Julia always knew it was phony.
In the end, no one goes home with the fairy tale.
Chapter Twenty Eight
WAY #101: Accept the hand you're dealt.
True peace comes from accepting what you are—a self-sufficient entity, a deserving individual who is much more than just half of a whole. Sometimes happiness depends on understanding that even a losing hand of solitaire can be a great way to pass the time.
—from 707 Ways to Cheat at Solitaire
‘It's good," Abby said without taking her eyes off the manuscript. "Really, it's good."
There were a few things Julia had picked up from being around professional critics, and one of them was that when a person feels the need to pay a minor compliment twice, they're probably hiding a major criticism.
Julia knew she had it coming. She wanted to blame some of the manuscript's shortcomings on the tight schedule, the challenge of promoting and doing research at the same time, the fact that European stores didn't carry her favorite brand of pen. But those were just excuses. Julia knew too well where the blame belonged.
"It's a marketable book," Abby went on.
"But . . ." Julia prompted.
"Jules, I'm a fan." Abby leaned her small body onto the top of her oversized and impossibly tidy desk. She waved her hand, gesturing to the multimillion-dollar corporation around her. "Everyone here knows it. I've loved everything you've ever published."
That's what you think, Julia thought.
"Even those sexy bodice-rippers you wrote way back when," Abby added.
Julia nearly lost her lunch.
"Didn't think I knew about those, did you?"
Julia could do nothing but be honest. "No, I didn't."
"The reason I know is because I happen to be a very big fish in a not-so-big pond. They were good. I agree that they don't exactly 'go' with your nonfiction career, but they're nothing to be ashamed of. Books like that bought my house in the Hamptons." Abby shifted in her seat. "I'm getting off track. What I'm trying to say is that I know you, kiddo. I know how you think and, more importantly, I know how you write. This"—she tapped the manuscript with her glasses—"is good. But it isn't you."
"Well, it's just a draft," Julia hurried to say. "I've still got to polish. You won't even recognize it in a month."
Abby shook her head. "It won't change until you change. I don't know what this Lance Collins business did to you.
Maybe it shook your confidence, opened your eyes to something? I don't know. What I do know is that your first books were fresh. They were fun. But this sounds like work. I don't want to hurt your feelings—it really is good—but it isn't the work of a believer. Do you see what I'm saying?"
Julia nodded, understanding perfectly.
Abby went on. "I could publish this tomorrow and it would debut at number one, and we'd both make a load of money. Or we could sit on it until you get your voice back, and then we'll publish something that we both know is an actual Julia James book. Makes no difference to me. You make the call."
Julia couldn't imagine how this woman could have risen to a position of power in a carpool, much less an entire industry. But, she supposed, there is an inherent strength in kindness.
"What are we going to do?" Abby asked.
Julia thought about it. "I'm going to go home and hang up a picture."
Abby leaned back in her chair. "I don't know what the hell you're talking about," she said, then kicked her feet up onto her desk. "But let me know how it works out."
"Are you sure you don't want me to meet you?" Nina asked as Julia adjusted the grip she had on her cellular phone and looked around the terminal of the Dallas-Fort Worth airport.
"No," she said. "I think I'll rent a car."
"That's ridiculous! I haven't seen you in weeks. Come on,