Write Before Christmas, page 18
“We want to do right by you and the show,” Kristin said.
“I know that, and I want to do the same.” I grabbed the stack of papers Jane had printed out earlier this morning. “Like Cassya and Alyster.” I held up the manuscript. “In my head, they’d come to be the OTP of the whole story: the prim and proper Lady Cassya falling hard for the uncouth, rugged Captain Alyster. They were a beauty and the beast story, in my mind. He’d killed hundreds of people and sailed the seas for years, pillaging and plundering. She’d spent her entire life cooped up in a castle, dreaming of marrying a prince. On paper, they were so, so wrong for each other, but that was also what made them so incredibly right.” Like Dani and me, really. She was the kind, thoughtful partner in our relationship, and I was the distant, emotionally unavailable jerk.
“I killed Alyster for the show. I stuck a literal sword through their love.” I set the manuscript down. “I hate myself for doing that, for dragging the story kicking and screaming into a direction I knew was wrong.” My stomach tugged at me. It was what I’d done to Dani. I drove the wedge between us. She’d offered to be there for me, to support me, and I sent her away.
“Matt,” Kristin said, “you should’ve said something.” She looked at Dave. “We probably could’ve let the romance stand. You did add the dragons, after all. We could’ve given in on Cassya.”
“No,” I said, “that’s just it. It still wouldn’t have been the book I wanted to write.” I looked right at Dave. “In so many ways, this show has been a dream come true for me. I’d been plugging away at this series for more than twenty years, living mostly in obscurity, until Dave came along and asked if he could turn The Bastyan Saga into a show.”
Dave smiled at me, and I smiled back. That tiny exchange transported me back a few years, to our first meeting in New York. Kevin and Kristin had been there, too. I’d been both excited and nervous about listening to the pitch from this guy, who up until The Saga had been known for directing only three films—The MILF Burglar and its two sequels.
But Dave had completely understood my vision. He was an actual fan of what I did. “Back then,” I said, “one of the first things you told me was that I could trust you with my vision.” My eyes brightened. “You can be very convincing.”
The others in the room laughed.
Feeling a bit more comfortable, I continued, “But even though you had the best interest of the series at heart and I watched last year as you all took the words I wrote and brought them to life so beautifully, I had a hard time ceding any control.” I paused. “The truth is, and the idea I’d been fighting against for so long, is that The Bastyan Saga no longer belongs just to me—actually, it never did, not really. It belongs to all of us in this room and to all the fans.”
Dave shot me a thumbs up.
“I’m going to be honest with you all now. It should come as no surprise, but this last manuscript has been a struggle.”
“No shit,” Kevin shouted, and the room laughed.
I pointed to him. “Right? I’d been struggling to finish, struggling to make everyone happy.” I paused, considering this. The writing had been going terribly, for too long. But then I met Dani and stopped obsessing about, well, everything. I’d managed to find some sort of balance thanks to her. “A few weeks ago, someone came into my life who lit a spark in me.”
Jane smiled at me.
“My entire adult life, I avoided getting attached to anyone. I thought falling for another person would get in the way of my writing, that it’d be a distraction. I never realized how much it could fuel me, complete me, and get me out of my head.” I looked up at the others, who were all staring at me. A realization hit me. “I’ve sacrificed a lot for these books, and I don’t want to do that anymore.”
I looked right at Dave now. “I could drop everything from my life and crank out the kind of pages you’re looking for in the next few days, but they wouldn’t be my best work. They wouldn’t be in service of the story I want to tell or the direction the show wants to take. So, I’m suggesting we part ways, creatively. You guys can make the show you want to make, and I…” My eyes searched the room for my editor, Ingrid. She smiled at me. “And Ingrid and I will move forward with the manuscript I already turned in…with a few tweaks,” I said. “I’ll have those for you soon.”
“I do think it’s some of your best work, Matt,” she said.
“Dave and Kristin,” I said, “you have my blessing to take the show in whatever direction you choose. I’ll work with Ingrid on writing the book I want to write, and I trust you to finish the show your way. I look forward to watching it hopefully no longer by myself but cuddled up on the couch with the person I care about. That is, if she’ll have me.”
Jane, a sad look on her face, touched her heart.
Well, that was enough sappiness for one business meeting.
“If you’ll excuse me,” I said, backing toward the door. “I have to take care of some things.” And I had to come up with a plan to show Dani how much she meant to me. I couldn’t simply walk into the kitchen and tell her. This moment required risk, daring, a grand gesture of love.
Yes, love. I was so quick to recognize it in my characters but had myopia when it came to my own heart.
I ducked out of the room, snuck upstairs, and headed into my office. The room was a total mess, which was no doubt a direct result of me breaking up with the person I’d hired to take my dishes away. Dishes from my last six or so meals littered the floor.
The last meal Dani had brought me still remained on the coffee table in front of my couch. I sat down on the leather sofa and started cleaning up the tray—soup and tea and a previously fluffy biscuit that had transformed into a hockey puck, two days later. Underneath the cup I found a note, an unopened pink envelope.
A lump in my throat, I leaned back, sinking into the buttery leather of the couch. “Matt” had been scrawled across the front of the envelope in the perfect, legible script of a former elementary school teacher.
Smiling hard and ignoring my stinging eyes, I lifted the flap and pulled out the stationery.
“Dear Matt,” it said, “we’re rooting for you.” Then she’d drawn a heart and signed the letter “Dani and all your true fans.”
I stared at the note for a few moments, letting the emotion well up inside me. A tear hovered at the corner of my eye, and I wiped it away.
I got up, returned to my desk, and opened my laptop. Ceremoniously, I rested Dani’s note against my pencil cup so I could see it as I worked. This was for her, as much as it was for the folks who showed up to see me at conventions. I may have screwed things up and sent her away, but I could still honor her by staying true to myself and completing a book she’d be proud of.
With a deep breath, I opened up the original manuscript I’d handed in and retitled it The Bastyan Saga: The REAL Book Three.
And after that, I wrote, “For Dani.”
Chapter Seventeen
Dani
I tried hard not to think about the fact that Matt was upstairs, typing away in his office, while I was down in the kitchen, making the food for tonight’s party. I wondered if he’d gotten my text message and if he’d listen to me and show up for the party.
Gerald, who’d been busy directing party set-up traffic all morning, bustled in then and snatched an unfrosted snowman cookie from the tray I’d just removed from the oven. “These look scrumptious.”
I tried to swat his hands away. “Those are for our VIPs.”
He ignored me, bit off a corner of the cookie, and chewed thoughtfully. “These are the most delicious cookies I’ve ever had in my entire life.”
Blushing, I said, “They’re undecorated ice box cookies, canvases to garnish. They’re not supposed to taste that good.”
“Well, you failed on that account.” He glanced around the room at the rest of my baked goods and appetizers—deconstructed figgy pudding and Beef Wellington hand pies and tiny cups of gourmet green bean casserole. “Matt is lucky to have you as his personal chef.”
“He was lucky,” I corrected him, straightening up in an effort to exude strength and hide my basket case tendencies. “I no longer work for him.”
Gerald nodded, something like pride on his face. “That’s right, and good for you. Your talent shouldn’t be confined to one house,” he said. “You’re also incredibly reliable. That’s almost worth more than your cooking talent.” He rolled his eyes. “I’ve known plenty of talented chefs without a lick of professional sense.”
“So…” I glanced at the kitchen door to make sure no one was listening in. “Does this mean I have the catering job?”
He popped the rest of the cookie into his mouth. “Wouldn’t you rather keep the publicity thing going?” he said. “If we partner up, we can really build your brand and the resort’s. Think about it.”
He waved and headed back out to finish prepping for the party.
I stirred the homemade cranberry sauce boiling on the stove. Gerald didn’t answer me when I asked about the catering job. I had to assume it was because he didn’t think I was qualified, and I understood where he was coming from. I was untested in that arena. He was the party planner for an entire resort. He couldn’t risk everything on a housekeeper who’d cooked professionally for only one person.
Still, he obviously did want to work with me, and this whole social media personality/resort cheerleader sounded on the surface like a big, concrete opportunity. A bird in the hand, really. As Gerald said, I’d be able to post pictures of my food and videos of myself cooking, but to what end? It’d still be me, stuck on the Instagram merry-go-round ad infinitum, and I was starting to feel nauseated.
I stirred the cranberry sauce one more time, covered it, and set it aside.
Una and her kids adored this self-promotional stuff. They thrived on the likes and the attention. While I’d gotten a small initial rush from people seeing my posts, the whole thing had really lost its luster for me after the novelty wore off. I enjoyed being with people in person. I didn’t love the idea of sitting around waiting for likes and comments and approval from anonymous strangers.
The only time I really had fun on Instagram Live was when I’d recorded myself teaching Kelsie and Raithnait how to cook chicken.
I turned on my phone and watched some of the video, which Rafferty had recorded. I looked so happy, so cheerful, so proud of my students.
Like Una said, opportunities didn’t always look like opportunities from the outset. But if you examined them with an open mind, you could turn anything into a positive chance for growth. You just had to know where to look. I’d pursued this social media opportunity with Gerald thinking, hoping, that I’d learn to love the idea. I didn’t see that happening.
Maybe I needed to start looking elsewhere.
The timer sounded on the stove, and I pulled the potato croquettes out of the oven. The kitchen door popped open again, and two of Gerald’s team members appeared in the doorway. One of them, a man in his twenties, who was wearing one of those belts for lifting heavy things, said, “Gerald said you had cookies…?”
Grinning, I set down the croquettes and grabbed a tray of the few cookies I’d already decorated. I passed them to the guys, and they dug in hungrily.
The guy wearing the weight belt looked up at the ceiling. “Better than my mom’s, but don’t tell her that.”
“Do you have a shop in town?” asked the other guy.
I shook my head.
“Well, then, do you think you can teach me to make these?”
A flutter of excitement bubbled up in my gut at that word. Teach. “I can do you one better,” I said. “I’m about to mix up another batch. You have a few minutes?”
The guys lined up at the sink to wash their hands.
“Do you mind if I record this for Instagram Live?” I asked.
“This is going to be on Instagram?” one guy asked. “Do you have a lot of followers?”
“Quite a few,” I said.
“Cool.”
I spoke into the camera. “I’m about to teach these guys—” I glanced at them. “What are your names?”
“Tom and Doug.”
“I’m going to teach Tom and Doug how to make the most delicious icebox cookies.”
Teaching. The truth was I had actually liked teaching back before I had Kelsie. I enjoyed the act of sharing knowledge with others. What I hadn’t liked and had been able to give up easily was the classroom management, the bureaucracy, the rigidity. But if I could do my own thing…kind of like the career Una had carved out for herself, like how she’d come to Wackernagel, knowing she’d only be here for a few weeks, and she basically set up a pop-up yoga studio—I could do something like that here, too, but with cooking, teaching people how to use ingredients in their pantries, that sort of thing. That was what I was good at, and I could share my unique skill. I just had to seize the opportunity and ask for it.
That was the hard part.
After Tom and Doug went out to finish setting up for the party, I worked on the appetizers, waiting for Gerald to come back into the kitchen. I tried so hard not to overthink it, but I was alone in the kitchen, so what else could I do? My mind attempted to tell me stories, to trick me into doubting myself, but I pushed those thoughts away in favor of mentally rehearsing my lines. The worst that could happen was that Gerald would say no, and I’d have gained a little experience asking for what I wanted.
When Gerald finally came in, I didn’t hesitate. I would’ve lost my nerve, if I had. “Hey,” I said as he peered at a sheet of paper on the counter next to the door. “Let me show you something real quick.”
He turned around and rested against the counter. I showed him my phone and the video I’d taken of Tom and Doug learning how to make cookies, the two of them laughing, embarrassed at first, but then displaying true pride in the final results.
“This is great,” he said. “You’re a natural teacher.”
“Thank you,” I said. “I was thinking, in lieu of the catering thing, this is what I’d like to do in the resort, to teach lessons for the owners and guests on how to cook and how to use the ingredients in their pantries, stuff like that. If I can couple the promotional stuff you’d like me to do with more hands-on activities, I think I’d be very happy.” I paused. “I think we both would.”
Gerald reset the video and watched part of it again. After a moment, he smiled. “Very interesting idea. Let’s talk about it in the new year. Call my office.”
After he exited through swinging glass door, I fist pumped, knocking a full tray of cookies to the floor. “Damn it,” I muttered to myself as I crouched down to clean up the mess, but still, I couldn’t stop smiling.
…
Matt
I stood in front of my ancient printer and waited. And waited. I checked my watch. People would be arriving for the premiere party at any minute. But first I had something important to do.
Finally, the old machine started coughing and wheezing and spitting out papers. When it had expelled the full ten pages I needed, I grabbed them and rushed to the door, against which I pressed my ear. The sounds of people rushing around getting ready for the party slammed against my eardrum. It sounded like a circus, not a small, tame event centered around collectively watching a TV show.
If I went down there now, they’d drag me into the melee. I’d have to make decisions about where to set up chairs and when to serve the signature cocktail. I’d officially become part of the party machine, and extracting myself to do what I needed to do would become an impossibility. I couldn’t risk running into anyone.
I cracked open the door and peered into the hallway. The second floor was empty, at least. Keeping my back against the wall, I scurried toward my bedroom, shut that door, and went out on the balcony that ran along the side of the house. All I had to do was make it down to the ground and then run around to the back of the house to find Dani in the kitchen.
The yard stood still. Most of the workers were inside, preparing for the party indoors. I pressed the papers in between my lips and swung onto the trellis next to the balcony that ran down the entire wall to the ground.
Man, it was cold and windy tonight. I should’ve thought to put on a coat before I left, but oh well. Too late now. I had to trust that my adrenaline would warm me.
About halfway down, I clung to the wall just outside the dining room window and peeked in. The crew had crammed the table full of Christmas plates and cups and an array of delicious-looking holiday fare—cookies and finger sandwiches and vegetables, all in a color scheme of reds and greens.
Dani had done a wonderful job. Of course she had.
I clutched the papers tighter in my mouth and lowered myself another rung. That was the point of me slipping out right now. I was about to fix everything, to apologize to Dani for calling her a distraction and to show her how she’d inspired me all this time and continued to do so. I’d gone back and perfected the first scene of the new book, a scene that never would’ve existed without her support and inspiration. I held no illusions that she’d forgive me or jump into my arms—I was the jerk who broke up with her and then tried to make it right by handing her a pile of money—but I had to let her know what she meant to me.
Several feet before I hit the ground, the wind kicked up and ruffled the papers in my jaw. On instinct, I grabbed for them with one hand, lost my grip with the other, and fell backward into the bush below me. My right foot bore the brunt of my weight, and I hollered in pain as the gusting air current scattered the pages of my work across the lawn. I tried to rise, but my ankle couldn’t sustain me. I watched, helpless, as the white pages danced against the wind like massive, rectangular snowflakes.
“Matty!” A voice boomed from the driveway. “Are you okay?” My agent Kevin came running toward me, followed by Brennan, the actor who played Markys on The Saga. The two of them helped me stand, wrapping one of my arms around each of their shoulders. My right foot refused to support me.
