Page 34 of A Winter's Miracle

“I’ve been thinking,” he said, “about this book tour you mentioned.”

“What about it?”

“I’m just wondering how honest I need to be,” Smith inquired. “How much of myself do I need to give the readers during the Q&A sessions?”

“Generally, books sell better when the readers think they’re getting something special and unique from you,” Julia said.

Smith looked deflated. Julia suddenly hated that Smith’s pain was his commodity. It was hers, too. But that was the nature of the business, wasn’t it? This was something she’d had to accept long ago.

After a long pause, Smith spoke.

“I see. Well.” He coughed. “I have an idea about how to end the book. I don’t know if I feel up to talking about it, but I’ll have the pages for you soon. Okay?”

Julia’s head rang like a bell. She thanked Smith and ushered him out of her office, grateful to be alone again. But no sooner had she sat down than she received a text from her father, asking for her presence in his upstairs office. It had been ages since Bernard had let Julia into his writing world—and Julia wasn’t inclined to say no. No matter how exhausted she was.

Julia hurried upstairs to find Bernard at his desk with a partial stack of a manuscript before him. His grizzled hair was wild and untamed around his ears, and his cheeks were bright red after his evening of drinking at the bar. Unlike the others, he hadn’t gone dancing and had, instead, held court with a collection of writers who were getting their MFA at City College. This had culminated in his inviting all of them to The Copperfield House to write in the residency.

“I wanted to let you know,” Bernard said, “that I’m nearly finished with the next manuscript. I could foresee a publishing date in autumn. We can hit the all-famous Christmas shopping traffic again.” He smiled knowingly. He often teased her about publishing “sales” and how unimportant they were to the artist when compared to the publisher.

“Wow. Dad. That’s amazing.” Julia crossed her legs beneath her and bent to read the first few lines of the new manuscript. They had Bernard’s traditional voice along with a newfound sense of humor. His most recent book, a work of autofiction set in a prison, hadn’t had space for jokes. It would be a fresh twist.

“Your mother has refused to let me read her recent manuscript,” Bernard stated. “I’m hoping we can make a trade.”

Julia laughed. Her mother was far more stubborn than her father when it came to showing her work. You practically had to pry it out of her hands before she felt it was “completely perfect.”

After a brief discussion about Bernard’s work, Julia found herself shifting gears and discussing her working relationship with Smith. It wasn’t often that she came to her father for advice, but this called for it.

Julia explained the dynamics of Smith’s memoir, about all he’d been through, and about how unwilling he was to share specific details about his mother and his half brother.

“I’m getting the sense that he has cold feet,” Julia said.

Bernard dragged his fingers through his beard ponderously. “He’s twenty-six?”

Julia nodded.

“He’s on the brink of discovering something,” Bernard said.

“What’s that?”

Bernard sighed. “That you don’t owe anyone your soul. That giving away too much of yourself negates your own power. It’s something all writers struggle with. But it sounds like Smith is wise beyond his years.”

Julia’s voice wavered. “He’s been through a lot. But like I said. He’s signed a contract. We sent him a hefty advance. And more than that, we brought him here, to The Copperfield House, to finish his memoir. I have so much riding on this book. And the publishing house is counting on it to round out the sales this year.”

Bernard remained quiet, and Julia stewed with shame. Here it was again: the topic of money.

“I just hope he knows what he’s getting into,” Bernard said.

Julia’s hangover had wandered through her head and into her neck, where her tendons were taut. They seemed apt to snap.

“Oh,” Julia said as an afterthought. “Anna found out Violet is divorced. She doesn’t have a home to go back to. Can you believe that?”

Bernard’s eyes were cloudy and difficult to read. He rubbed his beard and muttered, “Fascinating.”

“What do you mean?”

“Violet is demonstrating what Smith is learning in real time,” he said. “She understands there’s a currency in secrets, in rewriting your past the way you want to.”

“But she’s been lying to us,” Julia pointed out.

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