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“So, free?”
“Exactly,” he replies with a wink. “So, what’s your first story, boss? Political scandal? Wall Street corruption?”
If only. Telling him I’m digging into the scandal of my past would have him hunting down Brian Bishop like a bloodhound, kicking down doors, and either giving him a piece of his mind or wrangling him into a headlock.
Rather than overcomplicate things, I flash a grin. “Let’s go with investigative.”
“Atta girl,” he says, his voice swelling with pride.
Mom’s voice echoes through the house like a dinner bell. “Bap meokja!” Translation: Let’s eat.
Dad jumps up, grabbing the bag of chips and disposing of the evidence into the trash with a guilty grin.
With his arm draped over my shoulders, we step outside, and the world shifts. The evening air is crisp, laced with the scent of pine and the hint of mountain laurel. It’s the kind of sanctuary that makes you forget there’s a city at all.
Out here, it’s nothing but green grass, towering trees, and the soft rustle of leaves. It’s like pure oxygen, a breath of fresh air that centers my soul.
We all take our seats as the Adirondacks rise majestically in the distance, the peaks bathed in the soft glow of the setting sun. In less than an hour, the light will vanish, but Mom’s already prepared. Half a dozen tea candles flicker around a small vase of wildflowers that Halmeoni likely gathered on her morning walk.
“I tried something new,” my grandmother announces, holding up a bottle of convenience store cologne. With a dramatic flourish, she spritzes it into the air, and we all burst intolaughter. It’s the kind that smells like a mix of Old Spice and too much aftershave.
Mom takes the bottle, slips on her reading glasses, and shakes her head with a smile and tsks. “This is for men.”
Happily, she nods. “I like it,” she insists, her chin lifting in defiance. “It reminds me of Harabeoji.”
Her words hit me with a wave of nostalgia. My grandfather, with one of us nestled in his arms, rocking in his chair as he hummed softly, his eyes fixed on the TV, watching anything from baseball to nature documentaries.
Halmeoni’s hand pats mine. “Juliana,jal hago ittda,” she says, her Korean wrapping around me like a warm blanket on a cold night. Translation:You’re doing well, Juliana.
I nod, forcing a smile, though the weight of her words barely loosens the knot of doubt in my chest. News of my new job has spread like wildfire.
When I first started as a waitress, she called me a manager-in-training, destined to run the place with charm and authority.
Now, as an entry-level writer still proving my worth and praying they don’t find a reason to fire me, she probably thinks I’m on the fast track to editor in chief.
“I’m just starting out,” I say, my voice meek and as small as I feel.
“You are a Sun,” she reminds me, her tone gentle but oh, so very firm. “Your grandpa would be so proud.” Her hand cups my cheek, and this time, a genuine smile lifts my lips, chasing away some of the doubt.
Mom, ever the realist, swallows a bite and adds, “We all start somewhere.”
Dad sips his beer, his voice carrying that familiar, militanttone. “All you need is hard work and direction. And a few hundred sit-ups,” he teases.
“And a name,” I murmur, feeling my shoulders slump under the weight of it all.
He arches a stern brow, his gaze cutting right through me. “Is there something wrong with Juliana Grace Spenser?”
I shake my head. “I mean a pen name. My editor sort of insists.”
“Ah,” he says, leaning back with a knowing nod. “The old Richard Bachman/Stephen King conundrum.”
Mom chimes in, shaking her head. “More like Marguerite Annie Johnson and Maya Angelou.”
Then Halmeoni jumps in, because of course she does. “Or Anne Rice and Howard Allen Frances O’Brien.” We all freeze, confused as hell.
Casually, she snags a wonton with her chopsticks. “It’s true. She was named after her father. But the second she got bullied at school, she switched it to Anne.” We all just stare at her, and she points her chopsticks at us, daring us to question her. “True story.”
I’m inclined to believe because Halmeoni’s insatiable love of vampire romance means she knows everything there is to know about Anne Rice.
