Page 100 of In Sheets of Rain

The surgeon made his farewell to the opposition and walked towards us.

“Get ready,” Michael said.

“For what?” I whispered back.

“For his story.” He glanced down at me and added, “We’ve all got a story, Trolley Girl, we just have to be brave enough to tell it.”

“And find the right audience,” I muttered, then greeted the surgeon warmly.

His story was about hens.

I hadn’t seen that coming.

But he told it, and I listened, and then we talked about my products. And when he left, I had a new appreciation for silkies and an appointment to see him on Monday.

“Well done,” Michael said. “Your first contact made at a cardiac conference.”

I smiled. My cheeks spreading so wide they actually hurt.

“You know your audience,” Michael said softly from beside me. “You know what they want. Now,” he said, leaning closer, “write that book.”

I stared up at him as he stared down at me.

Write that book.

I nodded my head, and he winked at me.

I fell asleep that night dreaming about blue eyes and laugh lines and a man who wears a suit and burgundy tie and winks at me.