two, the women of the congregation would be lined up to provide Steve with much more than casseroles and home-baked desserts, but she chastised herself for the uncharitable thought.
Tonight it was just the two of them for dinner—an unusual and welcome occurrence. Tomorrow Faye would babysit their granddaughter, Rebecca, while their daughter, Sara, took her yoga class and did her Saturday afternoon stint in the church resale shop. Sunday was largely spent at church, though Faye sometimes got up very early to work before she had to leave for the morning service. Every once in a while when she was on deadline, she worked the entire Sunday, not out of disregard for the day of rest, but because she believed in a God who understood the importance of meeting one’s deadlines and commitments. And who, she hoped, would also understand the lengths a woman might go to in order to protect and support her family.
Faye set the casserole and brownies out on the counter to defrost and went out into the garden to cut flowers for the center of the table. She was arranging them into a cut-glass vase when the phone rang. Answering, she was delighted to hear her granddaughter on the line. “Hello, Gran Gran,” Rebecca singsonged into Faye’s ear. “Mom tole me you were back from France.”
Faye smiled. “That’s con ference , Becky. France is a country in Europe.”
The five-year-old’s voice dissolved into a giggle. “I see Egypt, I see France, I see Gran Gran’s under—”
Sara’s voice replaced that of her daughter. “Rebecca Simmons, how many times have I told you to think before you speak?”
“But . . .”
“I’m sorry, Mother. I don’t know what’s gotten into her lately.” Sara lowered her voice. “I think it’s that Lowry girl she’s gotten friendly with. She does not get enough supervision in my mind.”
“Oh?” Faye put the upper oven on preheat and unwrapped the casserole. The brownies looked good even in their frozen state.
“I let Rebecca play there last Saturday afternoon while you were in New York. And when I picked her up at five in the afternoon, her mother was lying around in her bathrobe reading one of those trashy romance novels.” Her voice went even lower. “The kind with S-E-X in it and a bare-chested man on the cover.” It was clear Sara was completely scandalized.
Faye frowned at the disapproval in her daughter’s voice. Faye had always thought of motherhood as a softening experience, but becoming a parent had turned Sara from mildly opinionated into downright judgmental, a change in her daughter that Faye wasn’t sure how to address.
“I know how to spell, Mama.” Becky’s voice piped up in the background. “I learned it on Sesame Street !” And then, “Why are you whispering about the number six?”
Faye covered her mouth to disguise her laugh. Still she felt compelled to defend her profession and her colleagues. “And I would think you of all people would know that romance novels do not deserve the adjective ‘trashy’ attached to them,” Faye said. “The romance writers I know produce well-written stories for today’s women, not trash. Your mother included.”
“Oh, mother,” Sara chided back, “you don’t write books that need clinches to sell them. You write for the inspirational market, that’s not the same thing at all. Why I’d have to move away in shame if you ever put your name on a book like she was reading.”
Faye thought about her own body of work. And about Tanya juggling her daughters and her jobs while still trying to hold on to her dream of publication. Then she thought about Kendall, who wrote more mainstream women’s fiction and whose identity was so caught up in her writing. And Mallory, with her kick-butt heroines and twenty-pages-a-day compulsion and the fame to show for it.
The writers Faye knew wrote very different things, but they wrote because they had things to say and because they were compelled to do so. There was nothing like
Tonight it was just the two of them for dinner—an unusual and welcome occurrence. Tomorrow Faye would babysit their granddaughter, Rebecca, while their daughter, Sara, took her yoga class and did her Saturday afternoon stint in the church resale shop. Sunday was largely spent at church, though Faye sometimes got up very early to work before she had to leave for the morning service. Every once in a while when she was on deadline, she worked the entire Sunday, not out of disregard for the day of rest, but because she believed in a God who understood the importance of meeting one’s deadlines and commitments. And who, she hoped, would also understand the lengths a woman might go to in order to protect and support her family.
Faye set the casserole and brownies out on the counter to defrost and went out into the garden to cut flowers for the center of the table. She was arranging them into a cut-glass vase when the phone rang. Answering, she was delighted to hear her granddaughter on the line. “Hello, Gran Gran,” Rebecca singsonged into Faye’s ear. “Mom tole me you were back from France.”
Faye smiled. “That’s con ference , Becky. France is a country in Europe.”
The five-year-old’s voice dissolved into a giggle. “I see Egypt, I see France, I see Gran Gran’s under—”
Sara’s voice replaced that of her daughter. “Rebecca Simmons, how many times have I told you to think before you speak?”
“But . . .”
“I’m sorry, Mother. I don’t know what’s gotten into her lately.” Sara lowered her voice. “I think it’s that Lowry girl she’s gotten friendly with. She does not get enough supervision in my mind.”
“Oh?” Faye put the upper oven on preheat and unwrapped the casserole. The brownies looked good even in their frozen state.
“I let Rebecca play there last Saturday afternoon while you were in New York. And when I picked her up at five in the afternoon, her mother was lying around in her bathrobe reading one of those trashy romance novels.” Her voice went even lower. “The kind with S-E-X in it and a bare-chested man on the cover.” It was clear Sara was completely scandalized.
Faye frowned at the disapproval in her daughter’s voice. Faye had always thought of motherhood as a softening experience, but becoming a parent had turned Sara from mildly opinionated into downright judgmental, a change in her daughter that Faye wasn’t sure how to address.
“I know how to spell, Mama.” Becky’s voice piped up in the background. “I learned it on Sesame Street !” And then, “Why are you whispering about the number six?”
Faye covered her mouth to disguise her laugh. Still she felt compelled to defend her profession and her colleagues. “And I would think you of all people would know that romance novels do not deserve the adjective ‘trashy’ attached to them,” Faye said. “The romance writers I know produce well-written stories for today’s women, not trash. Your mother included.”
“Oh, mother,” Sara chided back, “you don’t write books that need clinches to sell them. You write for the inspirational market, that’s not the same thing at all. Why I’d have to move away in shame if you ever put your name on a book like she was reading.”
Faye thought about her own body of work. And about Tanya juggling her daughters and her jobs while still trying to hold on to her dream of publication. Then she thought about Kendall, who wrote more mainstream women’s fiction and whose identity was so caught up in her writing. And Mallory, with her kick-butt heroines and twenty-pages-a-day compulsion and the fame to show for it.
The writers Faye knew wrote very different things, but they wrote because they had things to say and because they were compelled to do so. There was nothing like
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