Page 17 of The Write Midlife

As they finished plating their dishes for Marco's inspection, Melody felt some of her anxiety easing. The familiar routine of cooking, combined with Hannah's unwavering support and practical wisdom, had helped clear her head.

"So," Hannah said as they cleaned their stations, "what's your game plan for handling the next meeting with Publishing's Hottest Bachelor?"

"God, don't call him that," Melody groaned, but she was thinking it through. "I guess... I show up prepared. Know my non-negotiables. But maybe also... stay open to suggestions that might enhance the recipe without changing its essence?"

“Yesssss. Now you're getting it. And if he tries to push too far?"

"Then I channel my inner Marco and tell him to respect the traditional methods?"

They both glanced at their instructor, who was currently lecturing a student about the proper way to tear basil leaves.His passionate gestures and serious expression made them burst into giggles.

"Exactly," Hannah said. "Just maybe with less Italian hand gestures."

As they packed up their leftovers, Melody felt lighter than she had all day. The situation with Nate was still complicated, still potentially disastrous, but somehow it felt more manageable now. Like a complex recipe broken down into manageable steps.

"Same time next week?" Hannah asked as they headed for their cars.

"Wouldn't miss it," Melody replied. "Though maybe next time we stick to cooking and leave the life crises at home?"

“Are you screwing with me? Hell, half the reason I come to these classes is for the therapy.” Hannah threw a wink as she slipped behind the wheel. “The pasta is just a bonus."

EIGHT

Nate pulled up to his parents'sprawling Seattle mansion, the gravel crunching under his tires. The house loomed before him, a monument to his father's success and, if he was honest, a constant reminder of the expectations weighing on his shoulders.

With a deep breath, he exited the car and made his way to the front door. Before he could even knock, it swung open to reveal his mother, Elizabeth Carlisle, looking elegant as ever in a casual yet undoubtedly designer outfit.

"Nathaniel," she smiled warmly, pulling him into a hug. "I was beginning to think you'd forgotten where we live."

He chuckled, returning the embrace. "Sorry, Mom. Work's been... interesting lately."

She raised an eyebrow, ushering him inside. "Interesting? Coming from you, that's practically a declaration of chaos. Come, tell me all about it over dinner."

They made their way to the dining room, where the table was set for two. Nate noticed the absence of his father's place setting and swallowed down a concoction of both relief and guilt.

"Dad working late again?" he asked, taking his seat.

His mom nodded, a shadow of something—possibly disappointment, or resignation—crossing her face. "You know your father. The company always comes first."

As they began their meal, his mom fixed him with her patented 'spill it' look. "So, this 'interesting' work. Does it have anything to do with your new role as an editor?"

Nate nearly choked on his wine. "How did you?—"

She waved a manicured hand. "I may not run the company, but I still have my sources. Now, tell me what's troubling you."

He exhaled, setting down his fork. "It's... complicated. I've been assigned to work with an author, Melody Archer. She's talented, Mom. Really talented. But Dad wants me to push her in a more commercial direction, and she's... resistant."

His mom's eyes lit up with interest. "Melody Archer? I've read her work. She has a unique voice, doesn't she? Reminds me of some of the authors we used to publish in the early days of Carlisle."

"What do you mean, 'used to publish'? What were the early days like?"

A wistful smile played on his mom's lips. "Oh, Nate. Carlisle Publishing wasn't always about bestseller lists and profit margins. Your grandfather started this company because he believed in the power of stories. He sought out authors with fresh perspectives, voices that challenged the status quo."

Nate struggled to reconcile this image with the corporate behemoth Carlisle had become. "What changed?"

His mom took a sip of her wine, her expression turning thoughtful. "Success, I suppose. As the company grew, so did the pressure to maintain that growth. Your father... he has a gift for business, but sometimes I fear he's lost sight of why we started this company in the first place."

Nate nodded, thinking of his father's laser focus on the bottom line. "He certainly has strong opinions on what makes a book 'marketable'."