For several seconds, Meredith stared.
Then Mom spoke.
“Well, Meredith did read your stories when you were little.”
I nodded.
“Yes.”
Meredith smiled faintly.
Then I continued.
“She also called my published novel garbage.”
Mom sighed.
“Devon, she was being honest.”
I looked toward her.
For a moment, I felt eleven years old again.
Standing beside Meredith’s bedroom door.
Holding a green notebook.
Waiting for somebody to tell me the red ink didn’t mean I should stop writing.
Then I took a breath.
“Margo isn’t going to represent Meredith. She’s already declined.”
Meredith’s expression tightened.
“That’s because you didn’t recommend me.”
I shook my head.
“No. She made a professional decision about the manuscript.”
Dad leaned forward.
“Your sister has two degrees in English. She’s been writing longer than you.”
I looked at him.
“I know.”
He continued.
“Then help her.”
For several seconds, I said nothing.
Then I looked toward the folder Meredith had placed on my counter.
“Have you read her novel, Dad?”
He frowned.
“What?”
“Have you read it?”
He looked toward Meredith.
Then back at me.
“That’s not the point.”
I nodded.
“Exactly.”
Meredith sighed.
“Devon, you’ve gotten one successful book and suddenly you think you’re some kind of authority.”
I looked at her.
“No. I have an agent who evaluates manuscripts professionally. You contacted her, and she declined. I won’t pressure her to reverse that decision.”
For a moment, Meredith looked genuinely startled.
Then she asked.
“So you’re refusing to help?”
I nodded.
“Yes.”
Mom made a small sound.
Then she looked toward the refrigerator.
“Devon, your father needs that truck payment.”
I took a breath.
“Dad can make his own arrangements.”
Dad’s expression hardened.
“You can’t just stop helping without discussing it.”
I looked toward him.
“You stopped attending my birthday without discussing it.”
He sighed.
“Meredith planned a surprise weekend. Your mother and I didn’t want to spoil it.”
I stared.
“Mom told me you’d all be there.”
He looked away.
Then Mom spoke.
“We thought you could move the celebration. Your father’s sixtieth birthday was important.”
I nodded slowly.
“So was my thirtieth.”
She sighed.
“But yours was also about the book, and you’ve already had so many celebrations for that.”
For a moment, I couldn’t answer.
Then I looked at her.
“Mom, I invited thirty-eight relatives. I paid for dinner. I rented a hall. I waited for you.”
She lowered her eyes.
I continued.
“You didn’t even call.”
Meredith stepped forward.
“You’re making an enormous issue out of one weekend.”
I looked toward her.
“No.”
For several seconds, nobody spoke.
Then I said.
“It wasn’t one weekend. It’s been most of my life.”
Meredith crossed her arms.
“This is exactly your problem. You take everything personally.”
I stared at her.
Then answered quietly.
“I was eleven.”
She frowned.
“What?”
I shook my head.
“Nothing.”
I wasn’t ready to explain.
Not because I was protecting her.
Because I didn’t yet understand why those words had come out.
I simply knew that something about the old green notebook had been bothering me for years.
Dad moved toward the door.
He seemed tired of the conversation.
“Come on. We’ve said what we came to say.”
Mom looked upset.
Meredith gathered her manuscript.
Then turned toward me one final time.
“You’ll regret shutting me out when you need professional help.”
I looked at her.
For a moment, I almost laughed.
Instead, I opened the front door.
“Take care, Meredith.”
They left.
I closed the door.
Then stood in the hallway for a long time.
For the first time, I hadn’t apologized simply because my family was disappointed.
The following weekend, storms moved through southwest Missouri.
Our crews spent long hours restoring service.
There were damaged lines, difficult weather conditions, and customers who needed power restored as safely and quickly as possible.
I worked alongside Arch.
We were exhausted by the time the final assignments were completed.
During one break, he handed me a sandwich.
Then said.
“Heard your folks went to the lake.”
I looked toward him.
“Yeah.”
He nodded.
For a moment, neither spoke.
Then he said.
“That’s rough.”
I looked down at the sandwich.
“Yeah.”
He didn’t ask for more details.
Didn’t suggest I forgive everybody immediately.
Didn’t offer a speech about how family relationships worked.
He simply sat beside me and ate.
I appreciated that more than I could explain.
When the work settled down, Erin asked whether I’d consider celebrating my birthday again.
I laughed.
“With whom?”
She looked at me.
“The people who actually want to come.”
I considered the question.
Then smiled.
That sounded better than spending another month thinking about the empty hall.
I called Roy and booked the Elks Lodge again.
This time, I invited people directly.
Arch and the crew.
Nadine.
Twila.
Erin’s parents.
Several friends from work.
A few older linemen who’d written to me after reading the novel.
I didn’t mail formal invitations.
I simply asked people whether they’d like to come.
Most said yes.
Erin wanted to prepare a little display about how I’d become a writer.
“Something from when you were a kid,” she suggested.
I immediately thought about the boxes in my garage.
A few years earlier, Mom had emptied my childhood bedroom to turn it into a sewing room.
She’d delivered several cardboard boxes marked DEVON and left them beside the garage shelves.
I hadn’t opened them.
That Sunday evening, I carried them into the kitchen.
There were Little League trophies.
School photographs.
Old report cards.
A broken wristwatch.
Several notebooks.
Then, near the bottom of the second box, I found it.
The green spiral notebook.
The cover had curled with age.
The corners were soft.
My eleven-year-old handwriting remained across the front.
THE STORM AND RUFUS.
I sat down.
For a moment, I simply held it.