Tumble (Dogwood Lane 1)

My heart burns in the center of my chest. I close my eyes briefly, swallowing the taste of betrayal. The bitterness makes my face sour.

“Neely?”

“So Mark, my boss, called me a couple of weeks ago,” I say past the lump in my throat. “We had lunch. He took my idea, the entire proposal he had me create from my vision of what this new monthly could be, and delivered it to his boss, Frank. It was really fantastic.” My hands fold in front of me. “I worked with one of Grace’s friends who does layout, and we created a visual of the website that would cater to mostly young girls and then one of the actual print version that would be for adults. I didn’t sleep for two weeks, Mom. Just busted my butt to get this together to really sell it, you know?”

“And when you get that fire in your eyes, the one you have right now, you get what you want. I’ve seen you do it too many times.”

Sitting back in my chair, I feel my spirits fade. “Mark said it was a go. Frank loved the idea. Said the market was wide open for something like this. Heck, Frank even sent me an email and told me he saw great things stemming from my proposal.”

“So why are you telling me with no enthusiasm?”

A half laugh, half snort gets her attention. Wisely, she refrains from saying anything more, and instead gives me a few moments to remember I’m in front of my mother and not Grace. Word selection is important.

“I needed to apply for a position there,” I tell her. “Put together a formal résumé as well as a sample six-month schedule of ideas.”

“Even though the entire thing was your idea?”

“Protocol.” I shrug, the anger I’ve been able to keep mostly buried shifting just below the surface. “I was talking to Lynne, another editor at the magazine—”

“We had lunch with her, didn’t we?” Mom leans forward, resting her elbows on the table. Her gray eyes, like mine, are clear as she absorbs my story. “Isn’t she the one who met us for paninis last year when I visited?”

“Yup.”

“Why do I get the feeling I won’t be having any more paninis with Lynne?”

“Because if justice is served, she’ll choke on the next one,” I say, shoving away from the table. Standing behind my chair, fingers wrapped around the top rung, I look at my mother. “She told me she wasn’t interested in the position and to use her as a sounding board. Then she took my ideas and submitted her own application.”

The words slip through my gritted teeth, coming out twisted and sharp. I bite down hard to avoid adding that I’m 99 percent sure she accessed my computer and found my mock-ups. Her layouts, her design ideas—things I didn’t show her—were too similar to be happenstance.

My blood pressure soars so high my head almost explodes. But at the same time, my heart sinks. This wasn’t just a coworker betrayal. That I could’ve handled. This was a betrayal of the worst kind—from a so-called friend.

Lynne was my friend. If she’d said she wanted the position, I would’ve cheered her on. I might’ve even ensured we went after different jobs. But to backstab me like she did? Over something she knew was so important to me? I can’t.

“Oh, Neely, honey. I’m so sorry.” Mom gets to her feet but doesn’t come toward me.

“I had to quit,” I tell her. “It felt like such a betrayal to have put so much work into this and then be overlooked. It was my idea. My brainchild. I just refuse to work there out of principle.” I turn away so she doesn’t see the wetness washing over my eyes. “I’ll be fine. I promise.”

“You can stay here as long as you want. Forever, if you feel like it.”

Laughing, I sniffle and turn back to her. “I just need a couple of days to breathe. But thanks for the offer.”

She comes around the table, and I almost fall into her arms. She holds me close, her hands around the small of my back as she sways gently back and forth.

“I’m so proud of you. You know that, right?” she asks, planting a kiss on my cheek as she lets me go. “I’ve done a lot of things wrong in my life, but every time I look at you, I know I got one right.”

“Stop it,” I tell her. “Don’t make me cry. If I cry, I’m going to be mad.”

“Well, it’s true,” she says, dabbing at her eyes with a napkin. “You’ve always been my little crusader. Remember when you sold lemonade that one summer because you saw the animal shelter didn’t have enough funds for food?”

“I raised three hundred dollars,” I remind her.

“You did.” She laughs. “I think I spent a hundred on supplies.”