What is my biggest accomplishment?
That’s a good question. I can’t think of anything I’ve done that makes me say, “Wow! I really did that.” I’m hoping that my novel in progress will be my biggest accomplishment.
This seems like the perfect opportunity to tell you a little more about the story I’m working on. So, here goes…
Genre: Chick Lit
Working Title: Postcard from Paris
Target Length: 75 to 80 thousand words
Poppy Parker thinks she knows exactly where her life is heading because she has it all planned out. A promotion at work is on the horizon and, six weeks from now, she’s going to get married to her perfect match. But in a single day all her plans go up in smoke. When she finds a postcard from Paris, she decides a vacation abroad is just what she needs. It’s a decision that will change her life forever.
I knew the wedding wasn’t off. Daniel and I were going to get married. Our plans hadn’t changed. We had just rescheduled them. I knew that. My sisters’ unconcealed doubt disturbed me a little nonetheless. It occurred to me that a lot could happen in six months. The thought tied my guts into an uncomfortable, complicated knot.
Upstairs, I pushed open the door to my mother’s study. Keeping in theme with the rest of the house, the room was sparsely furnished. There was a utilitarian desk and a chair in the center of the room, and a beaten up leather couch next to the fireplace in the corner. Mom didn’t like decorative embellishments or useless ornaments but every square inch of wall space was covered in childish drawings, handmade trinkets, and cards from various past happy occasions. Circumstances might have turned my mother into a penny-pinching minimalist but she had kept all the silly little things that her daughters and granddaughters had given her over the years.
I placed the carrier bag in the center of the desk next to a pile of birthday cards. Needing a little time for myself before heading back to the party downstairs, I settled into Mom’s chair and began rifling through the pile of good wishes. I wasn’t really snooping. I was just keeping my hands busy while mentally sorting through a list of scenarios depicting what could happen between now and the day Daniel would come home from Hong Kong. Then a postcard with a picture of the Eiffel Tower jumped out at me. I turned it over to read the message.
My Dearest Caro,
I wish you a wonderful birthday. Happy fifty-fifth! Drink, eat cake, and be merry. As always, my thoughts are with you.
My eyes remained glued to the last word of the short note. As far as I knew, my mother didn’t have any living relatives. She had never talked much about her family. I only knew that her parents had died before I was born, and I was almost certain that she had said she was an only child.
The return address was written in miniature script. I brought the card right up to my nose and squinted at it. The sender lived in Paris on Rue Debelleyme. Her name was Selma Fairfax.
Fairfax was my mother’s maiden name. I blinked as my brain attempted to process the short note and the return address on the postcard. Apparently, I had an aunt and she was living in Paris.
Thanks for reading! Feel free to let me know what you think. I’d love to hear from you.
Harvey Mackay said, “A great accomplishment shouldn’t be the end of the road, just the starting point for the next leap forward.” When I’ve finished Postcard from Paris, my next leap forward is getting started on a second novel.