Page 123 of The Housekeeper

“So, what do you think I should do, Harrison?” Tracy asked as we were finishing off the last of our sushi. She’d spent most of dinner rehashing and bemoaning the events of the afternoon. Sam and Daphne had long ago grown bored of the conversation and excused themselves to go upstairs to watch TV.

Harrison gave me a look that said he’d had about as much of my sister as any human being could possibly take for one night.“You may just have to do as Jodi suggested, bite the bullet, and get a job.”

“Thanks a lot. You’re a big help.”

“You could write that bestseller you talked about doing last summer. I mean, youdidtake that course. Correct me if I’m wrong, but I believe your exact words were‘How hard can it be to write a novel?’ ”

Harrison’s sarcasm was lost on my sister. “Yeah, maybe,” she said as Harrison rolled his eyes to the ceiling. “Speaking of which, how’s your latest opus coming along?”

“Signed, sealed, and delivered,” Harrison said.

“What? When did this happen?” I asked, trying not to feel slighted that I was just finding out about this now.

“Put the final touches on it last week.”

“Why didn’t you tell me?”

“I wanted to wait till I heard back from my editor.”

“And did you?”

“This afternoon.” He paused for suitable dramatic effect. “She loves it. It just needs a few more minor edits.”

Thank God,I thought. “That’s wonderful,” I said. “Do they know when they’ll be publishing it?”

“Sometime next year.”

“Not till then?” Tracy asked.

“Well, the process takes time,” Harrison explained. “They have to do the copyediting, choose a layout, design a cover—”

“When do you get your money?” Tracy interrupted.

Harrison hesitated, clearly uncomfortable with the turn the conversation had taken. “I get some now and some when the book is released.”

“Like, how much? If you don’t mind my asking.”

“Idomind, actually.”

“Oh, come on.”

Harrison pushed his chair back from the dining room table, carrying his empty dinner plate into the kitchen before heading toward the stairs. “I’m going to check on the kids.”

“So, how much is he getting?” Tracy asked as soon as he was gone.

“I’m not sure,” I said. “It’s been so long since he signed the contract, I forget the amount.” Which was true. Harrison had signed the contract for his second novel as soon as his first book was released. He’d received a quarter of his advance upon signing, with the second installment due upon the acceptance of the manuscript, and the third and fourth installments due upon publication of the hardcover and mass market editions. Since the book had taken him so long to complete, it meant he’d essentially spent the last decade working for less than minimum wage. The checks he’d eventually be getting would do more for his self-esteem than our bank balance.

“So, have you read it?” Tracy asked.

“I read an earlier draft.”

“And?”

“It was great,” I lied.

“Well, that’s good,” she said. “I mean, the money will come in handy, you know, if we have to sue.”

Good God,I thought. “I should take you home,” I said.