The Interview by Meredith Greene Page A

You’re just about the age of my oldest daughter.” Candace nodded, drawing in a long breath; the woman’s tone indeed sounded motherly.
     
    “ Oh, well... let’s start on that, if you wouldn’t mind… your family. From what I’ve gathered you and your husband have four children.”
     
    “ Correct. We’re about to get our first grandchild, actually, next month.”
     
    Pen scribbling in neat lines, Candace kept up with the flow of softly spoken information.
     
    “ Graduated high school, two semesters of community college… Married for twenty-five years to one man. Erm, the owner of the Rentyn Company…”
     
    “ He does have a name.”
     
    The writer’s tone did not vary; ever gentle and steady.
     
    “ Uh, right… er…” Candace racked her brain for the correct information.
     
    “ James,” the woman said, smiling. “It is easier for me to remember it.”
     
    “ Yes, certainly,” the reporter answered, feeling a bit more relaxed at the joke. “So… married for a quarter century; that seems to be the theme of your books… finding your soul mate, getting married right away, having children and staying together, forever.”
     
    “ I’m flattered you found it so clear,” was the woman’s response. “Robert Louis Stevenson once wrote that the difficulty of Literature is not to write, but to write what you mean.” The writer's hot brim bobbed slowly, as if she were nodding in agreement to her own words.
     
    Writing this down, Candace worked out how to ask the burning questions in her mind, without sounding insulting. The serene woman sitting on the bench could easily ‘put her in a book’ or worse, ruin her career with a few, choice words spoken at some gala event to some other media outlet; she had that kind of sway. Readers worldwide purchased her books and clicked into her weekly blogs; just the site clicks on her online poetry rivaled that of the Tribune’s top stories. Once a month, she’d give out book reviews and thus launched novelists to fame… or not. Negative reviews from the woman were rare; a particular writer who’d received one was still struggling to find work.
     
    The young reporter cleared her throat.
     
    “ Your life seems so… flawless, almost… like the relationships in your books.”
     
    Soft laughter greeted this hesitant statement.
     
    “ Flawless? Hardly…” the woman said; her smile grew wide, allowing her dimples to show. “My characters have insecurities, arguments; they do laundry, wipe up spills and change diapers, just like any wife would… just like I do.”
     
    “ I know… I’ve read all your books, but, they always seem to work things out in the end. Nothing ever ends in separation, or divorce.”
     
    The word hung heavily in the air.
     
    “ Divorce…” The woman in the hat spoke the word as if tasting it, deciding whether it was palatable or not. “True. None of my characters have waded into that bitter mire…”
     
    “ It’s not always bitter,” Candace said, adjusting her seat; her hands felt clammy all of he sudden. “For some folks it’s the only viable choice, really…”
     
    Studying the reporter from under her hat, the authoress carefully kept a smile off her face. The pretty, young reporter sitting uncomfortably on end of the bench suddenly displayed a stubborn tilt to her chin, along with a certain guarded look in her eye.
     
    “ Actually, it’s a series of choices,” the lady writer said, at last. “Many of my friends’ parents divorced; I got to see it, along with them, from beginning to end, as well as all the after-affects.”
     
    As much as the subject they’d got on was uncomfortable, Candace felt intrigued.
     
    “ What do you mean a series of choices?” she inquired.
     
    The authoress noted her interest and smiled; her eyes began scanning the surrounding area for something. Lifting one hand, the writer pointed across the way; a couple sat there, on a bench a little further down, out of