Historical Fiction
Date Published: July 2, 2021
Finn Hemingway knows for a fact that she’s been born at the wrong time into
the wrong family with the wrong talents, making her three dreams for the
future almost impossible to attain. She burns to be a trial lawyer in an era
when Ruth Bader Ginsburg is being told to type and when a man who is 500th
in his law school class is hired over a woman who is first in hers. She
yearns to find true love when the family curse dictates that love always
ends for the Hemingways, and usually, it ends badly. And finally, she’d give
up the first two dreams if she were able to triumph on the third. She longs
to have an impact on the only thing that matters to her father: his writing.
To accomplish that would require a miracle. All three dreams are almost
impossible, but it’s the “almost” that keeps Finn going. Ernest
Hemingway had three sons and ached to have a daughter. This is her
story.
EXCERPT
June 17, 1961
A mi hija hermosa, to my beautiful Daughter:
Well, Flea! Despite being in prison, also known as a forced hospital stay courtesy of my present wife, I’ve finished the book, the one for your mother. Finito! I never forgot what you said 13 years ago—that it broke her heart that I never put her in my books; wrote her out of my life, you said. Well, she’s in this one, all the way. It’s about us and Paris and the way it was then.
And if I live that long—ha! at least another couple weeks!—the dedication will read, “To Finley Hemingway, My Daughter and My Muse.”
You still there, Flea, or have I bored you into oblivion already? You knew it was always you, right? Without you, do you think I could have written a page of the finest book that ever came out of this much-battered Midwestern boy’s head? “A Single Drop of Red Wine” never would exist without you dancing across each page, hija mia. You were the engine. It’s that simple. And that’s the one that should have won the Noblitzer Prize (Nobel and Pulitzer together!), if it existed. Should we create one? And sure, I might have had some vigor injected at times by some of the “others” who shall remain nameless so as not to bitch the fine mood I have going here (I know you hated them, so let’s not talk about that). But the unvarnished truth is, I needed you, only you, to be proud of the old man, that you were Hemingway’s Daughter with a capital “D.” Not embarrassed or ashamed. Made me try for more each time I sat down to write, one sentence, then another. Sometimes flowing, sometimes drilling.
I’m calling the new one “A Moveable Feast.” And it will make her immortal. Love can do that.
I love you, kid. Forever. No way around it. See you in your dreams.
Con todo mi amor siempre,
Papa.
With all my love always. That was the last letter I got from him, and while a bit garbled, it was him, like he always was. A bit of Spanish thrown in and some of his own odd phrasing. If I didn’t know better, I wouldn’t have guessed how ill he was.
He was gone two weeks later. The highs and lows of living with him were over, and the loss of both was as excruciating as a finger bent to the breaking point, then twisted off to be sure you appreciated the pain the first time around. Still, without knowing it, he’d thrown me a lifeline. I now knew. Finally, after thirty-six years, I knew.
About the Author
I get my best ideas in the barn as I groom my horse, Nifty. The dogs keep a
careful distance as I lift a hoof, scrape it out, then move on to the next
one. The repetition soothes me. I begin to dream about women like me, women
on the edge, restless women who still want to trust that there is love out
there, and that being sentimental is not always contemptible, and that good
men are not so hard to find if you keep slogging along, seeking a melody to
fit your words. So that’s who and what I write about: restless women
searching.
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