deeply scarified with an oyster shell,’ ” Khela read, grinning broadly at the horror on Kitty Kincaid’s face. “Those are the words of Nathaniel Hawthorne. I keep them posted on my office wall, above my computer monitor. My first novel, and every novel I’ve written since, was written in defiance of Hawthorne’s words.”
    Applause erupted, and Khela lowered her eyes. They landed on Carter, who sat up straighter as he stared at her. She began anew once the clapping died down. “As a genre, romance fiction is as wildly popular as it is disrespected. What we do, as storytellers, might not cure disease or reduce the national deficit, but it makes those things easier to bear. We entertain. We offer an escape. W-We…”
    Her throat tightened and her words stalled. A tiny sip of water loosened her pipes enough for her to say, “We practice a very specific form of witchcraft.”
    Soft laughter rippled through the room. Khela only wanted to cry.
    She started her wrap-up. “I’m supposed to provide guidance, but you already know how this game is played. You know that publishing moves on geological time. You know that each ‘no’ is one step closer to a ‘yes.’ The only advice I can give you is the same advice I was given ten years ago by one of our genre’s best, January Rose, when I was the one sitting on the other side of a podium like this one: ‘Write the story of your heart. If you can write it, you can sell it, and people will read it, and they will believe in it.’ Those words, too, are posted on the wall above my computer monitor—above Hawthorne’s. My first novel, and every novel I’ve written since, was written in honor of those words. And now…”
    She found January Rose in the crowd, and the older lady kissed her fingertips and sent Khela a silent thank you. Khela’s next words remained stuck in her throat. It was impossible to make herself finish with what she had planned. She couldn’t, not here, not with Daphne, January Rose, Kitty Kincaid, Carter and dozens of other people looking at her with pride, affection or envy. She took a deep breath and said, “I wish you all the best in your careers.”
    The banquet hall exploded in applause, with Carter, her clutch tucked under one arm, on his feet banging his