Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

In 1975, a girl walked into a large bullpen in one of the new buildings in Downtown Dallas. The office was crammed with rows and rows of white cubicles across a long stretch of yellow carpet, fluorescent lighting beaming down from the ceiling in a timeless illusion: regardless of the time of day, the office was always bright with its harsh, white light. The walls were adorned with creative, bombastic imagery and coloring, and the desks cluttered with typewriters, pen holders, papers, blotters, and ashtrays. The sign on the door read Ackerman Publishing.

The girl's face was framed by red, fiery hair, parted in the middle and billowing into a cloud of tiny, fluffy curls. It complemented her form-fitting, red turtleneck sweater, and with a white, knee-length, A-line skirt, the color contrast made her stand out among the neutrally-dressed workers typing away at their desks.

Almost immediately, her presence drew the attention of a young man. The orange, button-down shirt tucked into a pair of beige, bell-bottom pants accentuated his slender figure, only slightly obscured by a checkered jacket in a lighter shade of beige. His short, dark hair was slicked back but for an impressive forelock hanging over his forehead. With a yellow coffee mug in hand, he approached her.

"Hey there. May I help you?" he offered courteously.

The girl smiled politely. "Hello. I'm here for a job interview with Mr. Ackerman."

"Oh, you, you're here for the new secretary job," the man guessed, but before the girl could confirm, he corrected himself, "I'm sorry, I mean administrative assistant."

"That's right."

"Yeah, Frank's been looking for a while, but no luck," he said, then leaned in. In a conspiratorial tone, he added, "Trust me, he only looks intimidating, but it's all bark, no bite."

The girl's smile turned amused. "Are you aware that by claiming Mr. Ackerman is, in fact, not intimidating, you're psychologically setting up a person who's about to meet him for the first time to be intimidated?" she said self-assuredly, watching with satisfaction as alarm slowly crept onto the man's face.

"Oh, I was-- I wasn't trying to--"

"That's alright," she said airily, opening her handbag to retrieve a cigarette. "I'm not easily intimidated. Do you have a light?"

Momentarily transfixed, the man took a second to register the question before springing into action and reaching inside his jacket. "Uh, yeah. Here you go," he said, lighting the cigarette held between a pair of plump, red lips. Instantly, a cloud of smoke filled the space between them.

"So, are you new to Dallas?" the man tried to make conversation. "You don't have an accent."

"I've recently moved here from Oregon." The girl removed the cigarette from her mouth, the words coming out in a puff of smoke. "Neither do you." 

Confused, the man stammered, "N-neither do I, what?"

"Have an accent."

"Oh," he understood, "no. No, I'm actually from Ohio. Moved here a few years ago."

"Where in Ohio?"

"Well, it's a pretty small town, you may not know it. Marietta."

"Marietta is the oldest Ohio city. It was the first US settlement in the Northwest Territory, before it was even Ohio," the girl provided. "It was named after Marie Antoinette."

"Y-yeah," the man stammered again, impressed.

"Don't sell your hometown short." She winked.

"How did you know that?"

With merely an enigmatic smile for an answer, the girl handed over her cigarette. "I don't want to be late for my interview."

"Well, wait, you haven't told me your name."

"It's Lisa Hayes."

"I'm Norman McDowell. It's a pleasure to meet you," the man called after Andrea's departing form.

The corner office at Ackerman Publishing wasn't large, but what it lacked in space, it made up for in books. Shelf after shelf covered the walls of the room with an array of paperbacks and hardcovers alike, not all published in-house. From bestsellers to rare findings, from science fiction novels to autobiographies, from old to new, the variety was astounding. And when there was no more room on the shelves, books could be found on a wooden cabinet, on the table by the door, on Mr. Ackerman's desk.

Franklin J. Ackerman was a man in his late fifties with a balding head and a heavy figure. Born and raised in Dallas, he'd lived and breathed books since an early age. When he was a child, his father had owned a bookstore on Knox Street, which young Franklin would frequent after school and on days off to help with the workload. During moments of quiet, he would sneak off to a private corner of the store to immerse himself in the stories beckoning him from between the pages.

In 1958, Franklin had decided to turn his passion into his life's work. Taking out a loan, he'd invested the money in a small business aiming to publish the stories he wanted to see told. Thus Ackerman Publishing was established, beginning in a dusty basement with only a handful of hardworking employees and growing into one of the top publishing houses in the country with a personnel of dozens.

With seventeen years as president of the company under his belt, Franklin was a stern, no-nonsense man, who ruled his kingdom with an iron fist. Sitting behind his desk, he studied Andrea intently and disdainfully.

"Now, listen he-yah," he ordered in his heavy Texan drawl. "Aah don't lak slackers. A person who dudn’t wanna be here can very well see himself to the door."

"I'm very interested in this job, Mr. Ackerman," Andrea responded levelly. "I've always been engrossed by books, ever since I was a little girl, and the work you do here fascinates me."

"I know y'all's generation," Franklin claimed as if he hadn't heard a word, his upper lip curling in disdain. "All ya hippies care about is your cars 'n your disco 'n your 'dope.' Now, when aah was your age, aah already had a waf 'n a job. Aah had responsibility, ya understand?"

"Absolute--"

"Aah need in this company people who'll put en the hard work 'n keep it one of the best en the business."

"Mr. Ackerman," Andrea calmly cut in, "I assure you I'm a hard worker and I will take this job very seriously. I won't give you a reason to doubt me."

Studying her skeptically, Franklin cautiously relented, "Well, alright then."

"Well, alright," Andrea echoed in satisfaction.

Her job was mainly coordinating meetings, writing memos, and making coffee, but Andrea was content having something to keep her occupied.

The first few weeks as a new person were always the most jarring: adjusting to a new city, meeting new people, hearing her new alias spoken at her and having to respond. The person staring back at her in the mirror was once again a stranger with new clothes, a new hairstyle, and a newly-acquired sadness behind her eyes. This time, she knew, she'd left behind something far more precious than she had in Rome, in London, and even in Cincinnati.

For the first time, Andrea didn't possess the survival-based--and sometimes excitement-fueled--energy to start over, create a new character and a new life. She felt she was running on an empty tank, forcing herself out of bed each morning, returning drained in the afternoon. Her smiles were no longer genuine, her stride just a tad heavier. Time was passing in this new city, but Andrea could not seem to leave Paris.

She was an expert at pushing down feelings, wants, needs, but she'd been doing it for so long that, at last, it seemed so many had accumulated they were threatening to overflow. Andrea, however, could not find an outlet for them.

Her current goal was simple: to resume the course interrupted in Paris; to be an anonymous girl living a quiet life and avoiding drawing attention to herself. The mistake she'd made six years earlier by straying from that path had cost her more than she could afford to pay. It had left her with a gaping hole in her chest, the pain of its emptiness far worse than any physical blow could have inflicted. She couldn't repeat that mistake. Her every action had to be driven by the reminder that she was not like everybody else, that a person such as her was not allowed to form bonds, to open up, to deviate from a carefully laid-out plan. There was no other way--not if she wanted to keep her safety, and not if she wanted to maintain her sanity.

Her first day on the job brought her an unwelcome distraction.

"Remember me?" asked the man who'd stopped by her desk, just outside Mr. Ackerman's office, with a toothful smile.

"I sure do, Mr. McDowell," Andrea replied nonchalantly, fingers flying across the keys of her typewriter.

"Just Norman is fine," Norman corrected her and invited himself to perch on the edge of her desk. "So how's your first day treatin' ya?"

"Just fine, thank you."

"Made any friends yet?"

Halting her typing, Andrea looked up, calmly meeting his gaze. "I'm here to work."

Norman didn't seem to hear her. "I know a couple girls here go out for lunch regularly. I could speak to them if you'd like, have them invite you to go with 'em."

Andrea narrowed her eyes. "Now, why would I want you to do that?"

"Or you could eat with me," he continued. "Granted, I bring a sandwich from home and eat it at my desk, but I'm great company."

"As of now, you're merely a nuisance," Andrea quipped, going back to her typing. "I would like to get back to my work now, please."

"Alright, alright, so lunch is off the table," Norman deduced. "How 'bout dinner instead?"

"You just don't give up, do you?" She gave him a wry smile.

"Not when I see a beautiful girl." He leaned in, his own smile becoming smoldering.

"Does a simple 'no' not suffice?"

"Now, how can you say no to something you haven't tried?"

"I haven't tried shoving this pencil in my eye, but I know I probably won't like it."

"Oh, compared to that, dinner with me will be an absolute delight," Norman exclaimed. "Just imagine: candlelight, delicious food, the privilege of seeing me in my very best jacket."

"You're so very self-assured," Andrea observed. "How could any woman ever resist that charm?"

"I ask myself the same question every day." Norman nodded solemnly before allowing a cheeky grin to break out on his face. Andrea met it with her own unintentional one, then pursed her lips to conceal it.

"You may leave now, Mr. McDowell," she said.

Norman rose from her desk, but to her chagrin, he stayed put. "Well, as much as I enjoy standing here and flirting with you," he said, "I'm actually here for Frank."

Andrea was happy to crush his hopes. "Mr. Ackerman has a scheduled meeting with his editor-in-chief." But Norman's smugness, she noted, was only enhanced, forcing her to concede to the conclusion, "You're the editor-in-chief."

"Guilty." Norman's grin stretched insufferably wider across his face. "It was nice speaking to ya. I'm looking forward to our next interaction," he said before opening Franklin's door without waiting for Andrea's permission. "Frank, my man!"

Andrea shook her head and went back to her work. She could already tell that Norman McDowell was a distraction to avoid at all costs.

So, she didn't spend her lunch break getting to know new people, nor did she spend it at Norman's desk. In fact, her new job, like her last, provided her with the privilege of dedicating her daily breaks to doing what she loved most of all: reading. With a plethora of options at her fingertips, she gobbled up the different stories as if they were water to her parched soul.

Every available moment was spent escaping into a different world, the pages turning as if of their own volition. By the end of her first week, she'd finished rereading Gone with the Wind. Mrs. Dalloway took her all of one day. Next followed Fear of Flying, An Unsuitable Job for a Woman, Vanity Fair, I Know Why the Caged Bird Sings, and before a month was through, she'd consumed a dozen works of literature.

One day, Norman stopped at her desk with a new book. The yellow cover was wrinkled and torn at the edges, but the portrait of a 19th-century woman was clear, as well as the title: Middlemarch.

"What's this?" Andrea inquired.

"I noticed you like reading about strong female characters," Norman observed. "In my opinion, Dorothea Brooke is one of the most interesting and compelling characters there are. It was also written by a woman," he added. "In case you didn't know, George Eliot was the pen name of Mary Ann Evans, but she felt that a female-sounding name would prejudice her readers to expect a lighthearted romance, which was certainly not the nature of her works--"

"I know who George Eliot is," Andrea calmly interrupted, making him halt his speech and cede defeat. Remembering her manners, she offered him a pacifying smile and pulled the book toward her. "Thank you. This is very thoughtful of you."

"Yeah, well, it's no problem." Norman stuck his hands in his pockets. "This one is part of my personal collection. Just let me know what you thought when you finish it."

Watching him leave, Andrea moved the heavy book aside and refocused on her work, but that same evening, upon returning to her apartment, she curled up on the sofa and flipped open the first page.

Three days later, she paid a visit to Norman's desk.

"So quick?" Norman marveled. "This book has more than eight-hundred pages. Or did you just pretend to read it?"

"I'm not one for pretending," Andrea replied. "You were right: it's a beautiful story. I was gripped."

A wide grin lit up Norman's face. "I'm very happy to hear that."

"Thank you," Andrea said, setting the book on the desk, but Norman was quick to pick it up and hold it out to her.

"Oh, no, you don't have to give it back. Keep it. It's yours now."

"Oh, I couldn't possibly," Andrea courteously protested.

"I insist. Consider it a peace offering for the crude way I welcomed you here."

Considering, Andrea hid her smirk behind pursed lips before finally relenting and taking the book. Hugging it to her chest, she began walking away, when suddenly she stopped and turned around. Norman's smile was expectant.

"I'm still new to the city," she began. "Perhaps you could show me a nice place to eat lunch?"

Norman did, as well as the next day and the one that followed. For the duration of a week, it came to be, Andrea's lunch breaks were spent with him, enjoying street food and, surprisingly, his company. He wasn't as odious as Andrea had been quick to judge. Aside from the persistent flirtation, Norman turned out to be a fine conversation partner. She might have guessed a book editor would have the intellect and interest in literature she hadn't associated with him upon first glance. Their lunches, therefore, consisted of literary discussions. It steered them clear of unsafe topics and ensured Andrea never again had to expose the hidden parts of herself.

It wasn't a friendship, but an amicable fellowship. There was a difference: friendship meant opening up, sharing feelings and personal history, caring beyond the courteous human decency; a fellowship involved naught but sharing an interest or activity with another while none else was expected.

And yet, it filled a void inside Andrea she hadn't known it could. For the first time in months, she was able to breathe again, to laugh, to see beyond the thick darkness that had surrounded her since this latest move.

Norman and she had a good time conversing, sometimes joking, enriching each other's worlds with insights and food. But every so often, Norman would try to take it a step further.

"Why do you try so hard?" she asked him one afternoon on their way out of Dairy Queen. She was holding a pineapple sundae cup, he a Jack 'n Jill one.

"I like you," Norman said plainly. Then he added, "You intrigue me. Something about you... from the first moment I saw you, I knew you were different."

"Different how?"

"It's like you're not from this world. You act differently, you speak differently. You have a unique way of seeing things. You're not like any of the other girls I know."

"Maybe you've never tried to see those other girls as more than pieces of meat?" Andrea suggested.

"See? That's exactly what I mean," Norman pointed out. "You're hard on me. You don't let me get away with things. And I like that. You challenge me."

Stopping in the middle of the street, Andrea turned to face him. He was a good few inches taller than she was and so she had to raise her head to meet his eyes. "You don't want to get involved with me," she said solemnly. "I'm nothing but trouble."

"Now, why do you say that?"

"I'm broken, Norman. I'm a broken woman."

Slowly, Norman shook his head. "You're beautiful." And he leaned down and cupped her cheek, capturing her lips in his. Andrea let him, moving her lips in tandem, wrapping an arm around his neck. It wasn't until he pulled away in alarm that she realized there were tears rolling down her cheeks. "What's wrong?"

"I'm sorry," she rasped, lowering her hand to his chest. "I can't."

"Am I really such a bad kisser?" Norman asked with a lopsided grin.

Chuckling through her tears, Andrea shook her head. "I just really need a friend right now," she said without quite meaning to. Screw maintaining her sanity; she felt she was going insane nevertheless.

Taking a good, long look at her, Norman nodded at last. "I can do that."

"Really?"

"What the hell? A friend is better than nothing, right?" he said and added, "I've had some female friends before, I'll have you know."

Chuckling again, Andrea ran her hand up and down his chest. "It won't be awkward?"

"Because we kissed?"

"Because you want to do more than kissing," she stressed.

"What am I, fifteen?" Norman countered. "I can control my urges."

"I suppose we'll see about that," Andrea said cautiously, but for some reason, the tears did not abate.

"Hey." Norman's alarm grew, hands going to her shoulders. "What is it?"

"I'm sorry." She daintily wiped her nose with the backs of her fingers. If men still carried handkerchiefs, one would have come in very handy at that moment. "I don't make it a habit of crying with an audience."

"Hey," Norman said again, this time more jovially, and leaned back in mock-offense. "I'm not an audience. I'm a friend. We just established that."

"Right." Andrea gave him a smile, but it was sad and wobbly. "Oh, I feel so foolish."

"Now, now." He confidently put his arm around her shoulders. "Foolish is one thing you're not."

By the time she returned to her quiet, empty apartment, Andrea's crying had ceased, but the inexplicable sadness behind it persisted.

Her limbs, her motions, her entire body felt heavy as she carried herself to the sofa and plopped down, tossing her Julius Resnick handbag beside her. It fell on its side, the contents rattling within it, and her journal poked out. Absently, she pulled it the rest of the way out of the bag and untied the string binding it closed, flipping through the pages before stopping on a random one.

Her own handwriting greeted her, cursive and neat. She read the first line and felt her heart painfully clench. In the place where time stands still, the cover of nature and mellow sound of trickling water grant an illusion of endless possibilities.

"What are you writing?"

"Everything I see, so I won't forget this moment."

The tears didn't re-emerge, but the sadness grew and the void expanded, becoming all-consuming. Andrea wasn't one to indulge in self-pity--she was a woman of action, charging ahead without a backward glance--but in that moment, she allowed herself a moment of reflection on the unfairness of it all.

She thought about the love she had left behind, cut so abruptly and painfully it left her feeling as if a vital organ was missing, leaving only a pool of blood in its wake. She thought about the last three decades, of running and hiding, of taking everything life had to offer and at the same time never living it to the fullest. The future a young girl from Cincinnati had imagined for herself--and an entirely different path taken, so grand and full and unexpected, and all the same one she'd never asked for.

That young girl hadn't known that by being granted so many opportunities, she'd also lose so much. Her husband, her family, her friends. Those she didn't leave behind were bound to leave her too soon with naught but a fading memory; the rest she was destined to abandon nonplussed and questioning as she donned a new identity in an endless cycle that would repeat itself every decade for the rest of eternity.

In her mind's eye, images began to flash like an old movie, the film rolling to show her a long-forgotten childhood on a suburban street, afternoons spent in a quiet library; a wedding at an ancient church, and a funeral at the same one; a car crash and a bolt of lightning. A flight from men in suits on a rainy night.

And then also a beautiful car ride in a green, English countryside. Real gelato in Rome. The clear water around a Greek Island. Dancing in an Irish pub. Mount Fuji and the pyramids in Giza.

And Miriam. Parisian cafés and boutiques. Shared bicycle trips through the city. Hours and hours on a studio apartment's bed, flipping through magazines and listening to music. Lovemaking on cold, rainy nights. Lovemaking on warm, summery mornings. Hypnotic blue-green eyes, sharp cheekbones, and a streak of gray hair.

Flipping the pages of her journal until she arrived at an empty one, Andrea grabbed a pen. She stared at the blank, white page, bit her lip, took a deep breath, and then began writing.

Muriel Parker had always known she was extraordinary, truly like nobody else...

Word after word, line after line, paragraph after paragraph filled the pages. The story wrote itself, Andrea a mere vessel for it, but at last, she had found her outlet.

1976

The end of the work day provided a quiet atmosphere around the office for Andrea to delve back into her inner world. Franklin had left an hour prior, so there was no one to require her assistance, but throughout the day ideas had continuously accumulated in her head that she was too eager to endure the journey home before opening her journal and translating them into words. With her desk lamp shining a soft light on the pages, she filled them as swiftly as her wrist would allow.

"When will you tell me what it is you've been writing?" a voice interrupted her train of thought and made her lift her head, her red Farrah flick bouncing around her face. Holding his yellow, empty mug and leaning his hip against her desk, Norman smiled down at her.

"I wasn't aware there was anyone left at the office," Andrea said.

"I was under the same impression," agreed Norman, raising his mug. "I was on my way to top this up when I noticed your light. What are you still doing here? Frank's gone."

"I suppose I got carried away," she admitted.

"Doing what?" he drawled curiously, trying to sneak a peek at the journal. Andrea snapped it shut.

"I really should be on my way." She rose from her chair and picked up her bag, setting it on top of the journal as she sorted her desk after the day's activities. Satisfied with its appearance, she turned off the lamp and slid her arm into the bag's handles.

"You have a good night now," she pleasantly wished Norman and proceeded on her way out. She heard him return the sentiment behind her back, but by the time he called her name a few moments later, she was already out the door.

Her apartment building wasn't too far, but far enough to warrant a ride. However, on a nice weather such as that night's, Andrea elected to walk. She only got as far as two blocks away from the office when she stopped in her tracks. Opening her bag, her realization was verified: she'd forgotten her journal on her desk.

Andrea turned and walked back the two blocks she'd passed, entered the designated building, took the elevator up to Ackerman Publishing's floor, navigated the rows of white cubicles on the way to the corner office, and found her desk lamp turned back on and Norman sitting in her chair, reading from her journal.

"What are you doing?" she demanded, rushing to the desk to snatch the notebook from his hands. Norman, however, didn't look alarmed to have been caught in the act.

"Why are you a secretary?" he asked almost accusingly. "Sorry, administrative assistant."

"Excuse me?" Andrea frowned, nonplussed.

"Lisa, this is really good." He pointed enthusiastically at the journal. "How come in all the time we've known each other, you didn't tell me you were a writer?"

Andrea ignored his question. "This is personal." She tucked the journal safely in her bag. "What gives you the right to go through my things?"

"I wasn't trying to snoop. You forgot it on your desk. I tried calling after you, but you didn't hear--"

"So you decided to sit down and read from it instead?" Andrea angrily accused.

"Well..." Norman began awkwardly, but couldn't find a way to finish the sentence.

"I am a very private person, Norman," Andrea said. "And as my friend, you should have respected that. I thought you understood that."

"I did. I do. Listen, I--"

"Stay away from my personal belongings," she ordered. "My life is none of your business." Turning on her heel, she stormed out of the office, clutching her bag tightly against her body.

The next day, Norman showed up at her desk, bearing a gift. "I'm sorry."

Andrea took the mug from his hand. "The coffee is accepted."

"Come on," he huffed. "Do you always have to be so hard on me?" Andrea took a sip, meeting his gaze over the rim with an arched eyebrow.

"You were right," he relented. "It was wrong of me to touch the journal without your permission. I wasn't trying to invade your privacy. I was just curious."

Andrea relented as well. There was no point staying angry about something that had already been done. "Just promise you'll never do it again."

"I'll put up an electric fence around your desk myself," Norman joked, evoking an involuntary smile from her. He was the first person since Paris who had the ability to break through her walls, and as much as it scared her, there was a sort of comfort to it as well, brought on by the notion that she wasn't entirely alone in the world.

Back on safe ground, Norman asked, "So who's Muriel Parker?"

Andrea's smile was wiped off. "What?"

"From those stories you wrote."

"No one." She shook her head, the walls slowly re-erecting around her. "She's just a character I made up."

"She's a great character," Norman commented, bringing her eyes up to his. "Interesting. Complex. Funny." He smiled. "I didn't get a chance to read much, but from I did read, you got a pretty great story going. Have you ever thought about publishing?"

He must have been off his head. Just about out of hot water for violating Andrea's privacy, he seriously considered the notion of exposing it to the rest of the world? Andrea communicated her incredulity with a glare when he insisted, "I'm serious. Look where you are. This is your golden opportunity."

"What makes you certified to recognize a golden opportunity for me?"

"Oh, there she goes again. You might not see it, but I do. You're really good. Your writing is excellent: it's coherent, it's captivating, it's--" Cutting himself off almost frustratedly, he added, "I'm not saying that as a friend; it's literally my job to recognize talent."

"I'm not looking for affirmations. I'm well-aware of my own abilities," Andrea replied nonchalantly. "I simply don't feel a need to flaunt them."

"But why not?" His frustration became more evident. "Wouldn't you like to see your words printed?"

"What exactly would that grant me besides egocentric satisfaction?"

Falling back on his heels, Norman shrugged his shoulders. "Who says an ego is such a bad thing?"

Andrea remembered a girl who'd boasted about her talents, wanting to be famous for them; who'd refused to be anything but the best, truly believing she was. Her face sobered and Norman took it as a reaction to his words.

"Look," he began anew, planting his hands on her desk and leaning down, "let me set up a meeting with Frank. He can make you an offer, we can discuss everything. You'll get final say, you have my word."

"The answer is still no."

"Lisa, this is a foolish move. At least hear what we have to say. Trust me, I know what I'm talking about. I have experience, remember? People will want to read this story. Hell, I wanna read the story, which is how I know your book could make money for this company."

"Well, you should have led with that." Andrea allowed a sarcastic smile to expose her teeth. "It's all about money, isn't it?"

Sighing, Norman let his chin drop toward his chest before straightening back up. "Alright, forget the money. Think about George Eliot."

"What?" Andrea frowned, momentarily lost.

"What if she had decided not to publish her stories? What if Charlotte Brontë had said, 'ah, screw it?' What if Virginia Woolf had killed herself without anyone ever seeing her work? What if Louisa May Alcott hadn't fought for her success when you can so easily get it? Those women made history, and you can become one of them or you can be forgotten like most of the people in the world. You have a power not many people have: to change lives with your words. Just think of all the young girls who'll read your story and realize that it's okay to dream, to be strong and independent, and even to tell their own stories. You can do that for them, Lisa. You can make history. You're not like the rest of the world--I've told you that before, remember? So be different. Be like Muriel Parker--extraordinary."

When his speech was over, Andrea stared at Norman with narrowed eyes and the hint of a smile. She stared at him for a long moment before saying, "You really know how to throw a pitch, don't you? Is that what you do with all the writers you try to sign?"

Norman sighed, more heavily than before. "You're impossible," he said defeatedly, running a hand across his face.

"Set up the meeting," Andrea said, surprising him mid-motion. Pausing with his hand over one eye, he studied her face as if he couldn't decide whether she was yanking his chain.

"Are you serious?"

"I'm not promising anything," she emphasized. "But I'll hear what you have to say."

And so a meeting was set--Andrea fit it herself into Franklin's schedule--and later that week, four people settled around a long, pine desk in the office's conference room: Franklin, Norman, Andrea, and Lily, Norman's assistant, tasked with taking notes in light of Andrea's preoccupation. Franklin sat down heavily at the head of the table and asked, "So where's this author ya found?" To his right, Norman pointed at Andrea, sitting beside him. "Mah secretary?"

"Administrative assistant," they answered in unison.

"Since when do secretaries write books?" he scoffed.

"I've read it, Frank," Norman maintained. "It's very good. I think it has real potential."

By the skeptical look on his face, Franklin didn't appear convinced, but nevertheless he allowed, "Well, go ahead, what's the book about?"

Turning in his seat to fully face him, Norman began, "Well, if we play our cards right, I believe we have more than one book here. I'm thinking a series: four books spanning four decades in the life of our protagonist, Muriel Parker.

"Muriel is a teen living with her parents in their suburban home in early 1930s Indiana. Only child, standard middle class family life, but Muriel is dissatisfied, she wants more. Now, we need to remember that this isn't our time--the world was a lot less liberal back then, especially for a young girl. You got married, you had children, you became a housewife. Sure, women had the right to vote now, and some even went out and worked during the Great Depression, but this is still a girl who would not have had the freedom she would today.

"So, Muriel takes her life into her own hands and decides to be an agent of her own destiny, which is... remarkable. We're talking feminism in the '30s. Our female readership will go crazy. But not just that: this is an adventure story, a coming-of-age story. Muriel wants to go off and see the world, experience life to the fullest, and she does just that. Over the span of four decades, she visits different countries, experiences different cultures, makes connections with people she never would have otherwise met, falls in and out of love. She receives education, she gets to have professions, make her own money, her own homes. We're meeting here a heroine unlike any other we've known so far: a modern woman in unmodern times."

"Alright, aah've heard enough," Franklin stopped his impassioned speech. "This ain't gonna work."

Simultaneously, Norman and Andrea's heads whipped in his direction; even Lily, who'd been quietly jotting everything down, lifted her eyes from her notebook in bemusement.

"What do you mean, 'not gonna work?'" Norman frowned indignantly. "Were you listening? This is selling stuff."

"No, it's not," countered Franklin. "This is a very nice story, aah'll give ya that, but no one's gonna wanna read a story with a female protagonist."

"Oh, come on," Norman groaned. "It's the '70s, Frank. Get with the times."

From his other side, Andrea spoke for the first time, "Forget it. I knew this was a bad idea." She made to get up when Norman trapped her hand under his on the table.

"Frank," he said, "not only is this story gonna attract a hell of a lot of feminist readers, but it's gonna resonate with a much larger audience than maybe most of our books. Think of all the '50s kids who are gonna feel nostalgic for their childhood, and their parents, who'll get to re-experience the '30s. We get to grow up and age with Muriel. This is a story you, your children, and even your grandchildren can enjoy. There's not one demographic audience for it; it's every demographic."

"It's not about resonatin' with the story," Franklin explained. "Aah'm sure it's a very compellin' story. But male readers just wouldn't identify with a female lak they would with a man. Trust meh, aah bin' en this business long enough."

"Nonsense," decreed Norman. "I'm a thirty-six-year-old man and I have no problem experiencing this story from a woman's perspective."

Across the table, in a murmur, Lily supplied, "I rather like that the protagonist is female."

Ignoring her, Franklin stared contemplatively at Norman. "Do you believe en this story?"

"Wholeheartedly."

Sighing heavily, he tapped his fingers on the tabletop, thinking. "Alright, tell ya what." He pointed at Andrea. "Make the protagonist a man 'n we got a deal."

First, Andrea frowned. Then her featured smoothed out and her posture straightened. "Respectfully, Mr. Ackerman, I will not be doing that."

At her side, Norman licked his lips once and again before leaning closer and whispering, "Maybe you should consider--"

"The answer is no," she replied self-assuredly. "If you want these books, they will be told from Muriel's point of view, no other."

Silence presided over the room as the occupants reached a stalemate. Andrea was ready to get up and walk. Truthfully, Norman's enthusiasm, somewhere between his pitch to her and this meeting, had become infectious, perhaps even managed to get her hopes up at the notion of achieving something she'd never dared even imagine possible. But if she couldn't achieve it on her own terms, she would sleep just as well at night keeping her story in the deep recesses of her mind.

"Frank," Norman began anew, keeping his voice level, "let's take a chance here. I'm telling you, this could be a bestseller. I know what I'm talking about."

"'N if it's not? It's mah reputation. Mah head own the choppin' block."

"Then make it mine," he said. "If the first book flops, fire me."

"What?" Franklin and Andrea said simultaneously. Andrea added, "Norman."

Franklin's eyes narrowed. "Ya believe en it that much?"

"I do," Norman confirmed confidently, "and I believe in Lisa."

Falling into another thoughtful silence, Franklin turned to look at Andrea with a warning expression. "Will this git en the way of your work?"

"I'm well-adept at multitasking, Mr. Ackerman." Andrea smiled.

"Well, then," he concluded. "Aah suppose we should git the ball rollin'. We'll sign ya lak every other new author. Mind ya, pay isn't great, but ya'll git your fifteen minutes, aah suppose, if that's any consolation. That is if your book really is as good as Mr. McDowell he-yah claims it is--"

"Hold on," Andrea interrupted. "My fifteen minutes?"

"Well, you'll be touring with every new book released," Norman explained, "giving interviews on TV, the radio--"

"Absolutely not," she shut him down at once.

"'Scuse meh?" Franklin demanded.

"I was not aware this project would require my public appearance."

"If you're shy--" Norman said.

"I'm not shy, I'm just not interested in this kind of acknowledgement."

"Well, you know," he said, "a book's success is partly dependent on its press campaign. How will people know to buy it if we don't tell them to?"

Considering, Andrea said, "Then perhaps Mr. Ackerman was right and we should call the whole thing off."

Franklin appeared unperturbed by the idea, but Norman jumped. "Now, hold up, no need to get hasty. I'm sure we can find a solution that works out for everyone."

"You're welcome to, Mr. McDowell," she said smoothly. "You're the one eager to publish my story. So, if you want to sign me, I have my own conditions."

"'N what are they?" asked Franklin, his upper lip curling, as was typical of him. He was not accustomed to employees challenging him, much less female ones at that.

"I will sign with you so long as neither my face nor my name gets out there. I'm not interested in relinquishing my anonymity."

"You do realize that touring with these books will increase your pay," Norman tried to convince her, painting a gentle smile on her face.

"I'm not worried about the money."

"Your face we can do without," Franklin agreed dismissively. "But your name is gonna be own that cover, they-yur's none we can do 'bout that."

Clasping her hands atop the table, Andrea redirected her smile at him. "I would like to write under a pseudonym. Will that be amenable to you?"

His thick eyebrows drew together. "Well, aah guess," he gruffly relented.

"Which pseudonym did you have in mind?" Norman inquired.

Andrea answered, "A.L. Ambrose."

"Fine," Franklin drawled on a capitulating sigh.

"Fine?" Andrea sent Norman a challenging look.

"Fine," Norman relented as well.

"Great. Any more conditions?" Franklin asked irritably.

"That is all."

"Then aah suggest ya two git to work."

Andrea and Norman did. A few months later, the first draft of a manuscript lay between them on Norman's desk, typed sentences interspersed with red-inked notes.

"I gotta tell you," Norman said, "this novel reminds me why I like being an editor. This is one of the best stories I've read in recent years. It's fun, clever, witty, but also deep, heartfelt. I don't mind telling you, I shed a tear or two on page 204."

"That's nice to hear." Andrea smiled. "Especially after all the constructive criticism of the past few months. I really underestimated you as an editor."

"That'll teach you," he quipped, then continued to marvel. "And the historical details? How did you get them to feel so authentic? I was transformed back to the '30s and I wasn't even alive yet."

"Let's just say I did my research." Andrea's smile had turned enigmatic.

"Well, you did good. Oh, just one more note." Norman pushed the stack of papers closer to her, sobering. "Lose the part where she does it with a girl."

Andrea opened her mouth to object before closing it again. She was reminded of where she was, or rather where she wasn't and whom she wasn't with. Among the many meticulously suppressed aspects of hers, yet another one had tried to erupt through the fictional life of her character; it, too, would have to remain hidden. She knew not to push her luck.

Thankfully, Norman was quick to change the subject. "So, have you decided what you're gonna do with the money from the book?"

She'd already received her advance prior to commencing the project. Quite as Norman had implied, it didn't make a big difference, but she was lucky not to have to rely on it. Slipping the manuscript into her bag, she replied, "I like to invest my money. I'm a big believer in thinking about the future."

"That's smart," Norman said, impressed. "Also pretty risky. If you ever need advice or--"

"Thank you. I'm fairly capable of managing my own finances."

"Right." He snickered. "So what did you invest in?"

"Oh, some new computer company. Orange? Or, no, Apple."

"See? That's why you should have consulted me. You don't really think this PC business is gonna take off, do you?"

"Society's advancement can be quite surprising." Andrea smiled.

Norman rolled his eyes. "You're throwing your money away."

Two days later, the people of Dallas gathered in Old City Park for the Bicentennial celebrations. It was a monumental event for America, and no less significant for Andrea in particular. It was perhaps the first time the reality of her condition truly dawned on her with the notion that, in a hundred years' time, she would still be around for the Tricentennial, and long thereafter.

Immortality, despite being a very real aspect of her life, was still thought of in a mere conceptual manner, broken down into decades instead of as ongoing, endless eternity. It was easier to think of Lisa Hayes ceasing to exist after ten years and another commencing a new life elsewhere than it was to be bombarded with the terrifying notion that decade after decade after decade would keep on coming, and behind every new persona, Andrea would always remain.

While everyone around her celebrated, Andrea was overcome with a deep sense of despair, exhaustion, and fright.

On a Tuesday afternoon, Andrea held in her hands, for the first time, a paperback with the picture of a girl with shoulder-length, brunette waves and a backpack on the backdrop of a colorful European city. The title read The Adventures of Muriel Parker, and below it: A.L. AMBROSE.

An inexplicable sensation washed over her like a tidal wave, but instead of pushing her under, it elevated her. Staring at her own creation, printed in quantities for the masses, Andrea thought back on hours upon hours in a small library and teared up. At last, she had joined the ranks of the female authors she had admired growing up, who'd shaped her childhood and identity: the likes of Jane Austen, Louisa May Alcott, Charlotte and Emily Brontë, and now Andrea Sachs.

Norman had been right: an inflated ego wasn't so bad after all.

"Why did you choose the name A.L. Ambrose?" Norman inquired.

Discreetly blinking away her tears, Andrea tore her gaze away from the novel to look at him. "No particular reason." She shrugged, then watched as amusement lifted the corners of his lips, smiling back. "What's so funny?"

"Nothing." He chuckled, but then proceeded with, "Ah, Lisa Hayes... always hiding something."

Incrementally, Andrea's smile dissipated. "Excuse me?"

Studying her thoughtfully, Norman scratched at his chin. "You like being mysterious, don't you?"

"I wasn't aware that's what I was being," she lied.

"Don't worry. I'll figure you out some day."

"May I ask a question now?" she deflected.

"Go ahead."

"Why did you push so hard for me? For this book to be made?"

"I pushed as hard as I do for every author I believe in."

"Now who's being mysterious?" Andrea smirked.

Norman caught her gaze. "And because you looked like you needed it," he said solemnly, once more sobering her up. Breaking eye contact, she looked down at her own creation, the spark in Muriel's eye, and caressed it with her thumb.

"So how does the story end for Muriel?" Norman asked. "Does she ever go back to her normal life?"

Gaze unfocused, Andrea murmured, "I'd like to know the same thing."

That evening, in her quiet apartment, Andrea sat down at the empty dining table with a copy of her book. Flipping it open to the first page, she ran her fingers across the smooth surface of the crème paper, mostly blank but for the two words at the top: to m.p.

Uncapping a black fountain pen, she put it to the page.

My dearest Miriam,

The thought of you inspired me to tell this story. I wrote it with you in mind. Everything I do, I do with you in mind. The mental image of your eyes follows me wherever I go: it's in my thoughts, in my dreams, it's there every time I close my eyes and with every breath I take.

Sometimes, if I close my eyes and will my imagination steadfastly enough, I can picture you right here with me. I can hear your voice, smell your scent, feel your touch.

I hope you accept this gift as my heartfelt apology and find it in your heart to forgive me.

Love forever and always,
Andréa

Putting down the pen, she stared at the neat, cursive writing filling the page, the ink quickly drying on the paper.

With a sigh, she closed the book, rose to her feet, walked to the steamer trunk in the living room, and lowered to her knees. Slowly, she unlocked the trunk and lifted the lid, and the book she placed inside, on top of an old photo album. It disappeared out of sight as she brought the lid back down.

1977

"Any Thanksgiving plans?" Norman asked on their way from the elevator and through the countless cubicles on the floor. "Are you going to Oregon?"

"Oregon?" Andrea frowned.

"To visit your family."

"Oh. No. No Thanksgiving plans for me this year."

"You're kidding." Norman turned to look at her, aghast. "You're not just gonna stay home and spend the holiday by yourself, are you?"

"That was the plan," Andrea confirmed, then noticed the incomprehension in his countenance and chuckled. "Come on. Dry turkey, a mound of dirty dishes, and family quarrels? I'll live without them."

"You got a point," Norman conceded. "Though I'm sure your family quarrels are a lot classier than mine."

Gaze cast downward, Andrea felt a sad smile come onto her lips. She hadn't had a family quarrel in decades, and found she suddenly missed it a great deal. She would give anything to be able to feel annoyed at her parents one more time, to defend her choices or argue about theirs. More than anything, she longed for another hug, another look at her father's face, another whiff of her mother's perfume.

"Why don't you come home with me?" Norman said, making her head snap back up.

"What?"

He was quick to specify, "As a friend. Completely platonic, I promise."

But Andrea's mind had gone elsewhere. She imagined a plane landing in Ohio, then saw in her mind's eye another plane waiting on an empty lot, next to it men in suits and drenched trench coats; two threatening men calling her name over the sound of the rain; a last-minute escape from the trunk of a car and a barefoot run on a hard, wet asphalt.

"Lisa?"

Startled, Andrea quickly composed herself. "That's very thoughtful of you, but I must decline."

"Why? My parents will love you. Well, my mom. My dad doesn't love anyone."

"I'm sure I'll just intrude on your quality family time," she said evasively.

"Nonsense. If anything, you'll be doing me a great favor," Norman argued as they came to a stop by her desk.

"And how is that?" she asked skeptically.

"I have two older brothers, who are both married and have real jobs, as my old man puts it. Do you know what my family holidays look like?"

"And you want to bring me as a friend?" Andrea's skepticism grew, as well as her amusement.

"More as a human shield. If they focus on you, they'll forget what a great disappointment I am."

"Self-pity does not become you, Mr. McDowell," she said breezily and rounded her desk to take her seat.

"Oh, I'm not pitying myself. I'm pitying you," Norman picked a different approach, drawing laughter from her throat.

"Is that so?"

"Oh, yeah. I'm thinking about you missing out on my mom's apple and cranberry tart and it just, it just makes me wanna cry." Smiling, Andrea placed a sheet of carbon between two sheets of paper and fed them into her typewriter. "Come on. When will I ever have an easy time convincing you of something?"

Andrea considered. "Is the tart really that good?"

On November 24, for the first time in twenty-eight years, Andrea was back in Ohio. She'd expected to be seized as soon as she got off the plane, but to her surprise, there were no FBI agents waiting for her, no warrant for her arrest or photos of her on the walls of the airport. Nobody seemed to recognize her, or so much as spared a glance.

In no time, Norman and she were in the small town of Marietta, 230 miles outside of Cincinnati, where nobody knew Andrea Sachs and her story. It was a charming, little town along the Ohio River and bordering West Virginia. By November, the myriad of trees along the streets had donned earthy shades of red, orange, and yellow, their leaves blanketing the roads and sidewalks.

Mr. And Mrs. McDowell lived alone on a quiet, suburban street, their three children long gone. Mrs. McDowell welcomed Andrea in a kitchen apron, drawing her into a warm, tight hug, and exclaiming, "My, what a lovely dress!" Mr. McDowell was a more reserved man who appeared to be perpetually bitter ("If you really wanna piss him off, tell him that Vietnam was a mistake," Norman had mischievously advised).

Raymond, Norman's oldest brother, had arrived early from Cleveland, where he operated a law firm and where he'd fallen in love with and married his secretary, twelve years his junior. The middle child, Fred, had initially left the state but returned a few years later to work as a dentist in his hometown. He arrived with his stay-at-home wife and two sons shortly after Norman and Andrea.

"So how long have you been together?" Raymond asked at the dinner table, serving himself three spoonfuls of peas.

"We're not together," Andrea said at the same time Norman clarified, "We're just friends."

"Please," Raymond scoffed while Fred snickered. "Men and women can't just be friends."

"Maybe that's just because you can't control your dick, Raymond," Norman retorted.

"Norman!" Mr. McDowell scolded, his face scrunching in anger. His wife's scrunched in a plea.

"Can we please not ruin another family dinner?" she requested, but the two brothers merely smirked at each other.

"So how did you guys meet?" asked Fred.

"We work together," Andrea answered.

"In your little book job?" Raymond teased his brother again.

"It's a publishing house," Norman maintained through his teeth. "A very well-renowned publishing house. In fact, Lisa here is a very talented writer. She's already published two novels and she has two more on the way."

"Oh," Mrs. McDowell said, adopting a tone of awe, but to Andrea it sounded more patronizing, "how wonderfu--"

"What a waste of time," Mr. McDowell determined from the head of the table. Norman promptly deflated in his seat, his jaw clenching harder. "What good have books ever done? Why can't you get a real job?"

"Honey--" pleaded Mrs. McDowell.

"Be a lawyer or a doctor like your brothers?"

"Fred isn't a doctor, he's a dentist," Norman argued indignantly.

"Shut up," spat Fred. "It's just about the same."

"No, it's not," Raymond's wife snickered under her breath.

"Actually," Andrea interjected, gaining everyone's attention, "Norman is a fantastic editor. I couldn't do it without him."

It didn't seem to change anyone's opinion, but from her side, Norman sent her a grateful smile.

Andrea watched the scene around the table and understood what Norman had meant about family quarrels. She hadn't grown up with siblings, wasn't familiar with the competition and rivalry. But she recognized all too well the argument taking place.

When taking count of every face at the table, besides the two children, she was apparently the youngest. In actuality, Norman's parents had been born right around the time she was, perhaps even a few years later. They were of the same generation, the one born into a war and a pandemic, the one forced to survive a depression and serve in a second war. She remembered her own parents' disapproval of her affection for books, the deviation from the norm. Her generation had been taught to be wise and practical if it wanted to survive in the world, and in turn they had imparted those values to their children, the ones who'd gone on to become lawyers and doctors. From that perspective, the one she inherently shared with his parents, Andrea could see why they were disappointed with the less-than-stable path he'd chosen. In another life, she might have taken their side.

"So what's your book about?" Raymond asked.

"She's a girl," Fred interjected, "it's probably a love story."

"Not quite." Andrea smiled patiently.

"Just tell me you're not one of those nerds obsessed with science fiction like Normie here," said Raymond.

"Raymond," Mrs. McDowell admonished, "what did we say about calling your brother Normie?"

Raymond ignored her. "He's obsessed with that new Space Wars movie."

"STAR Wars," Norman corrected irritably.

"Ray, it's a good movie," Fred allowed.

Andrea and Norman shared a knowing smile. "No, Lisa here doesn't like Star Wars. It's beneath her."

"I never said it was beneath me," Andrea said levelly. "I simply don't get the hyperbole around it. I think there are higher forms of art to consume."

"Well," said Mr. McDowell, "perhaps you're smart after all."

By the time Andrea finished helping the rest of the women with the dishes, it was dark outside. She found Norman on the back porch. "So this is where you're hiding."

"I needed a break," Norman said and took a long drag of his cigarette. As she came closer, Andrea noted that it wasn't, in fact, a cigarette.

"Is that marijuana?"

Norman cast a sidelong glance her way before asking, "Are you gonna tell on me?"

"Tell on you?" she echoed, coming to join him on a vacant chair. "You have really got to stop letting your brothers make you feel like a child."

Nodding slowly, Norman took another drag. "Well?" Andrea said. "Are you going to make me beg?"

Understanding seemed to take a while to dawn, but when it did, Norman's eyebrows jumped up his forehead. "You want some?" he asked in surprise, holding up the joint.

Andrea leaned over and plucked it from between his fingers. "Where's that Thanksgiving sense of sharing?" she said lightly.

"Careful, it's stro--" Norman began, but watched with wide eyes as she inhaled long and deep, throwing her head back to slowly release the smoke into the chilly night air. Gradually, he settled back against his chair cushions. "Ah, so this isn't your first rodeo."

"You people think you invented everything."

"Who's 'you people?'"

"Nobody," Andrea chuckled, shaking her head.

"Well, don't Bogart me," Norman said, plucking the joint back. "Sorry about my family."

"Don't be. They're nice."

"For five minutes, maybe," he muttered and inhaled while Andrea watched him. When he'd released the smoke, he relented with a sigh, "Yeah, they're a good family. Sorry if my mom made you uncomfortable, though," he added.

"She didn't."

"Well, when she asked you what you were thankful for, you seemed a little taken aback."

Taking his proffered joint, Andrea's face fell. She brought it up to her mouth, then held it away, said, "I suppose I couldn't come up with something on the spot," and wrapped her lips around it.

"She shouldn't have pushed."

"It's alright."

"What's your family like?"

"Dead," replied Andrea and handed the joint back to a startled Norman.

"I'm sorry," he quietly said after regaining his composure.

"Don't be. It happens."

"May I ask how?"

"The usual: old age, illness. Nothing traumatic," Andrea said plainly, but in truth, the pain of losing her parents never eased, and she suspected it never would. Too young was she when she'd lost her father. When her mother had passed, she couldn't bury her herself, separated by an ocean in her final days.

"Well," Norman's voice sliced through her memories, "at least you can't disappoint them if they're dead."

Resting her head against the back of the chair, Andrea stared at his profile, her eyes softening. "They love you."

Norman chuckled to himself, but it lacked mirth. "They'd love me more if I was saving lives, not to mention getting married and having kids."

Straightening in her seat, Andrea's gaze became sharper. "How come a man your age isn't married?" she wondered.

Glaring, Norman said, "You sound like my dad."

"I wasn't implying there was something wrong with it. Just curious."

"Now you sound like my mom." Chuckling, she leaned over and playfully pushed back his forelock. "They won't say it outright, but I know they're worried."

"I can't imagine they'd have reason to be."

With a wry quirk of his lips, Norman made brief eye contact. "Do you think I haven't been called a queer or a faggot before?"

"Well, are you?"

"No. Are you?"

Andrea stared at him for a long moment. "So what is it?"

"You'd make fun of me if I told you."

"Try me."

"I haven't found the right one," he said simply and turned again to look at her, to gauge her reaction. Andrea wasn't laughing. "I know it's stupid, but I don't wanna just settle down. I want it to be with someone I really love, someone I want to spend the rest of my life with."

"That's not stupid," whispered Andrea. She stared at him, but before her she saw Miriam's face. Perhaps the drug was beginning to take effect.

"I've had girlfriends, I'll have you know," Norman clarified. "Some girls can't resist this charm."

"I never doubted that," she laughed. "But never something serious?"

Norman's face sobered at once, his eyes becoming evasive. "There was one." Andrea waited for him to continue, but he proceeded to reoccupy his mouth with the joint.

"It ended badly?" she gently prompted.

"The usual," he repeated her earlier words, attempting the same nonchalance. "Heartbreak."

The word "heartbreak," at once, triggered something inside Andrea. It had been two years and the pain still gripped her, wrapping around her heart and squeezing so hard she feared the muscle would rupture to shreds. At the same time, she felt like a complete phony for knowing that she had been the one to do the heart breaking, that for the vile thing she had done, she was the villain in this story.

Never in her many years of disguising had she felt so distant from herself. It was curious how back in Ohio, of all places, she found it hardest to find and reconnect with herself. She'd always been able to find something in her feigned identities to relate to; Lisa Hayes felt as artificial as a mere character in a play penned by someone else.

A large, significant part of Andrea had been left in Paris, not in the sense Elizabeth had been left in Rome and Grace in London, but in a way that had opened a gaping hole in Andrea's body. She felt she was losing herself, becoming a stranger with each passing day. The ability to tell the difference between real and imagined was waning, leaving Andrea with a dark, empty feeling that threatened to consume her from the inside out.

"You okay?" Norman's question sliced through her thoughts. "Thought I was supposed to be the sad one."

Andrea heard herself respond, "Ask me something about myself."

"What?" asked Norman, looking taken aback, not understanding her desperation to, for once, be honest, so she could remember a morsel of her true self.

"Ask me anything and I'll tell you the truth."

"Anything?" Norman's eyebrow rose, as if skeptical he would ever get the full truth out of her.

"Anything." Andrea closed her eyes and added on a sigh, "Please."

Smoking the last of his joint, Norman dropped it on the ground and stubbed it out with his shoe. Then he returned his gaze to Andrea. "Why are you so sad?"

Eyes slowly opening, they connected with his. Andrea's heart heaved, her breathing slowing down, as she took in Norman's solemn face. "What?"

"From the day I met you," he said quietly, "you've seemed like the saddest person I've ever seen."

Right on cue, her sadness proceeded to envelope Andrea, yet she managed to crack a half-smile. "Is that how you see me?"

"Am I wrong?"

Breaking eye contact, she let her head thump back against the chair, staring at the night sky and releasing a long, heavy breath. "No, you're not wrong." With another sigh, she added, "I wasn't always like this. I used to be happy. Really happy."

"Then what happened?"

Rolling her head aside, she met his intent gaze with a wry smile. "I broke someone's heart. And broke my own right along with it."

Looking thoughtful, almost concerned, Norman searched her face, lines subtly creasing his forehead. She knew which question came next: whose heart had she broken, and why? Things Andrea could not be honest about. But instead, all Norman asked was, "Do you have people, Lisa?"

His question caught Andrea off guard, painting a frown on her own face. "What do you mean?"

"I know I complain about my family, but at least I know I'll always have them in my corner. I have friends, too. I go on dates. It keeps me from sinking. You know what I'm talking about?"

Andrea knew. She recognized all too well the gray monster he was referring to, the one constantly looming in the corner and threatening to drag her into the terrifying depths in which it resided. But it was not something one discussed with others.

"I hope I'm one of them," Norman said when it was evident he wouldn't be getting an answer from her.

"One of whom?"

"The people you meet along the way. The ones who make a difference in your life."

"What?"

"From your story. It's about you, isn't it?" he ascertained. "Your dreams of breaking out of this normative life?"

Realization setting, Andrea merely smiled. She'd already answered one question honestly; she got a pass.

1978

The elevator doors opened and Norman strutted into the office in a brand new, brown suit, his forelock full and shiny as ever, his eyes bright as ever, and his smile hidden behind a thick mustache.

"Don't you look snazzy back from your vacation?" Andrea came toward him, then stopped. "Is that real?" she asked, trying to tug at the side of the mustache and getting her hand slapped away.

"Very much so," Norman replied haughtily and caressed the dark hairs with his finger.

"You look ridiculous," laughed Andrea, turning his smile into a frown as they commenced their navigation through the cubicles.

"I look handsome and manly," Norman argued, drawing his shoulders back. "You just don't understand style."

"Oh, I beg to differ," Andrea replied nonchalantly. "But you're no Tom Selleck."

"Tom Selleck wishes his mustache was as glorious as mine."

"Hey, Mr. McDowell," said a bypassing girl with a flirtatious smile. Norman continued staring after her, chiefly at her behind.

"Oh, you have got to be kidding me." Andrea rolled her eyes in amusement.

"What?" he feigned ignorance.

"This is just to attract girls?"

"I resent your accusation," he stated, then cleared his throat and readjusted his tie. "Besides... I no longer need to attract anyone."

"Is that so?" Andrea sent him a curious grin, getting the implication.

"I've been seeing someone."

"Since when?" she demanded enthusiastically.

"We met on vacation. Her name is Mary. She lives in Fort Worth."

"And?" she prompted.

Norman shrugged, but his face was flushed with pleasure. "We'll see how it goes." Then he stopped, just short of arriving at his desk, and said ever so casually, "She has a single brother, you know. We could introduce you two." At the silence that ensued, his gaze followed Andrea as she completed the journey to their destination and slowly turned toward him, leaning her hip against the desk. "What?"

"Are you trying to set me up?" Her eyebrow climbed up her forehead.

"I just thought..." Norman shrugged. "You've been single as long as I've known you. I thought you might be interested."

"I've been single by choice."

"I wasn't trying to--" he faltered. "I have no doubt you have men standing in line for you, Lisa Hayes." Andrea snickered. "But it could be fun, you know, to double date or..."

"Oh, my god." Andrea's eye roll, this time, was much more pronounced.

"Don't you want some... I mean, how long has it been since you..." Clearly struggling, the color slowly rising up his neck painted a smirk on Andrea's face.

"What?" she asked deceptively innocently. "Surely a man your age is not afraid to say the word. I won't tell."

"Sex," Norman blurted, the color darkening at his own audacity. "How long can you go without sex?"

"That is a highly inappropriate question to ask a woman," Andrea replied reproachfully.

"What--" His eyes widened. "You told me to--"

"I'm not looking for a relationship. I'm quite content being alone."

"Well, who's talking about a relationship? It's the '70s. You don't need to be married to... have some fun."

"What are you suggesting?" Andrea smirked again.

Coyly, Norman answered, "Why don't you practice some free love? It might put a smile on your face."

"Well," she breathed exaggeratedly. "Who knew you were such a liberal?"

"Oh, don't look at me like that. I was a wild one once upon a time." At Andrea's raised eyebrows and smirking lips, he asked, "Are you surprised?"

"A little," she admitted. "I wouldn't have pegged you for a hippie."

"Oh, you have no idea. Long hair, ragged clothes... the whole package. I just keep giving my parents reasons to be disappointed in me."

Giving him a sympathetic look, Andrea asked, "So what's changed?"

"I realized I had to mature if I wanted to make something of myself in this world. Didn't you?"

"I never fell for the hippie craze."

"Yeah, well... Now that's over. All that's left is my magnificent forelock."

"And what a forelock it is." Andrea's look turned jokingly smoldering.

"But my opinion on sex hasn't changed."

Withholding a reaction, Andrea asked, "Can we get to work?"

Realizing when to stop, Norman drew a breath and nodded. "Certainly." He rounded the desk to his chair. "One more book to go. Lots of work to do."

A bouncy, disco beat of electric guitars and drums blared through the speakers as Andrea entered the nightclub and scanned the crowd occupying the space, some letting loose on the dance floor, some having drinks at the bar, others making out.

Her steps were quick and sure as she approached a man standing alone at the bar, stirring his drink. He was young; white shirt tucked into high-waisted, black pants and left halfway unbuttoned; straight, brown hair combed to the side. He was attractive enough.

"Are you here alone?" Andrea asked in lieu of a greeting.

The man looked around, as if to ascertain she was indeed addressing him, before pointing at his chest. "Are you talking to me?"

"Do you see anyone else?"

"Uh, no-no-- I mean, yes, I'm-I'm alone."

"Would you like to take me home?" Andrea flashed a salacious smile, to which he responded by nearly spilling his drink.

Quickly recuperating, but for the wide eyes, the man emphatically replied, "Yeah!"

"Let's go," said Andrea and turned on her heel.

1979

Late at night, Andrea left a stranger's bed. As she hunted for her clothes in the dark room, a head of curly hairs peeked out from between the sheets. "Leaving so soon?" he asked.

Andrea paused with her blouse in her hand. "I should go home." She offered an empty smile and slipped her arms into the sleeves.

"You don't have to," the man suggested. "You could stay here."

"And do what?" Andrea inquired, planting one knee in the mattress to lean over him and snatch her skirt. The man stretched his naked body, revealing more of a hairy chest, and tried to touch her before she retreated.

"We could talk," he proposed.

Andrea smiled mirthfully as she zipped up the skirt, refraining from laughing in his face. It was surprising how many men, when given the opportunity to enjoy a one-time sexual endeavor with no commitment, were suddenly interested in something beyond. Andrea had developed a skill for letting them down easy. Sometimes she stayed the night, but she never came back for a second round, she didn't always leave satisfied, and she maintained one core rule: never give them hope for more.

A few decades earlier, a younger version of herself would have found her new hobby scandalous. Had she gotten over the initial shock and outrage, she would have been faced with a difficulty to comprehend Andrea's ability to draw a curtain between sex and feelings, to detach from feelings altogether.

After James, Andrea had thought she could never love again. After Miriam, she knew so with certainty.

"I don't believe we share a common language," she softly told the man.

"We don't have to talk, then," the man said and lifted the blanket from his naked body.

Leaning down to grab her purse from the nightstand, Andrea's face came within inches of his. "Let go," she whispered and moved away before he had a chance to steal a kiss.

"See something you like?"

"Yes," Andrea replied absentmindedly, lost in the artifact before her.

"Ah." The antique shop owner came to stand beside her. "This is a nice one. Came in a few weeks ago. Owner passed away; children cleared out his house, brought it here," he said about the intricately decorated, wooden mantel clock on the shelf. Its sides had clear windows, offering a view of the skeleton within, and the top was affixed with a detailed, brass carriage handle.

"I think I had something like this in my house growing up," Andrea quietly mused.

The shop owner cast a momentary, thoughtful glance at her before saying, "I can give you a discount on it."

As if snapping out of a stupor, Andrea tore her gaze away from the clock. "Well, I don't know what I'll do with an extra clock. I already have two. How many does one need to tell the time?"

"You could use it as an ornament," the owner suggested. "Not everything has to have a functional purpose."

Andrea turned to look once more at the clock, considering. Surely one more would not make a difference.

"Cheers."

"Cheers." Andrea smiled and clinked her glass against Norman's.

"To you, Lisa Hayes," he said. "It's been a pleasure working with you."

"Don't get all sentimental now," said Andrea with a glint in her eye. "I'm not going anywhere."

"Right," Norman allowed, unconvinced. "But it won't be the same. Unless you decide to write another book?"

"I think this story is finished. But who knows? Life is full of surprises."

"Well, then, here's to future surprises." He raised his glass.

"Here's to finally drinking," Andrea said impatiently and took a sip of her wine while Norman took one of his beer. Around them, the bar was vibrant with life, upbeat music and people's chatter filling up the space. Earlier that day, the fourth and final installment in the Adventures of Muriel Parker series had hit bookstores across the country; to mark the occasion, Norman had announced he was taking Andrea out to celebrate.

"How do you feel?" he asked.

"The truth?"

"Only."

"I hadn't known I could feel this good." With the soft hint of a smile, Norman studied Andrea carefully until it began to unnerve her. "What?"

"I knew you were something special the moment I saw you," he said thoughtfully. "But you've really exceeded my expectations."

"How so?"

"How not? Your talent, your intellect, your insight. Usually, I'm the one doing the teaching, but I found myself learning a lot from you."

His words landing sweetly in her heart, Andrea began to feel misty-eyed. "Well, if it weren't for you giving me the opportunity..." she said almost softly enough to be drowned out by the music. "Thank you for pushing for me. Even when I tried to push back."

Clinking their glasses again, they proceeded to drink in silence before Norman spoke again, "Can I ask a question?"

"Go ahead."

"Why didn't Muriel go back to her normal life?" he asked as if inquiring about a real person, eyebrows drawn together in curiosity. At once, Andrea felt the joy from moments ago be replaced with deep, heavy melancholy.

Setting her glass on the table between them, she turned it in place, watching the dark red liquid gently slosh inside. She focused on it for so long, the movement became almost hypnotic. She thought of her made-up character, choosing to go on living her adventurous life indefinitely. Having the choice. And she thought, as always, of Paris.

"Because once you leave," she heard her voice reply hollowly, "you can't ever go back. And life just keeps moving forward."

1980

The nursing home maintained a mid-century décor--perhaps to offer familiarity to its elderly occupants if Andrea read too much into it; perhaps simply for a lack of funds. A plush, brown carpet stretched from wall to wall in the sitting area, where the residents would convene daily to socialize and enjoy cultural activities. Yellow chairs and beige-and-brown, checkered armchairs were scattered across the room in groups of threes and fours to encourage interaction. Against walls lined with wooden panels was a myriad of paintings and potted plants to liven up the brownish space with vibrant color. A 1960s television stood on four wooden legs in the corner, but was overall ignored by the the residents. An Ink Spots song was softly playing in the background.

"Thank you for coming," said the nurse in the white uniform and white cap. "It's so important for the residents to experience human interaction. So many of them are alone in the world, their spouses gone, their children too busy with their own lives to visit. You can just see them light up when someone new comes in and sits with them, even for an hour. It affects their whole day."

"I think this will be just as beneficial for me," Andrea demurely said. "I wanted to feel helpful, feel that I was doing something good in the world."

"Well, you certainly are. We can never have too many volunteers. Why don't I introduce you to some of our residents?"

In order, Andrea got to meet Harold, a widower who welcomed her with a warm handshake and a great sense of humor; Norma, who never failed to maintain an elegant appearance, even in her seventies; Walter and Gladys, a married couple who did everything together, blessed with the privilege of growing old side by side; Helen, who could barely stay awake long enough to finish a conversation; Stanley, who constantly tried to rope people into a game of checkers.

"And who's that?" Andrea nodded toward a woman in a wheelchair. She was sitting quietly by the window, her gaze faraway. Her white hair was thin and wiry, her skin deeply lined with wrinkles.

"Oh, that's Ruth," the nurse informed Andrea, her voice as morose as if she'd just delivered extremely sad news. "She's been with us a long time. She has dementia and she's pretty far gone. Doesn't recognize anyone around her, barely able to talk." With a sigh and a sad smile, she added, "It's sad what old age does to people, isn't it?"

Andrea didn't respond; she was making her slow way toward the window and the woman gazing blankly out of it. "Hello," she gently greeted her, taking a seat before her. "How are you, Ruth? It's very nice to meet you."

Ruth's head turned fractionally in her direction, offering a brief, empty look before resuming its stare at the outside scenery. Andrea's smile didn't falter; it grew.

"My name is Andrea Sachs. I was born in Cincinnati, Ohio in 1910," she said, "and today is my 70th birthday."

"I have an offer for you," Norman said before taking a hearty bite of his burger. Around a mouthful, he continued, "And I know you like saying 'no' to everything I suggest, but hear me out first."

"Finish your bite first," Andrea admonished.

"Sorry," he said, putting down his burger to take a sip of coke. Andrea did the same. Then he began, "Jerry, as you know, has left."

"Mhm."

"So we're one editor short," he said meaningfully.

"I'm aware."

"How would you like to take his place?"

Andrea had brought her burger up to her mouth, but almost dropped it at the question. "Excuse me?"

"I want you to come and work in my division," Norman said without missing a beat. "I know you'll do great and I'm rarely wrong about people. I was right about your writing, wasn't I?"

"Norman, I'm not an editor."

"I'll teach you," he said easily.

"You make it sound so frivolous."

"So, what? You'll be a secretary the rest of your life?"

"Don't you mean administrative assistant?" Andrea lifted an eyebrow.

"No, I mean secretary," he said resolutely. "It's beneath you. You were destined for much greater things."

There was a certain allure to his offer, Andrea had to concede. To read books and express her opinions on them for a living? Who would have thought?

Growing up, Andrea had known she would spend her adult life making a home for a man who would provide for her--there had simply been no alternative. For one happy year, she'd done just that. And when that year had concluded and she was left to fend for herself, a global economic crisis had forced her--or granted her the opportunity--to roll up her sleeves and make her own money. Nevertheless, she'd never been able to take higher positions than clerical and secretarial. The other few that had been available for women--nurse, teacher--would have drawn too much attention.

It occurred to her that even as the world was progressing and loosening its restrictions on her, she had to keep restricting herself. She'd acquired education, she'd developed skills, and yet there was only so much she could do with them.

Norman's offer wouldn't require a public appearance or a high-profile presence among her peers, just as the opportunity to publish her own novels had managed to keep her anonymous. At the same time, she would finally have control of something. She would have a say, she would get richer fulfillment, she would even receive a slightly bigger paycheck.

It was about time, she thought, for a woman her age to stop making coffee and setting up appointments for a man and start calling the shots herself.

The more she considered it, the more enticing the notion sounded.

And yet, at another notion, she deflated. "Mr. Ackerman will never agree to this," she said, despondently picking up a fry.

"You leave Frank to me," Norman said confidently. "Question is, do you want the job or not?"

Andrea wasn't eavesdropping. Such an act was juvenile and beneath her. But perhaps she was paying slightly more attentive attention to the happenings behind Franklin's door than she otherwise would. The voices were muffled through the barrier and so it was difficult to make out the words they were saying, but it was clear by the tones that this was not an amicable conversation.

"Why can't you give her a chance?" Norman raised his voice in a heated moment. "She surprised you with the novels, didn't she?"

"A female author is not the same as a female editor." Franklin matched his tone.

"You weren't complaining about her gender when her books were being snatched off the shelves."

"If aah promote her, all the other women en the company are gonna wanna be promoted. Can ya imagine the chaos that'll cuz?"

"But she's not like other women."

"What does she know 'bout editin', anyway? That job is too hard fo-wah a missy to do. She's not intelligent enough. 'N she's a child!"

Franklin's argument came to a grinding halt when his office door opened and Andrea appeared behind it. His face was still red from his impassioned speech, but Andrea's was cool, collected. She wasn't fazed; she'd been hearing the same claims since childhood. But unlike when she was a child, she was now old enough, wise enough, and experienced enough to defend herself.

"I'm sorry to disturb your meeting," she began levelly, "but I'll have you know, Mr. Ackerman, that while I may be very young indeed, my intelligence doesn't fall short of anyone else's within this company. Nor does my experience. I'm a university graduate. I have passed literary courses--writing and analysis alike--all with distinction. I have read just as many, if not more books than you have in your lifetime, with all due respect. I have written four bestselling novels, which have made quite a lot of money for your company.

"My being your secretary, Mr. Ackerman, is a choice, but certainly not a necessity. Believe me when I say that I will do just as well in any other job. But I've chosen to work here for the spectacular name you have made for your company and for the chance to learn from you and the vast experience you have built over the years you've worked in this field. Given the opportunity to advance within this company and do something more worthwhile, I guarantee that together, we can make an even greater name for Ackerman Publishing."

Casting a brief glance away from Franklin's bewildered face, Andrea caught the twinkle in Norman's eye, as well as the broad grin that was equal parts surprised, impressed, and proud.

"I knew you had it in you," Norman said. "It was great seeing you finally stand up for what you want."

"You were right," Andrea allowed with laughing eyes. "Just this once. I can do much better, and life is too short not to go after what you want."

"You won't regret it, you'll see. You, Lisa, are gonna change the face of book publishing."

"I don't know about that. But I'm far more interested in enriching my own world."

"This job will do just that. Trust me. You're in the big kids' league now--enjoy it." Sharing a smile with Andrea, Norman sealed the conversation with, "Welcome to your new job," before walking away from her new desk.

1981

Engrossed in the new manuscript added to her workload, Andrea was busy adding her notes to see Norman approaching her cubicle. It wasn't until he stopped right beside her that she took him in: the slouched shoulders, the forlorn countenance, the clean-shaven face.

"Oh, no, what happened to the mustache? Just when I've gotten used to it."

"Whatever," Norman grumbled. "I'm no Tom Selleck."

Sympathetically, Andrea guessed, "Is it over with Mary?"

"At this point, I'll share a burial plot with you."

"At least you still have the forelock," she offered cheerfully.

Norman hmphed. "You sure you don't wanna marry me?"

Rolling her eyes affectionately, Andrea rose from her chair. "Come on."

"Where are we going?"

"Where I always go when I need to feel better about myself."

She drove them in silence, only a Queen song featuring David Bowie playing on the radio, until they came to a stop outside a villa surrounded by a beautifully-maintained garden of trees and rose bushes. At the entrance stood the sign Sunset Residence.

As they walked in, Andrea confident in the familiar surroundings, a perplexed Norman looked around at the elders filling the sitting room. Once the confusion had worn off, he jovially exclaimed, "So this is where you do your research."

Andrea chuckled. "I started volunteering here last year. There's a deep sense of fulfillment in doing something for your community."

"In other words, you think I'm a bad member of society," Norman surmised.

"I wouldn't dare to presume. Hello, Howard." She smiled brightly at a man sitting alone in front of the television; the man, in turn, grumbled irritably and shooed her away with a flick of his hand.

"Move. You're blocking the TV."

Howard had arrived at the nursing home some months back. He was only sixty-five, but his wife had recently passed and his health was declining, and so his children had decided it would be best for him to have around-the-clock assistance. It might have added to his disgruntled attitude, but Andrea suspected part of it was inherent in the man.

Ever since their first meeting, she'd noted his fixation on the past and the need to prove his generation was the only good one, the ones succeeding lazy, entitled, dumb, and overall inferior. He'd often belittle and complain about "you people" and "kids these days." "What do you know about diseases? I lived through the Influenza," he'd say. "You think Vietnam was bad? I was there for the Great War." Andrea would laugh in private. He was not nearly old enough to remember either. Back in her school days, her friends and she would pick on the younger kids' group to which he'd have belonged. What did he know about the Influenza and the Great War?

"Do you come here every day?" asked Norman.

"Once a week usually," Andrea answered while weaving their way through the people with soft greetings and gentle smiles. "But my being here makes me feel just as good as I'd like to believe it does them. How are you, Lillian?"

"Oh, I'm just fine, dear," said a quivery-voiced woman and took Andrea's hands between her boney ones. "And who's this handsome fella you brought with you today? Your boyfriend?" She lifted her thin eyebrows suggestively.

"No, darling, he's just a friend," Andrea said with a pleasant smile and patted her hands before moving along.

"I don't know," said Norman. "Old people make me nervous."

Andrea smiled inwardly. "You'll be one, too, one of these days."

Then an old, raspy voice called, "Andrea," and she froze. "Andrea," the voice repeated from beside the window, drawing Norman's attention. He craned his neck to see behind Andrea, where an expectant Ruth was clearly looking at her.

"Who's Andrea?" he asked blithely.

"Um..." Andrea barely let out, momentarily lost for words. Her chest tightened with dread as Norman looked between her and Ruth.

"Andrea, come sit with me," implored Ruth. "Tell me about Paris."

"Sounds like she's talking to you."

Norman's face was puzzled as Andrea finally came to her senses and approached the old woman in quick steps, resting her hands on her frail shoulders. "Oh, this is Ruth." She flashed two rows of white teeth in a smile and added in a whisper, "She's... not all there."

At once understanding, Norman nodded. "Ah."

Ruth looked up at him, her eyes shining fondly. "Are you Andrea's friend?"

"No, ma'am," he said, unnecessarily raising his voice while bending down to her level. "I'm Lisa's friend."

"Who's Lisa?" she asked in a small, shaky voice, trying to look back at Andrea with trepidation.

"No one, sweetheart," Andrea was quick to reassure before looking up at Norman. "She's just a bit delirious. She thinks I'm someone else."

Nodding again in a silent agreement for cooperation, Norman yelled again, "Well, then yes. I'm Andrea's friend."

Over the next two years, Andrea was as busy as she'd ever been editing books and in her free time volunteering. And then in the summer of 1984, something changed.

"We're gonna do the prime time workout," said Jane Fonda. "The next forty-five minutes is your time, just for you. It's your way of taking care of yourself. Stand with your feet wide apart, toes turned slightly out..."

Clad in a leotard over leggings like the women on the VHS tape, Andrea followed the instructions on her television screen, stretching her neck, exercising her shoulders, moving her hips.

On the other side of the apartment, the wall phone rang. Andrea ignored the intrusion, focusing her attention harder, until the shrill sound became unignorable.

"Hello," she said into the white receiver with a slightly panting breath.

"Hey, Lisa," said the voice on the other end of the line, "it's Norman."

"Oh, hello, Norman," she greeted him, leaning her back against the wall and twirling the cord around her finger.

"I have news," he said, sounding somewhat out of breath himself.

"I'm listening."

"It's not for the phone."

They met later that day at Rosita's Cafe, settling at a corner table with a plate of the best nachos in town between them.

"So what's the big news?" Andrea asked.

Norman, despite being the one to initiate the meeting, seemed hesitant to reveal his cards at the moment of truth. Andrea would soon discover why. "Harper & Row," he said simply, although he was visibly vibrating with excitement.

"What about them?"

Leaning back in his seat and puffing his chest, he stated, "You're looking at their new associate publisher."

Andrea blinked. "What?"

With a sheepish smile, the hesitation returned to his face. "I applied a while ago. They called me in for an interview and... remember when Linda and I went on vacation to New York?"

"Yes..."

Norman guiltily admitted, "I didn't actually go on vacation."

"Why didn't you tell me?" Andrea frowned.

He shrugged. "I didn't wanna say anything until I knew for certain. And now I do." A slow, broad smile lit up his face. "They want me, Lisa."

"But..." Andrea tried to match his smile, feeling equal parts elated and bittersweet for her friend. "What about Ackerman?"

"Ackerman is great. Really," he was quick to assure. "But it's not the end of the road for me. Harper & Row can offer me better opportunities to grow and advance, better pay," he added meaningfully.

Andrea's smile grew sadder still, her frown deepening. "So you're leaving?"

"I'm starting next month," he said proudly, taking her breath away.

"Wow," she exhaled. "That's so soon."

"But that's not the end of it."

"It isn't?"

Leaning across the table, he trapped her under his gaze. "I want you to come with me."

"What?" Andrea let out a startled laugh. "To New York?"

"Yeah! Come work with me there. With your résumé--your novels, the experience you gained here--they'll be lucky to have you. I'll be lucky to have you. You'll see, in a few years' time, I could make you editorial manager."

His enthusiasm was almost strong enough to infect Andrea. But she already knew where she was headed, and it wasn't New York. Her decade as Lisa Hayes was coming to an end. Changing hairstyles, makeup, and clothing fashion had aided in the gradual transformation from the appearance of a girl in her early twenties to that of a woman ten years older, but keeping the same company for any longer would begin to arouse suspicion, just as it had all those years ago in Cincinnati.

It was an old routine by now, and just like Norman, she was ready for her next chapter, to start over as a new person with a clean slate. She knew that it didn't matter if he stayed or left; once the year was through, she would never see him again.

"I appreciate the offer," she said. "I really do."

"But it's another 'no' from Lisa Hayes." Norman smiled bittersweetly, not looking too surprised.

"I think this is where our paths diverge," she said softly.

"There's Times Square." He raised his eyebrows hopefully, although it was apparent he knew any attempt at convincing her would be futile. "I could take you to see Broadway shows. Have you ever been to the Twin Towers? Tallest in America and only five minutes away from my building. Where's your sense of adventure?"

"I'm not very adventurous." Andrea smirked.

They stayed at their table long after their food was gone, talking, laughing, refusing to part ways just yet.

A month later, Norman cleared his office desk at Ackerman Publishing. Andrea stood beside it, staring wistfully at the empty surface.

"Are you sad?" Norman asked, a hint of surprise creeping into his tone. His surprise surprised Andrea.

"Aren't I allowed to be?"

"We'll stay in touch, don't worry. Phones exist," he reminded her. She knew he fully meant it, but she also knew it would never come to pass. This would be her last interaction with Norman, and in a short while, Lisa Hayes would be gone from the world.

Perhaps that was an equal factor in her sadness. She'd begun her decade in Dallas broken, shattered, uninterested in going on. Today, she was an accomplished editor, a bestselling author, and she'd made a wonderful friend who, throughout the course of the decade, had reminded and proven to her that life was worth living. Andrea would miss him terribly.

"It's thanks to you, you know," Norman said, bringing her out of her own head.

"What is?" She blinked.

"If not for everything you've taught me, I would never have had the courage to take this risk."

Astonished by his claim, Andrea asked, "What have I taught you?"

"That life is full of surprises." He winked. "You never know what's around the corner."

Feeling her eyes begin to sting, Andrea mirrored his smile with a wobbly one of her own. "I'm going to miss you."

He didn't answer her with words. Instead, she found herself enveloped in his warm embrace, remembering their first one many years before, remembering how hesitant she'd been to let him in, and how his persistence had ended up saving her. She hugged him tighter.

"This is not the end of us," he said when they'd parted, and his statement held enough conviction that Andrea was almost compelled to believe him. "And for you, it's only just the beginning. I know I'll be seeing your name in the future. You're the light that never dims, Lisa Hayes. Promise me you'll dedicate your next book to me?"

"You got it," Andrea whispered, too choked up to raise her voice.

She proceeded to watch him pick up his cardboard box from the desk and take one last look around him. And then he was walking away.

"Norman," she called after him, making him stop and turn around. "You were."

Confusion was etched into his features when he replied, "I was what?"

"One of the people who made a difference in my life."

The confusion gradually cleared the way for a warm smile, and even from a distance, Andrea thought she could see his eyes shining as well.

Norman McDowell left Dallas in the summer of 1984. Andrea was quick to follow his example.

In December of the same year, she stood before her dining table. The surface was covered in various papers, and around it most of the apartment had been packed into cardboard boxes. From the edge of the table, Andrea picked up her new driver's license. The face in the bottom left corner was familiar, but everything else would take some getting used to. She stared hard at the information typed out in small, black letters, trying to familiarize herself with it.

It wasn't long now. Wasn't long before Lisa Hayes was gone and Sophia Bennett took her place. A new start, a new life, and for once, Andrea was excited to see what the future held for her.