Page 39 of Now That It’s You (The Can’t Have Hearts Club #5)
“Yes, well, we’re all here now.” His mom swung the door wide open. “I’ll grab some refreshments and we can wait for Albert to arrive. Kyle? Would you mind showing them to the study?”
Kyle swallowed, his gaze flicking back to Meg’s. He shouldn’t be here. Maybe he could still make an escape. “Actually, Mom, I was just about to leave. Sounds like you’ve got some personal stuff to deal with, and you don’t need me in the middle of it.”
A look of intense relief washed over Meg’s face, and he felt glad he’d been the one to put it there. Her lawyer nodded in agreement. “Certainly some of the details we’ll be discussing are of a rather— intimate nature. It’s best if we confine the discussion to only the parties involved in the case.
The word intimate prickled the back of Kyle’s brain, and he gripped his keys tighter in his palm. They felt different without the keychain, unfamiliar and less weighty.
“Kyle, sweetheart, I’d like you to stay.
” He turned toward his mother’s voice and saw her standing at the entrance of the kitchen, her hands twisting in her skirt.
She looked unusually small, and her face was pale from four weeks of crying.
He wanted to wrap her up in his arms and make the hurt go away, to pay her back for all the times she’d kissed his skinned knees and tucked twenty-dollar bills into thinking-of-you cards when he was struggling to make it as an artist.
The look she gave him nearly split his heart in two. “Your father can’t be here, and I’d like another member of the family on my side. Please?”
Kyle swallowed hard, then nodded. “Okay, Mom.” He fought to keep his eyes off Meg, certain he didn’t want to see disappointment on her face. He knew she didn’t want him there any more than he wanted to be there, but he owed it to his mother.
He owed it to Matt.
“Okay,” he said again, turning to lead the way down the hall. “I’ll stay.”
The air in the parlor felt too thick to breathe.
Meg gripped her water glass and looked at her attorney, struggling not to glance at Kyle.
Staring at Franklin felt safe, albeit nerve-wracking.
Her attorney was terrifying, with steel-colored hair and a charcoal suit that looked like it cost more than she made in a year.
More than you used to make in a year, she reminded herself. You’re a bestselling author now. You won’t be digging quarters out of the sofa to pay the phone bill.
She couldn’t bear to look at Kyle. If she saw his face, odds were good she’d leap from this stiff maple chair and hurl herself into his arms, yelling at everyone that they should just call this whole thing off.
But she couldn’t do that. Coming here today, saying the things she was prepared to say—this was about standing up for herself. Not just as a professional, but as an artist, as a woman .
Beside her, Franklin yammered on about oral contracts and the statute of limitations using words that went flying over her head.
The Midlands’ lawyer was yammering back, and she tried hard to focus on their words.
Something about inseparable parts of a unitary whole?
It would almost sound romantic if both men didn’t look like they were on the brink of throwing their briefcases at each other. Or at her.
Meg dared a glance at Sylvia, who sat stiffly between her lawyer and Kyle, her hands folded in her lap. She didn’t meet Meg’s eyes. Neither did Kyle, who stared with rapt attention at the lawyers. Meg did the same, commanding herself to pay better attention. This was her life, for crying out loud.
“I know you’re familiar with the details of Thomson v.
Larson and the statutory definition of joint work ,” said Meg’s lawyer in a voice that reminded Meg of burning her tongue on boiled molasses.
“As you’ll recall from the outcome of Thomson’s request for declaratory judgment establishing co-authorship of the Broadway musical Rent under the Copyright Act of 1976. .. ”
He droned on, and Meg took a swallow of water, then held the glass in her lap so she wouldn’t have to set it down on the maple side table.
She wished she had a coaster and thought about asking for one, but maybe it didn’t matter at this point.
Sylvia already hated her. A water ring on her furniture wouldn’t change that.
Against her better judgment, she dared a glance at Kyle. His face looked pale and drawn, like he felt as ill as she did. She took another sip of water and set the glass down, willing her hands to stop shaking.
The Midland family’s lawyer—Albert, was it?—had started talking, his words obnoxiously similar to the mysterious language Meg’s lawyer seemed to speak. Something about intellectual property and derivative works?
He paused for breath, and Meg’s attorney jumped in again.
“In Childress v. Taylor, you’ll recall it was established that the claimant bears the burden of establishing each of the putative co-authors made independently copyrightable contributions to the work, and fully intended to be co-authors.
I think we can all agree that Mr. Midland made a choice not to have his name appear in the credits for this book, and further?—”
“I agree to no such thing!” Sylvia interrupted. She pointed a finger at Meg, and Meg had the urge to bite off the tip. “I know my baby, and he would have wanted credit for his work. That woman took it upon herself to cut him out of the deal because she was jealous of his success as an artist.”
Meg shook her head, ready to argue, but Franklin put a hand out and signaled her to stop. Something told her the language of this conversation had shifted from “lawyer” to “human,” so she bit her tongue and let Franklin do the talking.
“Look, we can go around in circles all day about copyright law and co-authorship, but that’s not why we called this meeting today.” He cleared his throat and looked at Albert. “I think we’d all like to avoid going to trial if we can, would you agree?”
The other lawyer folded his arms over his chest and didn’t answer, his response neither an agreement nor a denial. Christ, is this what it would be like in a courtroom? Meg felt the walls closing in on her, and she wondered if Kyle had the same sensation of choking on his own thoughts.
Franklin continued, flipping the clasps on his briefcase as he spoke.
“We brought with us today some irrefutable evidence that Mr. Midland did not wish to receive monetary compensation for his contribution to the book, and that he did not intend to be credited as a co-author or contributor in this work.”
“What?” Sylvia sputtered. “That’s impossible.”
“It’s quite possible, I assure you. In fact, I believe you’ll see he saw the whole project as a frivolity. A joke. A creative endeavor he didn’t even pretend to take seriously.”
Meg swallowed hard as her eyes began to burn. She ordered herself not to cry, but she honestly couldn’t tell where the threat of tears was coming from. Anger? Sadness? Humiliation?
Maybe all of the above.
She saw Sylvia and Kyle and the other attorney straighten a little in their chairs, and she knew her lawyer’s words had gotten to them. She knew what was about to happen, and part of her wanted to stop it. She could put her hand on Franklin’s arm right now, tell him she’d changed her mind.
“Evidence?” The scoff was clear in Albert’s voice as he looked from Franklin to Sylvia and back again. “Do you intend to present it to us, or just wave it around as a threat until we get to court?”
Meg’s attorney sighed. “As I already explained, we’re hoping to avoid going to trial.
We believe what we’ve brought with us here today will allow us to settle this whole matter out of court.
My client has made a generous lump sum offer, which you’ll see spelled out on the last page of the packet I handed you at the start of this meeting. ”
“We’re not even going to discuss it until you show us what you have.” Albert gestured at the briefcase, then folded his arms over his chest. “Your move, counselor.”
“As you wish.”
Meg watched as Franklin reached into his briefcase and pulled out a plastic baggie. No one said a word as he held it up, displaying the cocktail napkin for everyone to see. She dared another glance at Kyle, who squinted at the baggie from across the room, confusion evident on his face.
Sylvia scowled. Franklin stood up and crossed the room to stand in front of her, his imposing height towering above her in a way that almost made Meg feel sorry for her former-future-mother-in-law.
“Mrs. Midland,” Franklin said, holding the baggie behind his back for a moment. “I’m very sorry for your loss.”
“Thank you.”
“I need to ask you—is this your son’s handwriting?”
He brought the baggie in front of her face, and Sylvia reached up to clutch the edges, holding it steady. Meg couldn’t see Sylvia’s face, which was a relief.
But she heard the gasp.
When Franklin drew the bag back, Sylvia’s cheeks had lost all their color. Her jaw clenched tight as a trap, and her eyes looked like granite.
“I can’t say for certain,” she said tightly, giving nothing away.
“But it does look like Matt’s writing?”
Sylvia gave a curt nod. “I suppose it might.”
Had she read all the words, or simply glanced at the handwriting? Meg wasn’t sure yet, but Sylvia’s stony expression told Meg she’d probably seen plenty.
Albert leaned forward, catching the edge of the baggie.
His eyes skimmed the cocktail napkin, too, and Meg watched him digest the words.
She’d committed them to memory already. She’d almost forgotten it existed at all until she’d held it in her hand the other night, its edges creased from two years folded inside that book of poetry.
Albert gave a snort of disgust, and her own lawyer drew the bag back and turned to look at Meg. A wave of shame washed through her, hot and sour. She closed her eyes, wishing she could be anyplace but this. She opened them again when Franklin’s voice broke through her thoughts.