It was then he really noted a change in Orelia’s face, but the look wasn’t what he had expected. The frown had disappeared, replaced instead by a neutral expression. Even years later that look angered him. She should have by now been sorry and submissive. A few tears wouldn’t have hurt either. Now he understood of course, but then he was wound up and kept going, hellbent and foolish, nailing away at that coffin, which ultimately would be his.

He continued his lecture. “And that includes not arguing with somebody who’s climbed the ladder before you. You’re on the bottom rung. The bottom, just above the dirty floor. Imagine every author above you and that’s a good place to start. You’ll be lucky to ever be published. Luck does not favor arrogance.”

William had immediately regretted the last words (not as much as right now), but he couldn’t take them back. Not holding to his carefully crafted advice would destroy the image he’d sculpted of a successful man who knew his stuff. Instead he picked up his coffee cup and took a large swig, indifferent to any damage he’d caused the fledgling author.

He told himself then he was doing her a favor and that she needed to grow alligator skin. The terrible early reviews of his second book flashed in his mind and reminded him he should work on his own skin.

But he’d thought, if Orelia didn’t like his news that was her problem not his. He’d decided he felt comfortable with his stance as he sat admiring the detail in his coiffed cappuccino. Now there was creativity, forming little animals, trees and patterns with milk.

William hesitated to look up because he already had known he’d gone too far. He thought he’d just sit and await her apology. But as the seconds ticked his uneasiness grew, until her lack of response forced him to change his plans, raise his head and glance across to her.

Okay, two points for forcing him to meet her gaze.

When he did, his first response had been of frustration that she hadn’t heard a word he’d said. Then a spark of precariousness, akin to the feeling you have when looking over a cliff, came over him, unsettling his confidence. A black snake of trepidation struck from a hidden hole.

He recalled watching her for a few seconds, lost for words, actually wondering what to say next. She did not behave as anyone would in that situation. Now he understood but back then all he could think was, what in the world was Orelia doing?

51

Nem’s usual modus operandi was to prepare with care. Before she’d written a single word, she readied her nook, as she called her writing space. Here, for better or for worse, she would allow her imagination to roam and see where this adventure might take her.

She’d filled the bookcase with her favorite authors; classics, historical and modern, as well as every Jane Austen novel. Along the shelves sat photos of flowers, her favorite authors, and in the center the one photo she still had of her mother and herself when she was eight.