“I’ve read my share of memoirs. Some are formulistic and dry. Your lack of experience interests me because I’ve found that the less experienced individual relies more upon their passion. It’s that inner drive that pushes them forward. Mistakes may or may not be made, but those are usually in the mechanics, easily fixable. Over time that passion tends to lessen. The finished products become more cookie cutter. Insert information here and there. That isn’t what I want for this project. I’m attracted to your passion, Julia.”
I sucked in a breath, still unsure about the blurred line between the memoir and sex.
Van went on, “You accepted my offer. And for the record, I don’t anticipate being unhappy with your performance—”
“Writing performance,” I clarified.
He smirked. “Yes, that is what we’re discussing, right?”
“Right.”
“If I’m unsatisfied in any way or you are, together we’ll work it out, simple mechanics. As a point of interest, your manuscript will not only need to be approved by me, but it will also need to go through a vetting process with my legal team.”
“Why?”
“It’s nothing about your writing. It’s the content. I’ve been involved in many ventures that if mentioned in our conversations should not be part of the final manuscript. If those matters are mentioned, the legal team will redact them from your work.”
I wasn’t certain how to respond.
Instead, I turned back to the large living room we’d traversed on our way to the windows.
While the furnishings were stunning, it was the grand piano that first caught my eye. Walking toward it, I gently ran my fingers over the ivory keys, not applying enough pressure to sound even one note. When I looked up, Van was looking at me with an unreadable expression.
“Do you play?” I asked.
“I used to. Do you?”
A bashful smile came to my lips. “It’s been a while. I was never that good.”
“I’m not used to having others around, but if playing this piano will help you think and thinking will change your answer to my proposal, then by all means, you’re welcome to play. I have it tuned yearly.” He leaned down as his large fingers splayed over the keys, rounding to the perfect position and began to play.
The room filled with a sad melody. Music rang out as within the piano, small hammers struck their corresponding strings, sending the tune reverberating through the open room. I was enthralled by the way Van’s hands moved, effortlessly flying over the keys. The tune only lasted a few seconds. He’d only played a few bars and still, I recognized the complicated piece.
“Beethoven,” I said, my mouth still opened with awe.
“You have a good ear. ‘Moonlight Sonata.’”
“That was amazing. Why did you say you no longer play?”
“The answer to that question very well could be an example of what is not to be exposed in my memoir.” Van reached for the cover and pulled it down over the keys. “You’re welcome to play this piano whenever you want.”
“My ability is nothing compared to yours. Maybe listening to you play will help me think.”
“I’ll give you the Wi-Fi information. Feel free to stream any music you desire.”
Mentally I was making a list of the things I wanted to learn about Donovan Sherman. That list was growing by the second.
“Let me show you to your suite.”
As we began walking toward the front staircase, Van said, “I wasn’t planning on the job applicant living in my home. I never intended to have contact with the writer. I have notes and files. It was my plan to share the information and then allow the writer to pen the compilation.”
“What? The ad said to live on-site.”
“When deciding to begin this endeavor, I’d anticipatedon-siteto mean on my property. You asked how much land I have. It’s a little over seventy acres.” He took a deep breath. “You, Julia McGrath, have other attributes besides the writing of the memoir. In a rather selfish decision, I changed my plans, deciding I wanted you closer. However, in all fairness, if you have any misgivings about living here with me, there’s a guesthouse on my property not far away, and then also...” —he grinned— “well, you remember the cabin.”
My cheeks rose. “Yes, I remember the cabin. I also remember that it doesn’t have electricity. That would make charging my laptop difficult.”
“I’ll show you your suite. When I had this house refurbished, I did so with the idea that each suite was self-contained with a sitting room, bedroom, and en suite bathroom.” He pointed to the ceiling at least fifteen feet above. “Mine is upstairs closest to the garages. I’ll show you to the one at the farthest end of the south wing. Next to mine, it has the best view of the bay.”