Finding peace, p.1
Finding Peace, page 1
Finding Peace
B. E. Baker
Copyright © 2020 by Bridget E. Baker
All rights reserved.
No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any electronic or mechanical means, including information storage and retrieval systems, without written permission from the author, except for the use of brief quotations in a book review.
Created with Vellum
For Emma
* * *
You lift me up. You support me. And you bludgeon anyone who doesn’t with a club. . . or vicious rhetoric.
* * *
So, basically, you’re the best sister ever.
Contents
1. Anica
2. Ethan
3. Anica
4. Ethan
5. Ethan
6. Anica
7. Ethan
8. Anica
9. Ethan
10. Anica
11. Ethan
12. Anica
13. Ethan
14. Anica
15. Ethan
16. Anica
17. Ethan
18. Anica
19. Ethan
20. Anica
21. Anica
22. Sample Chapter of Displaced
Acknowledgments
About the Author
Also by B. E. Baker
1
Anica
I used to have a poster that hung above my bed that said, “Shoot for the moon. Even if you miss, you’ll land among the stars.”
I believed that down to my perfectly polished toenails.
It’s the reason I sent a bold one-page query letter to my top ten agents with my very first novel.
Because of that poster, I wasn’t even surprised when three of them offered to represent me.
When my book went to auction and sold for six figures on the second week it was on submission, that made perfect sense to me too.
After all, I’d shot for the moon, and I hit it, dead in the center.
What Norman Vincent Peale’s inspiring quote neglects to address is that there’s no oxygen on the bloody moon. That’s probably why I asphyxiated up there.
“Uh, I’m sorry.” I blink. “Can you repeat the question?”
Ursula, general manager of the only Fogo de Chão in Atlanta, purses her lips. “I asked you what your greatest strength is.”
I’m not off to a great start, clearly. “Right. Duh. That’s like number one in the interviewing handbook, right?” I chuckle.
She doesn’t.
I lick my lips. “Okay, well, my greatest strength is that I pay attention to details, which is pretty helpful for a job as a waitress.”
She jots something down.
I resist the urge to lean toward her and try to read it.
“And your greatest weakness?”
“Sometimes I just can’t suppress the urge to light things on fire.” I can’t quite keep the half grin off my face.
Her eyes widen and she clutches her pencil until her knuckles turn white.
“I’m kidding,” I say. “I’m not really a pyro. Clearly my biggest weakness is a propensity to crack jokes before I know the person well enough to pull them off.”
“You do realize that you’ll be asked to interact with a wide variety of people. They’ll be from all sorts of backgrounds—”
“But it’s Fogo de Chão, so no matter where they’re from, the customer is always correct. Right?” I try one last time.
She grunts. “If I may be blunt, I’m concerned that you’ll be offensive.”
“You can call my references,” I say. “They’ll tell you that the customers love me.” I don’t explain to her that most people have more personality than a toothpick. . .
“I’m not sure that even strong recommendations from—” She glances down at my job application and scrunches her nose. “IHOP and a place called ‘The Little Door’ will convince me.”
I sigh. “Alright, I started my waitressing career at IHOP, which has a surprisingly robust number of options on their menu, I might add, but ‘The Little Door’ is a Parisian—”
Ursula stands up and extends her hand. “I’ll let you know.”
My mouth snaps shut. I’m sure that she will, with some kind of awkward text or a brusque, early-morning voicemail. “Thanks, I really appreciate it.”
On the way home, I give myself a little pep talk. There are plenty of restaurants around that will have less obnoxious general managers. Plus, I don’t need a job. My royalty checks may not be as hefty as they once were, but I’ve got a free place to stay right now, and Mary and Luke seem to enjoy having me around to help since Mary had the new baby. Plus I’m getting to know Amy and Chase better, which is also great.
By the time I reach Luke’s house, I’ve already gotten a text message from Ursula, thanking me for coming in and letting me know they’ve decided to go another direction to fill their open server position. Apparently I’m not even qualified to carry drinks to the table and tell people about the salad bar.
Another warning I wish good old Norman had included alongside his dumb old quote is that once you’ve hit the moon a time or two, falling short when you’re aiming for a bush twenty feet away really stings. Falling among the stars? I wish.
The front door isn’t locked, and when I walk through I realize why. The sound of murmuring voices emerges from the office. Clearly Baby Jack is taking a nap and Mary’s meeting with Paisley about their new startup firm. Paisley has been here almost every day for a week now. If I’m quiet, maybe I can sneak past them and reach my room without being asked about the interview.
But one little overheard word from Mary stops me in my tracks. Anica. I freeze on the opposite side of the entryway and strain my ears to catch a hint of what they may be saying about me. “—space. It’s not like we can ask.”
“But she can’t be planning to stay here forever, right?” Paisley laughs. “I mean, imagine this one. She meets a new guy, and he asks her out, and she says, sure, pick me up at my brother-in-law’s house. The one he shares with his new wife.”
I stiffen. So much for a free place to live as long as I want. I can’t quite make out what Mary’s saying, but I can imagine.
“Sure, but you could use it, right? I mean, until we rent an office, we’re kind of crammed in this library.”
My face floods with heat. They want me out soon—of course they do. This house is big, but between the nursery, Chase’s, Amy’s, and Luke’s rooms, well, it’s not the White House. The guest room is the obvious place for Mary to use for her new startup. I run my hand through my hair, forgetting my sunglasses are on top of my head, and knock them to the ground. Drat.
“Hey, Anica.” Paisley’s leaning against the doorway into the library when I turn around. “How’d the interview go?”
I force a smile. “They decided to take the restaurant personnel decisions in a different direction.”
She frowns. “What does that even mean?”
“The manager hated everything about me.”
“So that means we won’t be going to Fogo de Chão every week?” Paisley’s shoulders slump. “That stinks, because I straight up love their grilled pineapple.”
Twenty types of steak and she likes the pineapple? That’s so Paisley. “I’m sure I’ll find another restaurant you’ll like almost as much,” I say. “Speaking of, how do you feel about IHOP?”
Her eyes light up. “Their lingonberry Swedish pancakes.” She groans. “Yes. Do IHOP. Plus, it’s way closer than all that fancy junk downtown.”
This time, my smile is real. “Duly noted.” It’s awfully hard to stay irritated with Paisley.
“I’m sorry it didn’t work out.” Mary steps into the doorway, leaning on the opposite side of the frame from Paisley. “But you’ll find something, and you already know that there’s no pressure from us.”
Right. At least, none you’ll admit to applying. “Thanks.” I duck into my room as quickly as possible, drop my purse onto the end table, sink into the armchair in the corner, and open my laptop out of habit.
My fingers freeze on the keyboard when my new email loads and I notice a certain name in bolded letters.
I haven’t heard from Henrietta Blake in over a year.
Not since the day last spring when she fired me and stopped being my agent. I swallow once. Twice. There’s no obvious reason for her to be emailing me. I close my laptop, my heart hammering in my chest cavity. I stand up and do ten jumping jacks.
That was dumb. Between the email and the unnecessary physical activity, I’ll probably give myself an actual heart attack. I sit back down and flip the top of my Mac Air back up. I force myself to read the subject line. “Long Time.”
Yes, more than a year is a long time, that’s true, but it tells me nothing about what she wants.
Has she changed her mind about my last manuscript? Maybe Veronica reached out to her—maybe my editor changed her mind! Could she be looking for a book just like the last one I sent, right this very moment? Is she regretting dumping me?
My fingers tremble as I click on the email. As it opens, I consider throwing my laptop across the room. It seems safer than reading the tiny pile of words currently blurring in front of my face.
But of course, I’d still read it—just on my phone—and then I’d need a new laptop, which I can’t afford. I sit on my hands and focus on the email until the words un-jumble enough that I can make sense of them.
* * *
Dear Anica:
I’m sorry I haven’t ema
In the spirit of friendship, an opportunity crossed my desk today that felt like a perfect fit for you. Avon sent me some requests for new IP project submissions, and look at the description on one of them:
Cripplingly shy MC forced to administer crazy spinster aunt’s will; battles the local pastor to whom the aunt promised the entire inheritance, to rebuild a chapel burned in a fire. MC makes great strides in overcoming shyness and asserting herself, and learns to trust the pastor . . . and to love him.
For this particular brand, we’re seeking fun, quirky, upbeat tales of love, perseverance, and devotion in the face of bizarre twists of fate. The light tone and situational and conversational humor should underscore serious issues that modern women face.
If you have any interest in submitting a sample for any of these, let me know. You should know that I still haven’t read a single book in the romantic comedy genre that had the spirit, sense of relevancy, and humor that yours embodied. Your writing is missed.
Whatever you decide, I’d love to chat.
Best,
Henri
An original, publisher-generated intellectual property story? They call them IP projects, which sort of feels like the opposite of what it really is. But why she thinks that I’d want to write a story wrapped around a plot line that Avon hand-fed me for peanuts that wouldn’t even come out under my name is beyond me. And she thought of me when they asked for bubbly, ridiculous, romantic comedies?
I slam my laptop shut and toss it onto the bed. My room is a little too small to pace in a satisfying way, but I can’t go out into the family room, not with Paisley and Mary already frustrated about the space I’m taking up.
I need the money if I want to get my own apartment, but I can’t do it. Not that. I’d rather work at McDonald’s taking drive-thru orders than write a story someone else cooked up under a name other than my own. I wouldn’t even own the story at the end. IP projects pay a single, upfront lump sum, because Avon’s paying to own it outright. I can’t think of a bigger step back I could possibly take.
No thanks.
I haven’t fallen that far.
Except I don’t even have a friend to call about this latest indignity. I don’t have anyone I can ask for advice. Mary has taken my sister’s place, and she wants me gone. My mom is insufferable. My dad won’t even understand why I’m upset. Money is money is money, he’d tell me.
The less I write, the less I keep up with my writing friends. Besides, many of them do several IP projects a year, so they’re unlikely to understand my reaction.
I’ve never been someone who makes friends easily. I never minded before—I had my books, my online writing friends, my boyfriend, and my sister. That was more than enough for someone who didn’t love socializing most of the time anyway.
But then Lizzie died.
And my boyfriend left me.
Since my writing career sank, well, my writing friends . . . I can’t even talk to them, not right now.
I used to be able to read and read and read whenever the world seemed too hard, but even that is denied me. Every book I’ve picked up has hurt lately. If the book is lousy, I can’t read it, and if it’s great, I’m consumed with jealousy.
I curl into a ball in the middle of my bed and cry for far too long. “Ah, Lizzie. I miss you,” I whisper.
And then I wipe my tears, and I open up my dumb old laptop. And I apply for a dozen more jobs at every restaurant that’s hiring in a ten-mile radius. Once I get a job and save enough for a deposit and first month’s rent, I’ll get an apartment of my own, but I’d still like to be close enough to Luke and Mary that I can visit Amy and Chase regularly.
At least my niece and nephew still like me—and it’s looking like I better soak up the next few years. I doubt they’ll worship me once they’re old enough to recognize me as the cautionary tale that I’ve become.
2
Ethan
Most people wait to ruin their lives until they’re in their twenties. Not me. I made the biggest mistake a person could ever make at the tender age of twelve.
My mother died because of my selfish cowardice.
That might be the reason I work so hard to avoid even the smallest mistakes in every aspect of my life. It’s also what makes me such an excellent manager. I never underestimate the impact of even a moment’s delay or a tiny omission. “I noted three errors on the quarterly report.” I drop it on my assistant’s desk. “Can you talk to Bryce about them and get me an updated version?”
Genevieve nods. “You’re heading out?”
“For the day.” The Billabong Pipeline Masters is only a few months away. If I get home and take Partner for a quick walk, I should have plenty of time to change and catch a few waves.
“Weather says it’s supposed to be a glorious day.” Genevieve stands up, the report in hand, but she waves at me as I leave. “And maybe when you get back you’ll be in a good enough mood to call your dad back. He’s called twice more.”
Doubtful. I know exactly what he wants, and my answer is still no. “When is it not glorious here?”
Her laugh follows me out of the room and down the hall.
After I release the latch on her crate, Partner, my Border Collie, shoots out like a rocket and nearly jumps high enough to reach my face, her tongue lolling from the side of her mouth. I’ve been told that once they’re not puppies anymore, they calm down. So far, at two years old, she’s as energetic as ever. “Alright, alright,” I say. “Let’s go.” Her backside wiggles so forcefully that I can barely clip the leash to her collar.
So much for a leisurely walk down the beach to scope out the waves. Partner pulls the entire four and a half miles, never once letting up, even though I’m jogging at a brisk pace. Perfect weather notwithstanding, I’m drenched in sweat when I reach my beach shack. “Alright, girl. You had your fun. Now it’s my turn.” I wish I could trust her to play in the waves while I surf, but it’s just not safe.
I grab the mail as an afterthought on our way inside, flipping through the thick stack of letters as I walk up my creaky wooden front steps. Junk mail, catalog for boring business wear, warranty offers for my brand new car.
Until a plain white envelope with a return address marked Sparta, Georgia. My adrenaline spikes, even after all this time.
For years, every Tuesday I threw away a letter from Hancock State Prison. But I haven’t gotten one for more than five years now. He gave up on me thirteen years to the week from the day it happened. He actually lasted way longer than I expected, but then again, I suppose there’s not much for him to do in there.
The sender is different than the one marked on all those letters I threw away unopened. This letter says it’s from the ‘Prison Warden.’
My hands shake and Partner circles my legs, tangling the leash. I drop it numbly and unwind the cord, stumbling over my agitated canine pal and dropping the mail onto the weathered wooden floor. The letter lands face up, staring at me like a coiled serpent, ready to strike.
What could it say? Why would the warden write to me? Is it some kind of ploy—change the sender so that I’ll open it? Another option rises unbidden in my mind, and I shove it downward with more violence than I’ve felt in years. I thought I’d let that part of my life go. I thought I’d expunged the anger it generated thoroughly and completely.
But one letter and it all comes rushing back.
The guilt. The terror. And as always, stronger than anything else, the rage.
I redo the math I already know in my bones. From 2002 to now. His first fifteen years was up three years ago, which means he could be out on parole any time. This letter could be the worst news I’ve had in eighteen years. I lean over slowly and pick it up. My phone rings, and I almost ignore it, assuming it’s just Dad. Again.
