Page 28 of Take This Heart
Those two reviews alone should have me dancing on my tabletop. And there are dozens more that are just as amazing.
I should be elated.
But instead, I’m fixated on this one stupid review by someone named Ava Piper, who apparently thinks my work istrite, predictable, and self-indulgent.
When I read that last night, I paced my kitchen, muttering what I wished I could say to Ms. Ava Piper and her bitter little mind. I don’t even know this woman, but I have lots of thoughts abouthernow. Is she a professional critic, or a bored woman who just likes to rain on anyone’s parade? Is she right?Ismy work trite, predictable, and self-indulgent? I mean, isn’t all art somewhat self-indulgent? And trite, for that matter, when the bigger scope of what’s going on in our world is taken into consideration. Definitely trite when I think of what’s going on with my dad.
But even in the worst of times, art is what helps people survive.
It’s certainly helped me in my darkest times.
Ugh. See? She’s gotten in my head. I’m spiraling. Whoever she is, she’s sitting behind a computer screen wreaking havoc with my thoughts. I wish I’d never read her review. She can go suck an egg.
I groan when I see the black Range Rover in the driveway. Sleek. I swear, even his SUV reeks of smugness. Parked like it owns the damn place.
I slam my door harder than necessary as I haul my bag out of the trunk.
The front door swings open, and there he is.
Looking far too pleased with himself.
"Well, well, well," he drawls, leaning against the doorframe like he’s posing for a photoshoot for an outrageouslyexpensive car or a watch that costs more than most people make in a year. "If it isn't Minnesota's sweetheart."
I grind my teeth. “This is going to be torture, isn’t it, Lombardi?”
He shrugs. “Doesn’t have to be.”
My heart flutters like he said something charming and I want to kick my own shin for being such a traitor.We don’t like this man,remember?
“There’s my girl,” Dad says from inside, carrying a plate of cookies like this is a casual family picnic and not the beginning of my personal hell. “Time to celebrate our good news! The land is ours!”
We make it about an hour into discussing preliminary plans before I want to throw something.
"You can't just slap a bunch of modern monstrosities on the lakeshore," I say, jabbing a finger at Milo’s sketchpad. "This is a small,charmingtown. Updating and building something new doesn’t mean steamrolling over the character of the place."
"No," he agrees easily. "It means not living like it’s 1954." He flips a page dramatically. "This is an opportunity to build something that actually attracts visitors. Younger people. Families."
I lean forward, fuming. "Younger people want authenticity. Not concrete and glass boxes with sad little rooftop gardens."
I actually adore rooftop gardens, so I don’t know why I said that.
Milo taps his pencil against the table. "You seem pretty confident about whatyounger peoplewant, considering yousound like a ninety-year-old shouting at the neighborhood kids to get off your lawn."
"You aresuchan ass."
“Goldie!” my dad gasps.
"And you," Milo says, flashing a grin that could melt glaciers—not mine, of course— "are tragically naive."
"I’d rather be naive than a sellout."
That wipes the grin off his face.
We stare at each other across the kitchen table, the tension so thick it could be sliced into angry little ice cubes.
Dad clears his throat. "Maybe we take a break?"
"Great idea," I say, standing so fast my chair screeches. "I'm going to take a walk before I commit a felony."
