Now That It's You Page 24
She took a shaky breath and looked up at the ceiling like that might help her stave off the tears. “He’ll never take another photo or send silly jokes to my email or give me grandbabies.”
Kyle pulled her closer, putting both arms around her in an awkward, sideways hug. “I know,” he said, wishing he could think of something more comforting to offer. “I know.”
“Do you think—” she drew back, looking at him with an earnest expression before casting her eyes down at the closed photo album. “Never mind. I suppose now’s not the time.”
“What, Mom? Say it.”
She looked up at him with a flicker of hope in her eyes. “I just wondered if you ever thought about settling down. Finding a nice girl, maybe having a child of your own.”
The ache started deep in Kyle’s chest and spread outward, radiating through his arms and legs. It took him a moment to catch his breath. “Sure,” he said at last. “I’ve thought about it.”
“I mean, I guess you’d want to be in a relationship first. That’s important.”
His subconscious poked him in the ribs. Tell her. Tell her about Meg.
But he couldn’t say that. He didn’t know where things stood with Meg, but he hadn’t stopped thinking about her all week. They’d called and texted and flirted on the phone until two in the morning in the three days since they’d melted their relationship relics. Since then, she’d been busy with radio interviews and catering jobs, but they’d made loose plans to see each other Friday night.
He looked at his mom and wondered what she’d think if she knew. Would it break her heart? Lord knew the last thing his mother needed right now was more heartache.
Then again, she used to like Meg. Loved her like a daughter, she’d said, or at least she used to before Meg’s disappearing act.
“I want you to be happy, baby,” his mom was saying. “You’ve dated a lot of lovely girls over the years. I know I told you I thought Cara might’ve been the one—”
“She wasn’t.” He started to apologize for the gruffness of his reply, but his mom didn’t seem fazed.
“I know that,” she said. “And I know she wanted to get married and you didn’t. So did Melody. So did—”
“Mom, I couldn’t see myself spending the rest of my life with them.”
“So you do see it with someone?”
“I—” he stopped himself, not sure what it meant that he was picturing Meg again. Meg smiling up at him with a veil in her hair and a bouquet of daisies clutched in her hand. Meg sleeping beside him, her curls spread across the pillow in a tangled web. Meg holding a baby—his baby—or cheering at a Little League game or hugging him at a high school graduation ceremony . . .
“I don’t mean someone specific,” his mom said. “But you think there’s a woman out there that you could spend the rest of your life with?”
The hope in her voice was almost too much for him to bear. He thought about telling her then. About confessing everything, not just the last three weeks of growing closer to Meg, but everything. The years of pining silently for her, watching from afar, picturing himself in Matt’s shoes, in Matt’s life, in her—
“Mom, I—”
The doorbell chimed, and his mom stiffened under his arm. She glanced toward the door, then looked down at her watch. “She’s early.” Sylvia sighed. “She never could show up on time. Always five minutes early, never right on the hour.”
Kyle felt all the blood drain from his face. He knew someone who fit that description. “Who’s she?”
“Meg Delaney. She called this morning, said she had something she needed to show me. She’s bringing her lawyer with her, so obviously I’ve got Albert joining me, but he can’t make it until three-thirty.”
His mom stood up and started for the door while Kyle sat frozen on the sofa. Part of him wanted to flee. Maybe he could make it out the back door and let his mother handle this alone. Meg had her lawyer, and his mom would have hers. Neither of them needed him here. A smart man would remove himself from the situation and let them work things out without him.
He stood and grabbed his keys, ready to make a run for it. But the instant his mom threw the door open, his chance of escape vanished. “Hello, Meg,” Sylvia said crisply. “I assume this is your attorney?”
“Franklin Hatfield, pleasure to meet you.”
Kyle stood up, his hands balling at his sides as though his subconscious expected a fistfight. The room tilted a little as he moved toward the door. He stepped up beside his mother, who turned and smiled up at him. The love in her eyes was so fierce that Kyle stepped closer, feeling oddly protective.
Then he looked back at Meg. Her eyes had gone wide, and she looked at him like he was the last person on earth she wanted to see.
“Kyle,” she said, licking her lips. “I wasn’t expecting you to be here.”
“I didn’t realize you were stopping by.”
“Yes, well, we’re all here now,” his mom said, swinging the door wide. “I’ll grab some refreshments and we can wait for Albert to arrive. Kyle? Would you mind showing them to the study?”
Kyle swallowed, his gaze flicking back to Meg’s. He shouldn’t be here. Maybe he could still make an escape. “Actually, Mom, I was just about to leave. Sounds like you’ve got some personal stuff to deal with, and you don’t need me in the middle of it.”
A look of intense relief washed over Meg’s face, and he felt glad he’d been the one to put it there. Her lawyer nodded in agreement. “Certainly some of the details we’ll be discussing are of a rather—intimate nature. It’s best if we confine the discussion to only the parties involved in the case.
The word intimate prickled the back of Kyle’s brain, and he gripped his keys tighter in his palm. They felt different without the keychain, unfamiliar and less weighty.
“Kyle, sweetheart, I’d like you to stay.” He turned toward his mother’s voice and saw her standing at the entrance of the kitchen, her hands twisting in her skirt. She looked unusually small, and her face was pale from four weeks of crying. He wanted to wrap her up in his arms and make the hurt go away, to pay her back for all the times she’d kissed his skinned knees and tucked twenty-dollar bills into thinking-of-you cards when he was struggling to make it as an artist.
The look she gave him nearly split his heart in two. “Your father can’t be here, and I’d like another member of the family on my side. Please?”
Kyle swallowed hard, then nodded. “Okay, Mom.” He fought to keep his eyes off Meg, certain he didn’t want to see disappointment on her face. He knew she didn’t want him there any more than he wanted to be there, but he owed it to his mother.
He owed it to Matt.
“Okay,” he said again, turning to lead the way down the hall. “I’ll stay.”
The air in the study felt too thick to breathe. Meg gripped her water glass and looked at her attorney, struggling not to glance at Kyle. Staring at Franklin was safe, albeit nerve-wracking. Her attorney was terrifying, with steel-colored hair and a charcoal suit that looked like it cost more than she made in a year.
More than you used to make in a year, she reminded herself. You’re a bestselling author now. You won’t be digging quarters out of the sofa to pay the phone bill.
She couldn’t bear to look at Kyle. If she saw his face, odds were good she’d leap from this stiff maple chair and hurl herself into his arms, yelling at everyone that they should just call this whole thing off.
But she couldn’t do that. Coming here today, saying the things she was prepared to say—this was about standing up for herself. Not just as a professional, but as an artist, as a woman.
Beside her, Franklin yammered on about oral contracts and the statute of limitations, using words that went flying over her head. The Midlands’ lawyer was yammering back, and she tried hard to focus on their words. Something about inseparable parts of a unitary whole? It would almost sound romantic if both men didn’t look like they were on the brink of throwing their briefcases at each oth
er. Or at her.
Meg dared a glance at Sylvia, who sat stiffly between her lawyer and Kyle, her hands folded in her lap. She didn’t meet Meg’s eyes. Neither did Kyle, who stared with rapt attention at the lawyers. Meg did the same, commanding herself to pay better attention. This was her life, for crying out loud.
“I know you’re familiar with the details of Thomson v. Larson and the statutory definition of joint work,” said Meg’s lawyer in a voice that reminded Meg of burning her tongue on boiled molasses. “As you’ll recall from the outcome of Thomson’s request for declaratory judgment establishing coauthorship of the Broadway musical Rent under the Copyright Act of 1976 . . .”
He droned on, and Meg took a swallow of water, then held the glass in her lap so she wouldn’t have to set it down on the maple side table. She wished she had a coaster and thought about asking for one, but maybe it didn’t matter at this point. Sylvia already hated her. A water ring on her furniture wouldn’t change that.
Against her better judgment, she dared a glance at Kyle. His face was pale and drawn, and he looked as ill as she felt. She took another sip of water and set the glass down, willing her hands to stop shaking.
The Midland family’s lawyer—Albert, was it?—was talking now, his words bearing a striking resemblance to the mysterious language Meg’s lawyer seemed to speak. Something about intellectual property and derivative works?
He paused for breath, and Meg’s attorney jumped in again. “In Childress v. Taylor, you’ll recall it was established that the claimant bears the burden of establishing each of the putative coauthors made independently copyrightable contributions to the work, and fully intended to be coauthors. I think we can all agree that Mr. Midland made a choice not to have his name appear in the credits for this book, and further—”
“I agree to no such thing!” Sylvia interrupted. She pointed a finger at Meg, and Meg had to fight the urge to bite off the tip. “I know my baby, and he would have wanted credit for his work. That woman took it upon herself to cut him out of the deal because she was jealous of his success as an artist.”
Meg shook her head, ready to argue, but Franklin put a hand out and signaled her to stop. Something told her the language of this conversation had shifted from “lawyer” to “human,” so she bit her tongue and let Franklin do the talking.
“Look, we can go around in circles all day about copyright law and coauthorship, but that’s not why we called this meeting today.” He cleared his throat and looked at Albert. “I think we’d all like to avoid going to trial if we can, would you agree?”
The other lawyer folded his arms over his chest and didn’t answer, his response neither an agreement nor a denial. Christ, is this what it would be like in a courtroom? Meg felt the walls closing in on her, and she wondered if Kyle had the same sensation of choking on his own thoughts.
Franklin continued, flipping the clasps on his briefcase as he spoke. “We brought with us today some irrefutable evidence that Mr. Midland did not wish to receive monetary compensation for his contribution to the book, and that he did not intend to be credited as a coauthor or contributor in this work.”
“What?” Sylvia sputtered. “That’s impossible.”
“It’s quite possible, I assure you. In fact, I believe you’ll see he saw the whole project as a frivolity. A joke. A creative endeavor he didn’t even pretend to take seriously.”
Meg swallowed hard as her eyes began to burn. She ordered herself not to cry, but she honestly couldn’t tell where the threat of tears was coming from. Anger? Sadness? Humiliation?
Maybe all of the above.
She saw Sylvia and Kyle and the other attorney straighten a little in their chairs, and she knew her lawyer’s words had gotten to them. She knew what was about to happen, and part of her wanted to stop it. She could put her hand on Franklin’s arm right now, tell him she’d changed her mind.
“Evidence?” The scoff was clear in Albert’s voice as he looked from Franklin to Sylvia and back again. “Do you intend to present it to us, or just wave it around as a threat until we get to court?”
Meg’s attorney sighed. “As I already explained, we’re hoping to avoid going to trial. We believe what we’ve brought with us here today will allow us to settle this whole matter out of court. My client has made a generous lump-sum offer, which you’ll see spelled out on the last page of the packet I handed you at the start of this meeting.”
“We’re not even going to discuss it until you show us what you have.” Albert gestured at the briefcase, then folded his arms over his chest. “Your move, counselor.”
“As you wish.”
Meg watched as Franklin reached into his briefcase and pulled out a plastic baggie. No one said a word as he held it up, displaying the cocktail napkin for everyone to see. She dared another glance at Kyle, who squinted at the baggie from across the room, confusion evident on his face.
Sylvia scowled. Franklin stood up and crossed the room to stand in front of her, his imposing height towering above her in a way that almost made Meg feel sorry for her former-future-mother-in-law.
“Mrs. Midland,” Franklin said, holding the baggie behind his back for a moment. “I’m very sorry for your loss.”
“Thank you.”
“I need to ask you—is this your son’s handwriting?”
He brought the baggie in front of her face, and Sylvia reached up to clutch the edges, holding it steady. Meg couldn’t see Sylvia’s face, which was a relief.
But she heard the gasp.
When Franklin drew the bag back, Sylvia’s cheeks had lost all their color. Her jaw was clenched and her eyes looked like granite.
“I can’t say for certain,” she said tightly, giving nothing away.
“But it does look like Matt’s writing?”
Sylvia gave a curt nod. “I suppose it might.”
Had she read all the words, or simply glanced at the handwriting? Meg wasn’t sure yet, but Sylvia’s stony expression told Meg she’d probably seen plenty.
Albert leaned forward, catching the edge of the baggie. His eyes skimmed the cocktail napkin, too, and Meg watched him digest the words. She’d committed them to memory already. She’d almost forgotten it existed at all until she’d held it in her hand the other night, its edges creased from two years folded inside that book of poetry.
Albert gave a snort of disgust, and her own lawyer drew the bag back and turned to look at Meg. A wave of shame washed through her, hot and sour. She closed her eyes, wishing she could be anyplace but here. She opened them again when Franklin’s voice broke through her thoughts.
“Ms. Delaney, Mrs. Midland, I apologize in advance for the language I’m about to use, but we’re all adults here.”
Across the room, Meg saw Kyle stiffen. She stared at him, willing him to look at her, to meet her gaze one last time before he read those words. His eyes swung to hers, and Meg drew a sharp breath. His gray-green gaze was cold and expressionless, and Meg took a shaky breath.
“What does it say?” Kyle folded his arms over his chest and tore his gaze from Meg’s. “Are you planning to read it aloud?”
Franklin gave her a questioning look. She nodded silent consent, then closed her eyes again. The room was still for a few beats. Then Franklin began to read.
“I, Matt Midland, agree to take photos for Meggipoo’s smutty cookbook,” he read. His voice went up on the word smutty, and Meg tried not to flinch. She could picture the words in her mind, the drunken blur of Matt’s handwriting on a stained napkin, the memory of crumpling those words into a ball and throwing them at him. You never take me seriously, she’d shouted. I’m a professional, too, dammit.
Franklin kept reading. “In exchange, Ms. Delaney will provide a minimum of twenty-five sloppy BJs between now and June 26. Signed, Matt ‘Big Bone’ Midland.”
The room was silent. Meg’s eyes were still closed, and she entertained a brief fantasy that everyone had stood up and left the room. That none of this was really happening—the h
umiliation, the shame, the ridiculousness of this whole case coming down to blowjobs and a goddamn cocktail napkin.
But as the silence drew out, she forced herself to open her eyes again. Everyone was staring at her. Meg heard her own heartbeat hammering in her ears, and she looked down at her hands as she wiped her palms on her jeans.
Her attorney was the first to speak. “I think it’s clear from this note that Mr. Midland was not inclined to take this project seriously. As you can see, the only compensation he requested was—”
“BJs?” Sylvia stared at Meg, then looked at Kyle. “I don’t know what those letters mean. Is that what I think it is?”
Kyle stared at his mother like he’d never seen her before. He nodded once, then looked away, his expression conveying nothing more.
It was the Midland family lawyer who came to his rescue. “I believe that’s slang terminology for fellatio,” he said to Sylvia, the tips of his ears glowing tomato-red as she frowned back at him. He turned to Franklin and cleared his throat. “If we’re to believe that note is authentic, it appears Mr. Midland was suggesting his photography skills could be purchased at a rate of twenty-five occurrences of oral stimulation, which is preposterous.”
“Preposterous?” Meg’s lawyer pounced, his eyes taking on a rabid gleam. “I can assure you the note is authentic, and furthermore, if you’ll refer to the case of Jones v. Jones referenced in your packet—”
“You can’t honestly think that would hold up in court?” Albert stood up, his eyes blazing like he wanted to take a swing at the other lawyer. “A cocktail napkin? A note that was most likely written by someone in a state of intoxication? An implication of prostitution and—”
“Even if you try to argue this isn’t a legally binding contract, the fact remains that Mr. Midland, by penning this particular missive, was indicating a general irreverence for the project, and for my client. I don’t think I need to remind you that—”
“Were the terms of the contract fulfilled?”
Kyle’s words hit Meg like a punch in the abdomen. Everyone stopped talking at once. Meg looked at Kyle and felt a surge of ice wash through her veins. He wasn’t avoiding her eyes now. He was staring at her, his gaze boring into her, drilling through her mind, her soul, her heart.