Chapter Fifteen
Darcy
It took me three days to work up the nerve to break the news to my father.
During that time, I’d made lots of lists, talked it over with both Ian and Iris, and done a lot of soul-searching.
I’d always loved rules and boundaries, maybe because I’d grown up so sheltered. This would be a new way of living—I’d never had to worry about money or food, or a roof over my own head. And I’d rather not fall back on my trust fund if I could help it.
So, after I finished class on Wednesday, I stopped by my parents’ place. I could wait for the next family get-together, but it’d be too much pressure. Besides, all we talked about these days were bestsellers and baby showers.
Not surprisingly, I found Alan in his office, working on the next book in his Desert Mystic series. If I didn’t do this now, I’d lose my nerve.
“Dad, we need to talk.”
“What did you say?” He glanced up from his laptop. Like me, he could get lost in worlds of his own making.
You can do this, Darcy. Just say it.
“I need to discuss something with you.” I took a seat across from him and bit the inside of my cheek. My stomach was a twisted mess.
“Did we have an appointment?” He glanced at the calendar.
“Do I need one to talk to my own father?”
“Why don’t we discuss it at the family dinner Sunday?”
I grimaced. “Yeah, let’s chat about those, too.”
“Okay.” He closed his computer. “You look solemn—this must be important.”
“It is. And I know you’ve got a tight writing schedule, so I’ll make this brief.”
“Go on.” He leaned back in his chair, folding his arms over his chest.
“First off, I’m cutting back on the family dinners. Maybe every other month or something.” Just saying the words made me feel lighter, like a burden had been lifted.
And I hadn’t even gotten to the good part yet.
“Family time’s important, Darcy. Your sister will be disappointed.”
Somehow, I thought Elinor will live, but I didn’t say so—best not to push it.
“Elinor and I don’t have much of a relationship, Dad.”
“You should work on it. After your mother and I are gone, she’ll be your only link to the past.”
It was true, but why is it my responsibility? As the older sister, the burden should be on Elinor.
“We just don’t get along. I know you like Elinor better, but she—”
“I don’t.”
I blinked. “Come again?”
He frowned. “Darcy, we don’t get along as well as Elinor and I do, but it doesn’t mean I like her more. I love you both equally.”
It was the standard parental answer in these situations—and total crap.
“Yeah. Sure.”
“I mean it. You and I are a lot alike, Darcy. We both love language, we’re high achieving, organized—a tad judgmental, too.”
“So you see the similarities.”
He winked. “Of course, I do. Don’t forget a bit of an ego, too. It’s no wonder you, and I don’t…well, don’t appreciate each other the way we should.”
Because we had the same flaws. So I projected everything I didn’t like about myself onto my father. Poppy would have a freaking field day with this one.
“Wow, I guess you’re right.”
“Anything else on your mind?” he asked.
“Yes. Sorry for the detour.” I sucked in a breath. “While I appreciate your input on my novel, I’m still going to submit it to an agent.” He opened his mouth to speak, but I held up a hand. “Please let me finish. I know you didn’t enjoy For Love or Money, but you’re not exactly my target audience.”
He scratched his chin. “True.”
“But I believe in this book. No, I believe in me. You might not see it, but I have talent, and I’m going to pursue writing.” I lifted my chin, waiting for the onslaught.
“I see. And what about graduate school?”
I stiffened my spine. “I’m going to put it on hold for now. But I’m going to treat writing like a job, because it is. I’ll establish a schedule and stick to it, set a word count for the day, and a production schedule. Holding myself accountable is important.”
“You’ve thought all this through.” Dad pushed his glasses up, his expression contemplative. “It isn’t a whim.”
Was that why he’d been so harsh earlier? He assumed I’d been in the grips of a childish impulse? Like when I wanted to learn the clarinet in sixth grade and then quit six weeks later.
“No, I’ve wanted to be an author for as long as I can remember.”
“I never knew.”
I lifted my chin. “You never asked.”
He nodded. “This isn’t a stable or predictable life, Darcy. Your publisher might drop you. Readers might hate your book.”
Alan was excessively calm, and it started to freak me out. I’d expected a huge scene, a showdown where I’d walk off with my head held high.
Or maybe I’d misjudged him.
“I know the risks.” In his own twisted way, had he been trying to protect me from an uncertain future? “I have a trust fund, thanks to your success. I’m privileged, and I can use those resources to live the life I want.”
“I see.” He steepled his fingers. “And you’d like me to put in a good word for you?”
For a second, I was tempted. With his help, establishing myself would be easier. But I’d never be satisfied unless I made my own way.
“No. I want to get there on my own.”
“Really?” His brows drew together.
“I’m not going to use your name, or approach your publisher. No shortcuts. Instead, I’m going to be pulled out of the slush pile—like you were.”
A slush pile is a stack of unsolicited manuscripts agents and editors receive. Very few ever got published. It was a gamble, but I wanted this victory on my own terms—anything less wouldn’t do. I’d always wonder if my success was because of my famous father, and I refused to live in his shadow.
“What pen name are you going to use?”
Well, it sure wouldn’t be Talin Zed.
“I’m thinking about a play on my name. Maybe Emma Darcy?” Emma was another famous Jane Austen character. Besides, it sounded like a romance author’s name.
“I like it. But what if you don’t succeed in publishing?”
“Then I’ll go to grad school and get my doctoral degree, as planned.” If I tried and failed to be an author, I wouldn’t have any angst over the decision. It’d be something I decided, not a choice based on fear.
“Okay then.” He nodded. “I wish you luck.”
“You do?” I gaped at him.
Dad chuckled. “Yes, I do.”
“Thanks.” I hadn’t expected his support. What’s the catch?
“Adults make their own decisions, Darcy, but they also deal with the consequences of their actions.”
“I understand. Thanks for hearing me out.” I stood and walked to the door.
“You know,” Dad said, halting my movement, “they say you aren’t a real writer until your work’s been rejected.”
“Yeah?” I glanced back.
“Don’t take what anyone says personally, even me, and keep pushing until you get published, Darcy.”
“I won’t. Thanks, Dad.”
It’s the closest thing to an apology I’d ever get. Maybe we’d never be close, but my father loved me, in his own way. And now I had a shot at the job I wanted, along with a wonderful boyfriend.
Ian was right—I had a bright future ahead of me.
“Oh, wait, there’s something else you should know.”
“There’s more?” Dad gaped at me. Poor guy. He’d had a rough time.
“It’s no big deal. I’m dating my professor, and we’re getting serious.”
“What?”
“Well, I’ll let you get back to writing.” I headed for the exit.
“Darcy, we should talk about this. How old is he?”
“Ian’s about ten years older, so it’s not a huge age difference. I’ll bring him over sometime soon. Bye!”
And I scurried out the door before we could discuss it.