“Oh, give me that damn dress,” Dora said to herself as she rose to her feet and grabbed the first one within reach.

Harper sat at a small table in City Lights café, a pile of napkins covered in her handwriting on the table before her. Whenever she was hurt or angry, Harper found it therapeutic to write out in dialogue all the things she wished she’d had the courage to say. She’d scribbled in a heated fury a vitriolic scene of Dora and herself in the changing room, hurling insults, throwing clothes, a real catfight. Finished, she sat back in her chair, released the pen, and grabbed her latte.

She finished her drink, set down the empty mug, and looked around the coffee shop. Big stainless-steel espresso machines lined the wall, pastries were arranged on the counter. Women and men of all ages sat at the small tables, talking, reading, typing on laptops. She found the heady scents of freshly brewed coffee and sweet pastries comforting, and she needed that now.

In New York, she often went to coffee shops with her laptop and people-watched. She enjoyed describing what she saw—the people, the setting, what they ordered. She jotted down comments she found amusing or poignant. Sometimes she’d be so inspired by a conversation she’d overheard that she finished the snippet with a short story, letting her imagination run wild. She never showed anyone her writing. She’d learned long ago that she didn’t have any talent. But she still enjoyed writing. She either threw the pieces out or hid them away in boxes in her closet. She didn’t know why she wrote. It was just something she’d always done.

When Harper was little, she used to show people her stories. They were just silly ones about whatever caught her fancy. But she’d been proud of them. Then one day, when she was eight, her mother had called her into her office.

“Harper James-Muir!” Her mother’s voice rang out in their New York City condominium. “Come into my office, please.”

Harper had been sitting at the kitchen table, idly kicking her legs and eating cinnamon toast while staring at the ice-crystal design on the window. Hearing her mother’s voice, she froze and darted a fearful gaze at her nanny. Her mother used her full name only when she was in trouble, and to be called into her office meant this was serious.

Luisa, her nanny, shook her head to indicate she didn’t know what this was about.

Harper set down her toast while Luisa rushed to her side to wipe crumbs from her mouth and school uniform. She smoothed Harper’s hair, then, taking hold of her shoulders, guided her to her mother’s office.

Georgiana was sitting in her book-lined office behind a sleek ebony desk. She was dressed in her work clothes, a stylish black houndstooth wool suit. Harper crinkled her nose at the stench of the cigarette smoke that always made her stomach upset.

“Come in,” Georgiana said. “And shut the door behind you. That will be all, Luisa.”

Harper heard the officious tone and, nervous, did as she was requested. She stood with her hands held before her.

“Sit down.”

Harper walked across the plush carpeting to sit in one of the hot-pink velvet chairs with her shoulders back and ankles crossed, as she’d learned to do. Her gaze swept her mother’s desk for clues as to why her mother had called her in. She spotted her handmade book, Willy the Wishful Whale. Harper had been especially proud of this story of the adventures of a young whale searching for his family. She’d painted the illustrations herself, bound the book using a three-hole puncher and ribbon. She’d even written a song to go with it. She released a sigh of relief, thinking that her mother, an editor of books, would be proud of her effort. After all, she’d created her first book!

Georgiana lifted the paper book. “Did you write this?”

“Yes.”

“Do you write many stories?”

Harper smiled, encouraged. “Yes. Well, sometimes. I mean, I just do it when I get an idea.”

“Where did you get the idea for this one?”

Harper shrugged. “I don’t know. It just popped into my head.”

“It just popped into your head,” Georgiana repeated slowly. “I see.”

Harper knew that when her mother became frosty, she was on the verge of losing her temper. Harper waited, holding her breath.

“Are you lying to me?”

Harper paled and her stomach suddenly felt sick. “No!”

“You got this idea from one of the books you read, didn’t you?”

“I . . . I . . .” Harper didn’t know what to say. Her mother was frightening her. “I don’t know.”

“I thought so,” she said, taking a drag on her cigarette, then setting it down on the ashtray. She folded her hands on the desk. Harper stared at her perfect pink nails. “Harper, listen to me very carefully. You must never, ever copy the work of others. In the publishing world, that is called plagiarism. And it’s a crime. Not to mention a scandal. I won’t have it, not even for play. Do you understand me?”

Harper nodded, rendered speechless at the cruel accusation that she was lying and cheating when she wrote her book. The idea came to her as they all did—while she was dreaming, while reading, while listening to people talk. Sometimes they came to her while she was at the park or zoo with Nanny, just watching the animals. Was that copying? Was she being bad?

“Why are you writing books, anyway?” her mother asked, clearly upset. Then she skewered her with a pointed gaze. “Are you trying to be like your father?”

Harper shook her head no. She knew they’d suddenly moved onto treacherous ground.

Her mother’s eyes glittered with anger, as they did each time she brought up the topic of Parker Muir. “Well, don’t. You didn’t know him. I did, and trust me, you don’t want to be like him. He was a lush and ladies’ man. A ne’er-do-well.” She pointed one of her perfectly polished fingers at her. “You’re a James and you’re better than him. Better than the lot of them.” Her face hardened with the tone of her voice. “Your father wasn’t a writer,” she said with derision. “His work was derivative. He didn’t have the talent. And,” she said, lifting Harper’s handmade book and dropping it onto the desk as if it were trash, “neither do you.”

Harper felt her enthusiasm and pride for her book wither in her heart to be replaced by shame.

Georgiana took a final puff from her cigarette and blew out a stream of smoke as she eyed her daughter sitting slump-shouldered on the chair before the desk. Then she reached over to the ashtray and snuffed it out.