“That’s not OK,” I say. “You shouldn’t let other people tell you what you can and can’t do. If you want something, you should go after it,” I say and then realize what a hypocrite I am and how patronizing that sounds. What gives me the right to preach? It took me forever to leave David although I was unhappy. Just like it took me forever to leave my job, and I don’t even know if I was brave or I had simply reached my limit. Brave is making a decision when you have multiple options and although the one you choose might be the riskiest, it’s what you know deep down in your heart is the right thing. Doing what I did and when I did it, is a feeble attempt at redemption. Pretty pathetic that someone like me would point the finger at someone like Celine.

“I know. I should’ve stood my ground, but I didn’t have support, except for Ethan, but he had his own problems to deal with. And now it’s too late. I’m too old. I guess being part of Laguna Seca and getting my hands dirty with those beauties will just be a dream.”

Too late? I’m twenty-eight this month—which is basically thirty—and I’m starting over. How easy it is to see what needs to be done when it’s not your life.

“When you’re not working at Café Azure, what do you do?” asks Celine. “In New York,” she says and smiles. “I saw it on your driver’s license.”

“In that life, I was a writer for a magazine.”

“Nice. Did you always want to be a magazine writer?”

Good question.

“I’ve always loved writing. I used to dream of writing books, rather than—”

“Journalism? You can do both—write books and write for magazines. Ethan does it too.”

In theory, she’s right; nothing is stopping me. Except with this manuscript where her brother and his new book—stolen book—stop me. But what prevented me from submitting it before? My fear of failure, undoubtedly. Getting an agent, a publishing deal and seeing my novel in bookstores is the last dream I hold on to and the most important. If I fail, there’s nothing left to look forward to. But now’s not the time to think about that. This could be my shot to find out more about Ethan Delphy. I finally got our conversation where I wanted it.

“So, your brother is a writer?”

“Yes.”

“What kind of books does he write?”

Jeez. When she finds out I knew all this, she’ll feel so betrayed.

She smiles. “Love stories. They’re in the library if you want to read them,” she says.

“The town library?”

She laughs. “No. Our library, I mean. Follow me.”

What if she has the new one? Here’s hoping.

We walk into a room filled with hundreds of books nicely organized by genre and author. Heaven! In the center of the room an antique desk and two worn-out red leather armchairs.

“Is this yours?” I ask.