Author's Note: Thank you so much to everyone who has read, followed, favorited, and reviewed the story. I appreciate your support so much. It's so weird writing this chapter by chapter because I have some of the later chapters (the big twist and turns) already done, but I have to spend time filling in the little detail and connecting chapters. That's where I've always struggled. As I get further into the story, I might go back and add more detail to the first chapter, but I think I'll leave it for now. I also might go back and make the dialogue more 70s style, I feel like my character voices right now are to modern for 1970.

Also, Darcy's relationship with his mother will make more sense in later chapters. She comes across as very Mrs. Bennet in the last chapter, but there is a reason!

*The events of the previous chapter take place on a Sunday, and the events of this chapter take place the following Monday.*

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Chapter 2: Lizzy

I inhale the fresh meadow breeze surrounding me. My eyes close as I use my other senses to take in my surroundings. I can feel the prickly grass beneath my open palms, hear the various flying creatures milling about, smell the hints of lavender and dirt, and taste the crispness in the air when I inhale. This meadow is my favorite place in the whole world. Few people know about it, and even fewer people frequent it. I come here to think, to write, and to escape my crazy family and their drama. I gaze at the sun through squinted eyes as it continues to rise signaling the begin of the day. I have been up since before dawn working on some projects and sitting in this meadow. I like to get my day started early before the world is tainted with stressful situations and rude attitudes.

I glance at my old watch and read the ticking hands. I let out a long sigh before pushing myself up from the ground, dusting myself off, and making my way back to the path. I am opening the store this morning, so I have to get back before 9am. The family store is about half a mile away from the meadow, but if I jog, I should make it before opening time. The September sun feels marvelous on my skin and the fresh air smells like ripe apples and yellowing leaves. I inhale the autumn air as I speed-walk down the road. As I get closer to the store, I start to see small pockets of people milling about.

"Hello Mr. Wayne," I cheerily call out to the older gentleman sweeping the front stoop of his barbershop.

"Oh hello, Ms. Bennet. How you?"

"Fine. How about yourself?"

"Well," he chuckles leaning the broom against the front door of his shop, "When you get to be my age, every new day is a small miracle." He picks up the broom again and begins sweeping as he calls out, "Enjoy the rest of your day, little lady."

I smile back at him as I continue my walk to the store, pausing to say hello to familiar faces and smiling warmly at unfamiliar ones. The people in my neighborhood are a family. We work together, we rise together, we struggle together. We managed to carve out a small piece of the town for ourselves and build livelihoods from the scraps we were given. Because everybody knows everybody, I feel safe here. You can't get away with anything here. Some grandpa or aunty is watching your every move here, ready to report back to your parents –successes and transgressions alike.

I pull out my key and unlock the front door to our store. I open the blinds and turn the sign to open. I go behind the counter and get my apron, the register key, the receipt pad, and a stack of change out of the back room. While I wait for customers to pour in, I check the shelf inventory. Whoever closes the store is supposed to re-stock before the morning, but my sister Lianna was in charge of closing last night and she often "forgets" to re-stock when she's on nightshift duty. My sister Janet walks into the store just as I am checking the icebox.

"Morning Lizzy," she singsongs in her angelic voice. My sister Janet is an angel in a human's body. She has curly hair that she usually wears in a ponytail – sleeked down in the front and light and fluffy in the back. She has chiseled cheekbones and immaculately groomed eyebrows. She is tall and slender and fashionable. As if being beautiful on the outside was not enough, she is also blessed to be beautiful on the inside as well. She is a part-time school teacher and splits her time between the local school and work at the store. All of her kids think that she is a princess and sometimes I wonder if maybe she was adopted at birth. And of course, she is oblivious to all the jealousy and looks of lust she inspires. Countless men have come into the store buying this and that just to get a chance to flirt with her unaware that flattery flies right over Janet's head most times. Countless women have snubbed her or tried their hardest to embarrass her and "bring her down a peg." But Janet always sees the best in people, so she waves off the snubs and the rude comments.

I, on the other hand, wear my hair in two messy braids down my back curly wisps sticking out all over my head. Any other style is too much work, and I am not a fan of the hot comb or my mother's tendency to singe my ears while using it. I am just as tall as Janet but not as fashionable or kind. I am known for speaking my mind. I don't think that everybody has good in them, and if somebody does my family or I wrong, I'll make sure that swift justice is delivered to them. Despite our personality differences, we get along quite well. We balance each other out, Janet and I.

"Morning Janet," I reply back, "Ready for another enthralling day in the store."

"I couldn't imagine a better way to spend my day, sister dear." Janet and I laugh, and I toss her an apron. She gets to work tidying up the front of the store, and I pull out a book to pass the time. Our first customer arrives around 9:15am.

Mrs. James comes in for her weekly grocery shopping. She always comes in at the same time on Monday and spends ages comparing brand names and prices with a look of intense concentration. Her favorite line to mutter during checkout is "Why ya'll prices so high? Don't ya know we all poor out here?" I always make some half-attempted joke to which she harrumphs and storms out of the store with her multiple bags.

Then Mr. Moore walks in to buy a ham and cheese sandwich. He walks to the deli area and flirts with Janet the entire time she prepares his sandwich. Today he asks for two sandwiches to keep the conversation going after she finishes his first one. He ends the chat by asking her to let him know when she's free, so he can take her out for lunch at a nearby diner. She laughs melodically and agrees to let him know the next time he comes in. When he gets to the register and I ring him up, he's quiet and a little short… probably because he used up all his wit flirting.

Around noon the Dosesee boys walk into the store. I set my mouth in a fine line and narrow my eyes at them. Malachi Dosesee was kicked out of middle school for being a disruption and selling drugs on school ground. His brother Tyrone followed in his footsteps and was kicked out before high school as well. Both boys come from a good home with a loving mother and father, but the lure of quick money sucked them into the seedy world of drugs and crime. My brother James, well half-brother on my father's side is with them.

My papa, although a great man, was not always a faithful man. He had an affair with a widowed woman who lived a few doors down and out of that affair, James Thomas Bennet was born. His momma died soon after childbirth, so my parents covered everything up and pretended like the affair never happened. People were a little suspicious when he was born seeing as my mother never alluded to being pregnant even though she was very vocal about her previous pregnancies, but nobody gave it much thought seeing as James looks just like the rest of us. Only our family knows the truth, but different momma or not, I consider James my full brother.

My papa doesn't talk about James's mother much, but I know that she was the love of his life. He keeps a photo of her stashed away in his study drawer. I saw it once when I was playing through his things. He tolerates my momma, but definitely doesn't love her, that much is clear from the way he dismisses her and sometimes belittles her in front of us. Granted, my mother is ridiculous and more concerned with the latest gossip and trends than intelligent conversation. She presents an easy target for his snarkier side.

"Hey, sis, get us a few cokes for the road."

"You can get your own cokes," I reply back smoothly, "and shouldn't you be in school right now." The boys look around at each other sharing some secret joke while they attempt to suppress their laughter.

"It got out early," James grins as he grabs a few cokes out of the icebox and digs around his pocket for some change.

When he gets to the register, I heatedly whisper to him, "Why, you paying for their drinks like they don't got money for their own cokes? I already told you I don't like you hanging out with these hooligans. You're smart. Don't let them keep you from getting a good education and making something of yourself."

James doesn't respond or look me in the eyes as he picks up the cokes and joins his friends. Tyrone and Malachi each grab a coke and walk out the door laughing and pushing the entire way. James turns to Janet before he exits, "I'll be late for supper. Can you let Pa and Ma know?"

"Of course, James. You behave now." Janet smiles as she watches James exit the store.

"Janet, those boys are going to pull him into their nonsense. I don't understand why he stopped hanging out with Thomas, Mitch, and John. Those were some good influences. All of them talking about their computer technology and science stuff. That's what he should be focused on not getting into whatever those Dosesee boys are into.

"Lizzy, sometimes you have to let people live their own lives. You just gotta love them and hope they see the light before it's too late."

I sigh heatedly but table the issue for now. Arguing with Janet is a losing battle. A steady stream of customers come through the store buying vegetables and toothpaste and various lunch meats. I greet all the customers and chat with everybody as I ring up their purchases. Before long, my shift is over, and I am free. Like a good worker, I wait for Lianna to relieve me and as always, she is late. Today, I have somewhere important to be and am hoping that she arrives at a reasonable time. She always claims that she was held up at school, but I was in her shoes not too long ago, so I know how long it takes to get from the school to the store taking the bus as well as walking. Neither form of transportation takes over two hours. When she finally waltzes into the store a lollipop in her hand and a tall tale ready already tumbling from her lips, I am in too much of a hurry to berate her.

Lianna narrows her eyes and purses her lips. "Where you off to in a hurry?"

"I'm just going to sit in the meadow," I breezily reply avoiding eye contact lest I give myself away. Lianna can sniff out secrets like a bloodhound. I wipe off the counters and tidy up a few shelves.

"Weren't you there this morning?" Nothing escapes her notice.

I quickly reply, "What, I can't go twice in one day?"

Lianna stalks closer to me. She gets right up in my face with her eyes still slit and her lips still set in a thin line. "I don't know what you're hiding, but best believe I'm gonna find out."

Just as I'm about to reply, Amanda comes waltzing into the store. Her hair is done up and she is wearing a sparkly, revealing gown while holding a pile of clothes. "Is daddy in the back room?"

"No," Lianna replies, "but you better hurry. You know he likes to come in around this time to check on the inventory and count the morning sales."

My sister Amanda is the performer in the family. She does everything – dance, sing, act, contort. She currently works at the Old Blue's Jazz Club a few blocks down close to the night district in our town. It is one of the nicest clubs near our neighborhood, and Amanda works really hard to make sure the seats stay packed every night and weekend. She has dreams of acting in Hollywood movies, but none of her auditions have panned out. Drunk and crying, she once told me that no talent agent will hire her because she is not pretty enough, and her voice is not strong enough. She aspires to be the next Diana Ross and she is convinced she can be with a little cosmetic work and some voice lessons. I think my sister is beautiful the way she is, but my opinion means diddly squat next to the words of the all-powerful agents and directors of the glamourous Hollywood. Amanda's worst nightmare is being stuck performing at Old Blue's Jazz Club for the rest of her life. Although I don't agree with how she plans to leave, I understand her need to leave our small town.

Father is supportive of Amanda's endeavors as long as they don't interfere with her shifts at the store. Mother believes that performing at nightclubs is unbefitting of a young lady, but her protests are just for show. She always refuses to attend Amanda's shows, makes a big fuss when we drag her out, and makes a ruckus when the show is over; but during the show she is as awestruck as the rest of us.

"I tried to leave early, but rehearsal ran late. We got a new dancer, and he was making a mess of all of the steps. As good as our shows are, you would think the owner would be able to hire some good talent!"

"Here," I toss my apron at Amanda as I sling my bag across my shoulders. "It's been pretty quiet today and inventory is good for the most part. If Pa or mama ask, tell them I will be home in time for supper."

Amanda is too busy fuming about the new untalented, waste-of-space dancer to register my statement. Lianna tries to call out after me but is quickly roped into Amanda's tirade.

As the door shuts behind me, the last words I hear are, "I mean, could you believe his nerve, showing up ten minutes late? I mean really!"

I smile as I rush off towards the town center. I love my sisters, I truly do, but I do not want to share everything with them. Besides my favorite sister Janet and my Pa, nobody knows why I sneak into the town center every couple of days.

"Good morning Mrs. Potts. How you doin' today?" I cheerily call out to the elderly woman across the street.

"Mornin', Beautiful. I'm doin' mighty fine today. Praise Jesus! How you?"

"Blessed and highly favored," I call back over my shoulder as I continue to quickly make my way to the center. Mrs. Potts' favorite things include being in young people's business, selling her handmade jewelry, and excessively using church lingo.

"Hallelujuah! Glory be! That's what I like to hear. Slow down before you trip and scrape your knee!"

I continue to speed on being careful to avoid potholes and cracks in the sidewalk. The town center is a good three miles from the store, so I will have to hurry if I want to make it there and back before suppertime. As I walk, I enjoy the way the sun warms my arms and makes them appear golden brown in the mild afternoon sunlight. I breathe in the crisp October air grateful for these warm fall days.

When I get closer to the center, I pull my long jacket out of my bag and put it on. I also pull on my hat over my two braids. I want to be as unnoticeable as possible to avoid any unwanted attention, so I cover up despite the warm temperature. I keep my head down as I travel through the bustling downtown center. People of every shape, color, and size rush about without a care for anybody else's wellbeing. Mothers drag children along hissing at them to "Hurry up now!" Business men in long black trench coats and black Pork Pie hats chat animatedly with other business men dressed similarly.

From behind, I feel something push me forward. I catch myself just in time to keep from falling on my face and smashing my teeth on the hard pavement. I stumble to the side of the walkway as a man engrossed in a newspaper continues to walk past me. Anger boils inside of me when the man does not turn around to say excuse me.

"Watch where you're going!" I yell out emphatically to his turned back, but he is too enthralled by whatever article he is reading to acknowledge my comment. It is probably for the best that he did not turn around. My main goal is to go unnoticed and a public shouting match with a stranger would tip the scale of inconspicuousness out of my favor.

Finally, I reach my destination. There are no distinguishing markings on the door or anywhere on the building. The windows are very grimy, and there is no light coming from under the door. I hurriedly unlock the door and make my way inside.

"Hello, are you here?" I pull off my jacket and make my way to the back of the building. "I don't have much time today. I have to hurry back if I want to make it back in time for supper."

A door in the back slams open and a man, sleeves rolled up to the elbow and hair slightly disheveled, storms out. Jim Barnes is a formidable man. He is a self-made business man who as a child in the underbelly of Virginia had a dream to never go to bed hungry again. He found his salvation in the world of print. He moved to the glamourous city of New York and worked his way through the magazine circuits, interviewing the biggest names in fashion, music, and film. By being ruthless, determined, and charismatic he managed to rub shoulders with the right people and work his way up to assistant editor-in-chief of the top magazines in the nation. After a few years at the height of success, he decided that he to return to his hometown in order to escape the hustle and bustle of city life. He started a town lifestyle/news magazine filled with more exposing of secrets than hard hitting stories. He found satisfaction in being so highly favored and worshipped by the same people who would never have given him a first glance when he was growing up in the town a couple of decades ago. He used his power to garner favors in exchange for not printing more salacious tidbits about the town elite. Now, he schmoozed with the top players and got to look down on the poor that were not as lucky as he. The town sees him as a trendsetting icon... proof that the American dream is possible. But I see him for who he really is… a sleazy opportunist, a charismatic slimeball.

"What the hell is this?" Well, he's charismatic when he wants to be. Jim holds a piece of paper in my face – my latest article for him. Jim and I met when he held a contest for aspiring writers in the town (a charity something or another to boost his likeability among readers). I won the contest and my prize was a meeting with him to discuss my opportunities as a writer. Jim immediately offered me a job working for his magazine. We often clash on my article topics. I want to write hard-hitting pieces with facts and unbiased interviews, but he wants me to focus on our dear Nancy column - our most popular column among housewives and maids.

"I don't know what the problem is. I got the Nancy column submitted and sent in before the deadline. I had some spare time, so I'd thought I'd –"

"You'd what?" Jim walks to the desk near the front of the makeshift office and plops into his chair. "You thought I'd just print this poorly written drivel just because you got your column for next week done early. A column I pay you for, remind you."

"I'm tired of just writing advice columns. I know that I'm capable of more. That article," I begin pointing at the paper sitting forlornly on the worn-down desk, "is well researched and well written. I'm not the best writer, but I'm a good writer. I just need you to give me a chance to prove myself!"

I stare at Jim, unwilling to back down from this. I have wanted to be a writer ever since the poetic words of Maya Angelou touched my soul and opened the door to a world of possibility. A world that could bridge gaps and convey what spoken words often fail to do – subtext, depth, and clarity. I want to write about the world from a voice that is not always heard – a young black woman's perspective.

Jim stares back at me, also unwilling to back down. After a few moments, he shakes his head and smirks up at me. With a pitying look he replies, "The truth is you're replaceable. Starry-eyed aspiring writers are a dime a dozen. I could have ten of you lined up and ready to work like that." He snaps his finger for emphasis. "I'm doing you a favor by even letting you write for this magazine. I hired you when you had no experience, little education, and a messy writing style. Don't let the few compliments you've gotten on some of your pieces get to that little head. I mean, you write an advice column for God's sake. How much work does that take, huh? You think you can just start writing actual articles because you have experience answering cleaning questions for neurotic housewives and domestics?"

My breathing becomes labored as I do my best to remain calm and collected as Jim continues to tear down my work. My nostrils flare as I chant calming statements in my head. I can't get mad. I can't blow up. Jim is right about one thing, I am replaceable to him. My column is extremely popular, but plenty of writers could easily take on the task.

I wait until his tirade is complete and he is sitting back in his seat before I first thank him for the opportunity to work at his magazine. He smiles smugly, and I die a little on the inside. Not for the first time I think, is this stepping stone position really worth the degradation and humiliation. "Sir, I should not have pushed and wrote that article without permission. It was presumptuous of me. But if you give me a chance, I can show you that I am capable of more than just the advice column. I wouldn't even require more money. You pick the topic. I'll write it. I can do a piece on the river pollution uptown or a character sketch of the mayor or – "

"No."

I shake my head and blink a few times, "Excuse me."

"I said," he rises from his chair, both hands on his desk in a domineering stance, "N-O, no. No, you cannot do a piece on the river pollution. No, you cannot do a piece on the mayor. No, you cannot do anything but answer questions for the Dear Nancy column. And if you ever talk to me about money again, I'll fire you on the spot."

"I didn't mean it like that! I was simply saying –" The words get stuck under my tongue. I don't know what to say to make this situation better.

Jim sits back in his chair and opens his drawers, pulling stacks of papers out. "We're done here." He turns away from me and begins rifling through the papers.

I am so angry, I want to knock him out of his chair and slap the smug look off his face. Instead, I settle for grabbing my article off his desk and storming out of his office. I slam the door as hard as I can on my way out and barrel through the crowds in the much less congested town center. All I feel is rage. Jim Barnes is exploiting me, and he knows that I know it. He gets great satisfaction from paying me below wages for my work and keeping me stuck in such a menial position. I am wasting my time working for him, but I have no experience to move to a better position. I am stuck. He has a hand in every publication that circulates in our town. There is nowhere I can go to work that will not first vet me through him. I will have to travel to a new town to have a shot at writing something other than an advice column.

I stomp all the way home. I take a few calming breaths before entering the door, wash up, and take my place at the table just as pa is sitting down to say grace.

"Elizabeth Bennet, don't come sneaking to my dinner table like a thief in the night. Where were you? Your sister tells me that you've been gone all afternoon."

I turn to Lianna and shoot her daggers. She smiles slyly back at me before reaching for the greens. "Like I told Lianna earlier, I was in the meadows. I lost track of time. Sorry."

"But she was in the meadows earlier this morning. Why would she –"

"Lianna, do you want to argue about your sister's whereabouts or dig into this delicious meal your mother slaved away preparing." Pa smiles at me and I give him a small smile back in return.

"But Pa –"

Lianna is cut off once again by James's noisy entrance. "Sorry I'm late. This looks delicious Mama Bennet. You really put your knee into it."

"Oh, thanks James. You're too sweet." Mama loves James because he's always sweet

talking her. She'd have one of us marry him if not for that pesky problem of sharing genes. I give him a stern look letting him know that he'll be hearing more from me about the scene in the store, but I am too angry to bring it up in the moment.

The conversation around the table is amicable. Never touching on any controversial topics like Amanda's performing, my constant disappearances, or Lianna's overly flirty behavior. After supper, we all watch a bit of tv in the family room before slowly heading upstairs to bed. Amanda and Lianna head to their room, James heads to his, Mama and Pa to theirs, and Janet and I to ours.

When we get to our room, Janet closes the door and turns to me. "Lizzy, is everything alright?" Janet is an angel. Her capacity for kindness and understanding is truly otherworldly, and her skills of perception and empathy are also topnotch.

"I had a fight with my editor. He refuses to let me write on anything more serious. He also criticized my work."

"Oh Lizzy," Janet rushes to my side and throws her arms around me in a fierce hug, "You're an amazing writer. Don't let his mean words get to you. You're going to get your chance to shine soon. I know it. The world deserves to hear your voice because you have something important to say. Don't lose hope. Don't!"

I hug Janet back as tears threaten to spill over. Janet always knows the best thing to say. I would have given up on my dreams of writing a long time ago if not for her constant support and encouragement. "Thanks, Janet. I won't give up."

"Good!" Janet releases me and goes to her side of the bed. "Don't forget about all of us when you make it as a big time New York bestseller's author."

I laugh along with her and get into bed as well. I want to believe Janet, but now that the adrenaline has run its course, despair has taken over. Being an author, let alone a New York Time's bestselling author, seems like a far-fetched dream now. I am going to be stuck writing Dear Nancy until I die. From beyond the grave, Jim Barnes will find a way to still control my writing career. I will die unknown with no accomplishments and no success. People will attribute my column to some white report on staff because who will believe that a nineteen-year-old black girl with no college education and no other writing experience would be chosen to write for the most prestigious magazine in town even if it is just an advice column. I lie awake turning over my options in my head. No matter how much I analyze my choices, I come to the same glum conclusion.

Janet is softly snoring beside me. I reach under my bed and pull out my keepsake box. My grandmother gifted it to me on my twelfth birthday, and I have been storing all of my important keepsakes in it ever since. I pull out the only photo I have of my sister Katrina and smile fondly, my chest tightens and tears spring to my eyes as I quickly flip the picture over and continue rifling through the trinkets. There is a roll of cash, the first article I ever wrote – cut neatly out of the newspaper and laminated to protect the edges. There is also a playbill from Amanda's first show. Finally, I reach the letter I am searching for, pull it out, and unfold it. I read through the letter and sigh. I re-read the letter until my eyes grow weary and my arms hurt from holding it up to the candlelight. I fold the letter along its creases and put it back into its envelope. I carefully place the envelope back into the box and cover it with the picture, the playbill, and the article. I close the box and place it back under the bed. I blow out the candle and snuggle into the covers.

"Sweet dreams," I softly whisper as a lone tear falls down my face.

"Dear Ms. Bennet,

Although the pieces you sent in were well-written and engaging, I regret to inform you that we cannot offer you a position at this time. We are looking for someone with more experience and since you cannot provide a reference, we are unable to move forward with your application. I encourage you to gain experience writing for a local paper or magazine and then re-apply with our company. I wish you all of the luck with your future endeavors.

Sincerely,

BlueBird Publsihing House"