The Memoir of Johnny Devine by Camille Eide Page A

gaze.
    John leaned forward in his chair. “I don’t
believe I’ve thanked you for all the hard work you’ve been putting
into this.” He looked into her eyes and smiled. “I’m beginning to
think your name should be on the cover, not mine.”
    Eliza had often made a point to avoid those
penetrating dark eyes, especially when they probed hers like this,
and she had succeeded—most of the time. But she couldn’t ignore his
words of praise, which spread through her now like warm cocoa.
She’d always been a sucker for a kind word. There hadn’t been an
overabundance of them lately.
    Who was she kidding? There hadn’t been any
at all.
    “ I’m just putting your
words on paper,” she said, easing the words carefully around the
sudden lump in her throat. “And I know you’re just pulling my leg.
Your name alone will sell a million copies. I bet as soon as this
book hits the shelves, everyone will be clamoring for you to make a
comeback.”
    With a harsh laugh, John shook his head.
“Not interested. In fact, just between you and me, sometimes I wish
God would make the fame disappear. But then I remember I should be
grateful, because that fame will probably help get this story into
more people’s hands.”
    “ That’s guaranteed.” Eliza
put her notepad down and rubbed her neck. “Must be nice to have a
name that sells books before they’re even written.” She gasped,
cheeks instantly on fire. What a thoughtless thing to say. “I’m so
sorry, that was incredibly rude—”
    “ No, please, don’t
apologize. I completely agree.” He reached for his cane and
examined the smooth, curved handle. “If it were a matter of my
writing merit alone—well, we both know there’s not a publisher who
would touch it.”
    She couldn’t look at him, but from the
corner of her eye, she saw John rise.
    Millie came in with a tray of iced tea and
molasses cookies. Quietly, she set it down and headed back to the
kitchen.
    John watched Millie leave, then turned to
Eliza. “Have you been paid yet?”
    She set her notepad down. “I pick up my
first paycheck today,” she said. There had to be something else
they could talk about, something besides being paid to write.
    “ Your agency is billing
me, so I’m sure they’ll take care of it,” he said. “But I’d still
like to be sure they’re giving you the proper rate for
collaboration.” He looked into her eyes. “You’ll let me know if
they don’t?”
    “ I’m sure I won’t need to
trouble you, but thank you.”
    He turned his gaze in the direction Millie
had gone. “She’s been widowed many years. Her life isn’t easy. But
she says, because of her family, she couldn’t ask for a single
thing more.”
    Eliza simply nodded. What was on his mind?
This was the time of day when she usually switched to typing the
day’s notes, leaving John free to go about other business. Yet
today, he didn’t seem to be in any hurry to go.
    “ Do you have any other
family, Mrs. Saunderson?”
    Why did he want to know that? But at least
the topic was better than talking about scratching out an existence
as a no-name writer. “I have a sister.” Eliza turned, put a sheet
of paper in the typewriter, and propped her notepad on the easel.
“And she has a family.”
    A perfect family. And she keeps a perfect
home and throws perfect lawn parties and wears perfectly matching
pearls and a perpetual smile in perfectly correct social
circles.
    Eliza looked over her shoulder at John.
Surely he was only being attentive to be polite.
    John nodded. “I’m just curious, of course. I
mean, why a kind, intelligent young woman such as yourself would
choose a career instead of …” He shook his head. “My apologies.
It’s none of my business.”
    She silently
agreed—it was none of his business. And yet, society deemed a woman’s role
as a housewife to be implicit and, therefore, everyone’s
business.
    “ I’m sorry, I meant no
offense,” John said. Without waiting for a response,