Free Venom and the River by Marsha Qualey Page B

how I can market that: The first person to live in the cottage since Ida May is the author of the new Little Girl books! They’ll fly off the shelves.”
    “Terry’s grandfather lived in the cottage, Peach. After the doctor killed herself.”
    Peach pursed her lips as she stoked her neck with a plump hand. “I know the story, Leigh. I grew up here. I know the whole story.”
    “Will the whole story be part of the show? Will the Christian Family Universe want that?”
    Peach made a face. “Just talk to Terry, please.”
    “Once again: no. He doesn’t want your gang in there, and I will not try to change his mind. Final answer.”
    Peach Wickham pulled sunglasses from a pocket hidden in the folds of her dress. She slipped them on and smiled. “If the show runs, I can guarantee you’ll do several books a year, ten thou a book. That’s minimum; the skies the limit if the Christian bookstores and home schoolers latch on to them, and there’s no reason they wouldn’t because we’re very careful about what goes in and what stays out of the books. Now be the smart girl I think you are and talk to the vice-president and don’t talk to me about final answers.”
    Tucker yelped loudly and they both turned toward the sound. “Handsome little boy,” Peach said. “Looks just like the pictures of Dave at that age.” Her smile returned. “I forgot—you haven’t met Terry’s children. Dave’s his middle child, two years younger than Dana and me. Haven’t I heard that you have a daughter, Leigh? Lives with her father? Makes sense, I suppose. Hard to support a child as a freelance writer.”
    “I won’t talk to Terry, Peach. Have a good day.”
    *
    “Is she gone?” Geneva flicked an ant off the blanket.
    Leigh sat down beside her. Tucker handed her a leaf. “All gone, and not likely to return for a while. Terry was pretty rude.”
    “It didn’t look like she was happy about what you were saying to her, either.”
    “Probably not. I was saying no to a horde of visitors to the cottage.” And saying no to more money than she’d made in years.
    Geneva started tossing toys and board books into a bag. “I’d better check on Terry.”
    Leigh gently squeezed the young woman’s arm. “He’s fine. I’ll go back in and keep him occupied. Better yet, I’ll watch them both. Leave Tucker with me and go run away for the afternoon.” She checked her watch. How hard could it be—they’d both be napping within the hour.
    “Are you sure? I do need groceries.”
    “Groceries? Just go have some fun.”
    “Going to the store without a baby will be fun. Oh, Leigh, thank you. Is there anything you want? Anything you want me to make?”
    Tucker was methodically unpacking the bag. Leigh picked up a book and handed it to him, and he promptly reversed the direction of his work. “Homemade pie,” she said. “I know it’s a little early in the season, but I’d love a peach pie.”

3.
    There was a long line at the Dairy Queen. A solid week of muggy hot weather had sent what appeared to be the entire population of Pepin out for ice cream, and nearly everyone was in shorts and summer shirts. Leigh tugged at the sleeve of her light sweater. She’d been infected with the same desire for a warm weather treat as everyone else, but she was still chilled from another long day working in the well-shaded cottage.
    As she waited amid the cheery bustle, she studied the white two-story house centered in a small square of well-tended green grass adjacent to the DQ’s parking lot.
    She could understand why Marti Lanier was rankled by this version of the author’s home. The television producers certainly hadn’t bothered to copy the cottage. Hadn’t bothered to stick with one architectural style, or even worry about good taste.
    A low fence with pickets alternating in yellow and lilac bordered the small lawn. The colors matched the siding and trim of the house. Elaborate wrought iron balconies caged the lower half of each of the two