Chapter 14
Ten minutes later, Charles pulled his car into the visitor’s parking lot in front of a local retirement community. Sarah scrunched her brows together, confused. The directions would have been easy to describe. Why had he insisted on driving her?
Did Charles think she was too stupid to find it, seeing as she’d gone to his place instead of Joan’s? It wasn’t her fault she’d been given the wrong directions. Joan had sent her there. She had the piece of paper to prove it. She would show him so he’d know she wasn’t stupid . . .
That thought made her stop. Why did she care what he thought of her? She hated that she knew the answer. She was attracted to him. Why did she always manage to be attracted to the wrong type of man?
Determination steeled in her chest. It wasn’t going to happen this time. She would just keep reminding herself of his negative qualities: serious, aloof, rude.
Satisfied that she’d quelled her attraction for the moment, she peered toward the driver’s seat. Charles’s face was angled away from hers. He was staring off into the distance through his closed door’s window. His arms were crossed at his chest. It was obvious he was preoccupied. Intuition told her it was something serious. As she continued to stare, she felt her nose twitch. There was a hint of vulnerability about him.
Charles sighed. Then, without speaking, he jumped from the car. The rudeness and contradictory behavior was back. Had she imagined the vulnerability?
Under her breath, she mumbled sarcastically, “Shall we hop out?”
She unbuckled her seat belt, and collected her bag from the floor. When she attempted to open her door, she felt it move quicker than the force she’d applied.
She turned her head and saw Charles standing in front of her, holding open the door. So, he was being a gentleman again? Sheesh. The man was harder to figure out than a sudoku.
Flustered, she stammered, “Thanks.”
He nodded and waited as she moved past him. Behind her, she heard the sound of the passenger side door being closed and locked. In silence, he led the way across the parking lot, through a white metal security gate, and along a series of cemented paths wide enough for one person.
A short time later, he stopped in front of a ground-floor apartment with a bright-blue door. There was a gold-colored “five” on the door. Charles didn’t knock as she’d expected. Instead, he pulled a set of keys from his pocket, selected one, and turned it in the keyhole. Sarah followed him into an entry hall with beige tiles poking out from under a scruffy, deep blue rug.
Charles’s shoulders seemed to tense as he called out, “Mom?”
A female voice called back, “In here, darling.”
Charles’s shoulders relaxed and he exhaled in a way that told Sarah he was relieved his mother was there. Had he expected she wouldn’t be? They had a meeting arranged, didn’t they? Maybe that didn’t matter to the author? Did she do what she pleased regardless of other people? Was this evidence of Joan’s “diva” behavior?
Before Sarah could fret further, Charles faced her. “Wait here, I’ll just be a minute.”
He walked toward a door on the right-hand side of the entry hall, stepped inside, and closed it behind him. Sarah glanced around, noting the dark-blue and gold hall runner leading from the hall opposite the entry to what appeared to be the living room at the end. She was distracted from her inspection when muffled voices emanated from behind the closed door. An impulse made Sarah turn to face the door.
There were three distinct voices filtering through: two women and Charles. The first woman’s voice became raised; the other woman spoke over her; Charles said something, but Sarah couldn’t make out any of it. A moment passed in muted whispers then the door opened.
A woman with blonde hair pulled back into a ponytail stepped out. Sarah noted the gray uniform the woman wore with the well-known exhaustion of a nurse on her face and to-die-for curves. A name badge with the word “Tamara” was pinned to the woman’s left breast pocket.
She must be helping Joan through the illness Charles had mentioned at the awards dinner.
Tamara glanced up and offered an obvious forced smile to Sarah, “Hi.”
Sarah nodded, “Hi.”
“I’m assisting Mrs. Morgan, while she’s . . . ill.”
Sarah felt an eyebrow lift, “Okay.”
Precisely what she’d assumed, but it was a bit odd the nurse felt it necessary to confirm it, wasn’t it? The way she’d said it had been strange too.
Tamara shuffled past her and left. The next moment, Charles appeared at the still open door.
He gestured with his arm inside the room, “Please, come in.”
Oh God.
A lurch in Sarah’s stomach signaled the onset of her too frequent self-doubt. Who did she think she was? This woman was famous all over the world and she was nobody. She didn’t deserve this opportunity. There’d been a mistake. Jacques had been right, Paul had been right, Charles was right: she wasn’t a good writer.
“Mrs. Woodward, are you all right?”
Huh?
She refocused and noted a subtle crease to Charles’s brow.
She nodded at his visible concern, “Oh, yes. Thank you.”
With a deep breath, Sarah forced an easy smile, and walked into the room after him.
A woman with neat shoulder-length silver hair stood and smiled at her, “Sarah darling, sorry I wasn’t at the cottage to meet you. I got caught up in my writing and lost track of time.”
Sarah felt her nerves vanish at the author’s easygoing manner. She grinned, “I know exactly how that feels. It’s such an honor to meet you.”
Joan opened her arms and tugged Sarah into an embrace. “The honor is mine.” The author squeezed Sarah as if they’d known each other for years then pulled away. In a sincere tone, she asked, “How are you?”
Sarah confessed, “Excited, but nervous.”
A mischievous grin appeared on her mentor’s lips, “Don’t be nervous. Us romance writers are sweethearts . . . except between the sheets.”
Joan winked. Sarah laughed. Charles cleared his throat and looked down. Was Charles Morgan embarrassed? Ha! Another sign he was human after all. Sarah couldn’t help smirking.
Charles said, “Should we begin, Mom?”
Sarah frowned, “I’m sorry, ‘we?’”
He nodded, “There’s a lot of information to get through. I’m staying to help Mom out.”
Sarah turned to Joan. Even though the author flashed her an encouraging smile, Sarah noted tension at the corners. Something was wrong . . .
The problem dawned on Sarah. “Joan, if you’re still unwell––”
Joan flicked a dismissive gesture with her wrist, “I’m fine, darling,” then indicated with her eyes toward a brown leather sofa, “Take a seat.”
Sarah obeyed and was joined by Joan a moment later. The author had a bundle of papers in her hand.
She handed them to Sarah, “Here’s the manuscript you entered into the mentorship. Some notes are in the margins.”
Sarah accepted the bundle. Blue-inked handwriting covered it. Sarah gulped at the sight. All those notes were for her?
Joan chuckled, “Don’t look so worried.”
“There’s just . . . so many.”
“Darling, my first novel came back barely legible from the editor. Believe me, this is mild.”
Sarah nodded, though she didn’t believe Joan. The author was just trying to spare her feelings.
Joan continued, “Your story was solid. In particular, I found the emotional abuse the heroine encounters with Jack Barrett realistic and relevant.”
Sarah fumbled with the ring on her finger, and admitted, “I thought that topic might put you off?”
“On the contrary, that’s what I liked about your manuscript. Too many people believe romance novels are ‘fluff,’ but it’s not true. Your submission stood out because it showed you read the genre and know how deep some of the story lines can be.” Joan grinned, “I like to think my books are like that?”
Sarah smiled, “They are.”
“Thank you, darling. Modern women want to see that others can overcome the problems they’ve experienced and find true love at the same time. I feel you will be part of that with your own books in the near future.”
“Wow.” Sarah felt like the sun was warming her from the inside out. “Thank you so much. That’s a wonderful compliment.”
“It’s not a compliment, it’s the truth.” Joan patted Sarah’s hand, “You remind me of myself when I was starting out.”
“Really?”
“Mm-hmm . . . the insecurity and doubt drips off you like a flower in the rain.”
Sarah wrinkled her nose and cast her attention to the gray-blue carpet on the floor. Was she that transparent?
She heard her mentor laugh, though there was no malice in it. “I was the same way, but I learned there is no room for doubt in this business. You have to believe in yourself. Somewhere inside of you, you know you can write. Trust that; hold onto it, and the doubt will soon vanish. Have confidence.”
Sarah lifted her gaze, “Okay.”
She was rewarded with a warm smile, “Now, I have some notes to go over with you . . .”
The author leaned toward the side table next to her and pulled a yellow notepad from it to her lap. Sarah drew in a deep breath. This was it. Her mentorship was about to begin. And her future as a writer with it.
***
Charles cupped his chin and studied Sarah Woodward. She was focused on his mother, leaning forward at the waist, biting her bottom lip. He noted how she did that whenever his mother told her some piece of information that was especially important to remember.
It was an anxious gesture. Sometimes too anxious. Sarah had the gravest case of writer’s doubt he’d ever witnessed. Yes, it was normal––healthy even––to have a certain level of doubt, but hers seemed deeper, more ingrained. Why? Couldn’t she see how good she was?
He pushed the thought aside and focused on trying to figure out other aspects. What was her main intention with regards to his mother and the mentorship? To learn or to profit? So far, everything about the woman’s behavior told him she was there to focus on her writing, not to garner fame.
Yet he’d been wrong before. He would keep his eyes open, stay close to his mother, and be there to catch the slightest hint of trouble before it began.