It was time to take a stand.
What was so bad about writing stories that provoked, if not ignited, passion? She wasn’t trying to be the next Virginia Woolf. To hell with people from the college publications; to hell with people in general. She blew out the breath she’d been holding for far too long.
She looked back at her reflection. “Stop worrying about other people. Live your own damn life for once. This time, take what you want.”
The critic was quiet for once. She nodded and gathered her thoughts. She walked past the stairs and into the kitchen. She poured a glass of ice water and drank without stopping. A few droplets dripped onto her chest, and she relished the cool feeling against her skin. The house was heating up with the windows closed. She walked around and opened each window. The cross ventilation worked well enough once the ceiling fans moved the air around. Soon there was a regular breeze, cool air, and the sweet smell of fresh hay. She looked over at Dustin’s fields, which were mowed. Hay bales dotted the land.
She went to her laptop and sat down at the table. She reread what she’d sent to Mike. Just as she’d suspected. She’d sent him the completed manuscript on one of her hottest novels. Definitely a scorcher. One she’d written after finding her author stilettos and whip. The story had come directly from her heart and soul and imagination. Oh yeah, she could just see their faces. But nothing so far gone. Nothing she couldn’t learn to feel comfortable owning. Mature content for a mature audience with a kick, a very sexy kick. She loved the story, loved the romance and heat between the characters, especially the hero, who reminded her of Dustin. Just reading the story made her want to go find him and feel his lips again. She twirled her hair and bit her lip.
Did she have enough courage to write under her own name or did she want to keep her stories a secret? She wasn’t so silly as to believe that if someone wanted to find out who the author really was, she’d not remain a mystery for long. She’d never asked other writers about the desire or need to use a pseudonym. If she was going to come out of the closet, she might as well come out and stand proud.
Claire sent a text to Mike. She was onboard and writing under the name C. L. Robertson. That’s as brave as she could get today. He sent her a text back. A contract would be sent to her detailing the specifics for publication. A weight the size of an unabridged print dictionary lifted from her shoulders.
Her parents enjoyed whatever she wanted to write, but she’d never shown them her dabbling in romance, let alone the fiery tales she wrote. She shook her head, unable to imagine handing her father an erotic story and then sitting back while he read it.
Fran would say…she had no idea how her sister would respond. Fran rarely commented on her writing. She’d given her sister copies of different stories, but then Fran would inevitably say she’d misplaced the story or apologize for being so busy. Her sister excused her lack of interest by begging for a moment when she could sit, decompress, and give Claire’s writing the attention her stories deserved.
Anger stabbed at Claire. She stopped as if hit. As far as she knew, Fran had never once read anything she’d written. Or if she had, Fran had failed to say anything either positive or negative. Her sister ignored her accomplishments. Claire’s eyes stung and she blinked back each tear.
The truth of what Dustin had said rang in her ears. Fran was self-serving and self-centered. Claire had grown up with her sister’s character and didn’t need to dissect Fran’s actions. Her sister’s personality was overly forceful. As a twin sister, Claire didn’t question Fran or try to change her.
Their parents had never discussed their children in terms of good or bad qualities. They’d used a softer approach and tried to feed each of their souls with outlets for expression. She’d never thought it strange, but rarely did she and Fran do any common activities as children. Each parent would usher a child somewhere, stay, cheer, and pilot them, separately, to and from places. Each child was openly praised, if not equally adored. Claire enjoyed doing her activities; she just didn’t want to sit around discussing them. Fran on the other hand, liked to relive her experiences with a captive audience.
If Claire had wanted the limelight too, yes, she admitted, life at home would have not been as smooth. Fran could be very rude and mean if she didn’t get her way. Underhanded, perhaps, was the best way to describe Fran’s behavior.
Claire decided she’d had enough with being the welcome mat of the Robertson house. The critic all but saluted. Claire dialed her sister’s number. She got Fran’s voice mail. “Hello, Fran, it’s Claire. Call me. You’ll need to book a flight home. This is not a request, and you don’t have an option.”