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“Yeah. My sister had given up on more babies after Jeremy. She had three miscarriages in as many years. Then came Phillip.” I chuckle. “Total shock. He and Jeremey are about as opposite as you can imagine. They’re both great kids. Just different.”

“Sounds like me and my sister,” Brooklyn says.

“How so?”

“Just what I said before, she’s settled and happily so. I’m still trying to figure me out. If I’m honest, it bugs the hell out of me sometimes. My younger sister has it all together. Me? I’m organizing other people’s work because I can’t figure out what to do about mine.”

“Is that your chaos?” I ask.

“Probably,” Brooklyn concedes.

“What do you want to do?”

“That’s my problem, Carter. I don’t know. I want to be a journalist. I feel like every assignment I’ve gotten, any place I’ve worked is frivolous. It’s like I’m writing for entertainment instead of information. It’s simple. It’s not what I want to do.”

“The devil’s compromise.”

“What?” she asks.

“I call it the devil’s compromise.”

“This ought to be interesting.”

“I don’t know if it’s interesting, it’s more like an observation from my experience.”

“Uh-huh. So, what exactly is this devil’s compromise?” she asks.

“I like to write fantasy. Elaborate fantasy. Long stories that go on for volumes. But those take years to write. They also cost a lot to publish without any guarantee they’ll sell. So, I have to work on stories that take me away from my passion projects. It pays the bills. It’s what my publisher wants, and what my readers request. I have to believe one day the compromise will pay off.”

“And you’ll put your passion into print,” Brooklyn says.

“Yes.”

“I hear you. I just wonder how much I’m willing to compromise.”

“That’s always the question, isn’t it?”

I don’t think I’ve seen Brooklyn frown. Until now.

She groans. “My father thinks I should do one of two things: get married and have babies or get a job in a company that offers a great 401k. Actually, make that three things. He’d be happiest if I did both. Happier still if I would not express my political opinions at the dinner table—or, well, ever.”

I nod. “Don’t feel bad. My dad would’ve preferred I write political speeches rather than stories about elves, goblins, and the occasional alien. Unless, of course, I was writing about immigration policy.”

Brooklyn laughs. “He’s a political wonk, huh?”

“He was. Let’s put it this way, he named me after Jimmy Carter.”

“You’re joking.”

“Oh, no. I’m not. My parents wanted a unisex name. My dad wanted Kennedy—you know, the first Irish-Catholic president and all.”

Brooklyn leans forward with interest.

“My mother put the kibosh on that idea. If I had been a boy, she was not going to have a son named after the United States’ most infamous philanderer.”

“Now, you are joking.”

“Nope. I’m not. I was born December 13, 1974, the day Jimmy Carter announced his presidential candidacy. My dad was a submariner and a Democrat. If he couldn’t have Kennedy, Carter would have to do. Call it the devil’s compromise. My mother agreed.”