Page 3 of The Write Midlife

It had taken her forty-one years of living, but she thought she had finally done it. Her auburn hair was behaving for once, cascading over her shoulders in soft waves. The streaks of silver in it were growing by the day, and the extra pounds her body was holding onto these last few years meant that her emerald cocktail dress was hugging her frame even tighter than it used to.

Despite her earlier decision to ditch the Spanx, she actually looked pretty damn good. Good enough to belong at a swanky publishing event like the annual Seattle BookLovers' Gala.

But the woman staring back at her looked about as comfortable as an Edward Cullen-type at a garlic bread baking competition.

“Get it together, Melody,” she said to herself. She took one last look in the mirror, adjusting her glasses. The "sexy librarian" look was working for her tonight, though she might regret these heels tomorrow.

The year she turned 35, the choice between arch support and sex appeal became a battlefield, and her orthopedist would definitely not approve of these three-inch weapons of foot destruction.

But some battles were worth fighting, even if it meant doubling up on the joint supplements tomorrow.

Or so she hoped.

"It's just one night of schmoozing,” she said to her reflection. “How bad could it be?" The universe, ever the comedian, didn't bother to answer. She grabbed her clutch and headed out the door of her cozy Capitol Hill Seattle apartment, ready to face the lions' den of the publishing world.

The taxi ride to the event was a blur of neon lights and rain-slicked streets. Despite the early January chill, Seattle's nightlife pulsed around her, oblivious to her impending doom. As they pulled up to the glittering Cascadian Hotel, she took a deep breath and channeled her inner romantic heroine. If Elizabeth Bennet could face down Lady Catherine de Bourgh, she could handle a few hours of corporate small talk.

She stepped out of the taxi, narrowly avoiding a puddle that would have ruined her new heels. The doorman gave her a sympathetic smile as she fumbled with her invitation. "Good luck in there, miss," he said, holding the door open.

"Thanks," she replied. "I'm going to need it."

The ballroom was a sea of designer suits and cocktail dresses, all swirling around islands of champagne and hors d'oeuvres. The chatter was a constant hum, punctuated by the occasional burst of laughter. She felt like she had stepped into a Jane Austen novel, if Jane Austen had written about cutthroat publishing executives instead of landed gentry.

She made her way to the bar, desperately in need of liquid courage. The bartender, a kind-faced man in his fifties, took onelook at her and slid over a glass of white wine without her having to ask.

"First time at the Gala?” he asked, a knowing twinkle in his eye.

She nodded, taking a grateful sip. "Is it that obvious?"

He chuckled. "Don't worry, honey. They're all just as nervous as you are. They're just better at hiding it."

Armed with her wine and the bartender's sage advice, she ventured into the crowd. She spotted a group of women who looked vaguely familiar from author headshots and decided to introduce herself.

"Hi, I'm Mel," she said, trying to sound more confident than she felt. "I write-"

"Oh, we know who you are!" one of the women interrupted, her smile as sharp as a paper cut. "You're the one who's been making waves with those... unconventional romances."

The way she said "unconventional" made it sound like a communicable disease. Melody took another sip of wine to hide her grimace.

"That's me," she replied. "I like to think of them as romances for the real world. You know, where people have actual flaws and don't always get their happily ever after on the first try."

The women exchanged looks that could curdle milk. She braced herself for more passive-aggressive comments, but before they could respond, a deep voice cut through the tension.

"Sounds intriguing. I'd love to hear more about your approach to romance."

She turned to find herself face-to-face with a man who looked like he just stepped out of one of her novels. Tall, with dark hair that was just starting to gray at the temples, and eyes so blue they should be illegal. He was wearing a perfectly tailored suit that probably cost more than her monthly rent, but there was something in his smile that put her at ease.

"And you are?" she asked, raising an eyebrow.

He extended a hand. "Nate. I'm new to certain parts of the publishing world, so I'm always eager to learn from successful authors."

She shook his hand, trying not to notice how perfectly it enveloped hers. "Well, Nate, prepare to have your illusions shattered. The glamorous life of an author mostly involves a lot of coffee, sweatpants, and existential crises."

He laughed, a rich sound that sent a shiver down her spine. "Sounds like my kind of party. Care to give me the insider's tour of this event?"

She glanced at the group of women, who were now pretending to be deeply engrossed in a conversation about font choices. "Lead the way," she said to Nate. "I could use a friendly face in this shark tank."

As they made their way through the crowd, Nate kept up a steady stream of witty commentary that had her stifling giggles. He pointed out a portly man in an ill-fitting tuxedo, whispering, "That's Gerald Huffington. He's convinced he's the next Stephen King, but his idea of horror is a world without golf courses."