blue eyes she’d looked into in a while. And he possessed those little crinkles around the eyes that somehow managed to make middle-aged men look rugged instead of old. Along with a strong jawline and light brown hair that had not yet become sprinkled with gray, even at forty-five.
She doubled-clicked to open his message. Debra,
Thanks so much for sending the article. I had no idea you were such a talented writer—I’m impressed.
And now I have a huge favor to ask.
I have a few trusted readers who look over my manuscripts before I send them to my editor, and one has had to back out for personal reasons this time around. Could I convince you to take a look at my next release? It’s AFTER THE RAIN, the book I talked about (ad nauseum, I fear) during the interview. My only rules are A) if you’re not comfortable with this or don’t have the time, no problem, we’re still friends, and B) if you read it, be honest, tell me what works and what sucks. I know you’ve read all my previous work, and after hearing some of your insights on my earlier novels, I respect your opinion.
So, what do you say? Depending on your schedule, I could give you the manuscript over lunch one day this week.
Michael
Debra stared at the screen, her bottom lip crushed firmly between her teeth. Michael Quinn thought she was a talented writer. And considered her a friend. And he wanted her to read his new book. And to have lunch with her again. This week. Her heart felt like it would beat right through her chest. She hit the reply button. Michael, I’m flattered by your faith in me and would be thrilled to read AFTER THE RAIN. You may have to forgive me if I gush a bit, since you know I love your work, but if I find anything that does indeed suck, I promise to tell you. How’s Monday? Too short notice?
Debra
P.S. So pleased you liked the article!
After sending the message, she sat back in her chair and let out a breath she hadn’t quite realized she was holding. “Whoa,” she murmured. This felt big.
Because an author—an author!—was asking her to read his unpublished work and weigh in with an opinion.
And because she enjoyed being around him. Just over the one lunch they’d shared, she’d come away with the impression that he’d really listened to her when she talked.
In all honesty, she’d gone into the lunch on guard for pomposity, expecting to depart feeling glad she’d done it but also glad it was over. Yet Michael had been nothing but genuine. Interesting. Severely intelligent. And clearly in love with the craft of storytelling. At the same time, he’d seemed interested in her, her life, her husband’s gallery, her daughter’s art—he’d even said maybe he’d come to the opening of Kat’s show next month.
She’d left the lunch feeling strangely exhilarated, and then a little sad, because the exhilaration was all she had left. The lunch was over. Everything about him had felt a little over. As if she’d just found this wonderful, energizing connection—and poof, in a blink it was gone.
Only now it wasn’t over. Now there was another lunch. And there would be discussion about his book. Maybe ongoing. It felt suddenly as if a whole new, fascinating world had just opened before her, like maybe she would somehow get a life of her own back again. Through Michael.
Walking back down the hall to the family room, she put the sound back on the TV, then hit the channel button, moving away from the tragedies, ready to look for something a little more lively.
Brock lay on the floor next to the bed, atop a few blankets Kat had tried to call a mattress. He wore a pair of dark gray gym shorts that must have belonged to Nina’s clothing-deprived ex- boyfriend.
“I can’t believe you don’t even have a couch in this place,” he muttered. He couldn’t see her, because she’d insisted his “mattress” be arranged on the far side of the bed, opposite where she lay, so that he couldn’t look at her while she slept.
She doubled-clicked to open his message. Debra,
Thanks so much for sending the article. I had no idea you were such a talented writer—I’m impressed.
And now I have a huge favor to ask.
I have a few trusted readers who look over my manuscripts before I send them to my editor, and one has had to back out for personal reasons this time around. Could I convince you to take a look at my next release? It’s AFTER THE RAIN, the book I talked about (ad nauseum, I fear) during the interview. My only rules are A) if you’re not comfortable with this or don’t have the time, no problem, we’re still friends, and B) if you read it, be honest, tell me what works and what sucks. I know you’ve read all my previous work, and after hearing some of your insights on my earlier novels, I respect your opinion.
So, what do you say? Depending on your schedule, I could give you the manuscript over lunch one day this week.
Michael
Debra stared at the screen, her bottom lip crushed firmly between her teeth. Michael Quinn thought she was a talented writer. And considered her a friend. And he wanted her to read his new book. And to have lunch with her again. This week. Her heart felt like it would beat right through her chest. She hit the reply button. Michael, I’m flattered by your faith in me and would be thrilled to read AFTER THE RAIN. You may have to forgive me if I gush a bit, since you know I love your work, but if I find anything that does indeed suck, I promise to tell you. How’s Monday? Too short notice?
Debra
P.S. So pleased you liked the article!
After sending the message, she sat back in her chair and let out a breath she hadn’t quite realized she was holding. “Whoa,” she murmured. This felt big.
Because an author—an author!—was asking her to read his unpublished work and weigh in with an opinion.
And because she enjoyed being around him. Just over the one lunch they’d shared, she’d come away with the impression that he’d really listened to her when she talked.
In all honesty, she’d gone into the lunch on guard for pomposity, expecting to depart feeling glad she’d done it but also glad it was over. Yet Michael had been nothing but genuine. Interesting. Severely intelligent. And clearly in love with the craft of storytelling. At the same time, he’d seemed interested in her, her life, her husband’s gallery, her daughter’s art—he’d even said maybe he’d come to the opening of Kat’s show next month.
She’d left the lunch feeling strangely exhilarated, and then a little sad, because the exhilaration was all she had left. The lunch was over. Everything about him had felt a little over. As if she’d just found this wonderful, energizing connection—and poof, in a blink it was gone.
Only now it wasn’t over. Now there was another lunch. And there would be discussion about his book. Maybe ongoing. It felt suddenly as if a whole new, fascinating world had just opened before her, like maybe she would somehow get a life of her own back again. Through Michael.
Walking back down the hall to the family room, she put the sound back on the TV, then hit the channel button, moving away from the tragedies, ready to look for something a little more lively.
Brock lay on the floor next to the bed, atop a few blankets Kat had tried to call a mattress. He wore a pair of dark gray gym shorts that must have belonged to Nina’s clothing-deprived ex- boyfriend.
“I can’t believe you don’t even have a couch in this place,” he muttered. He couldn’t see her, because she’d insisted his “mattress” be arranged on the far side of the bed, opposite where she lay, so that he couldn’t look at her while she slept.
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