Two more chapters of my WIP and that’ll be it:
Chapter 3
I’d left her at the cottage to examine it, telling her I’d be back to check on her, hoping to secure her affirmative decision. I felt that positively about her from what I’d read in her resume and from what Darla, my resentful agent, confirmed as to her abilities. She had what I needed as far as the requirements of my work were concerned. Ben, my annoying, self-righteous editor also confirmed her talent although he used descriptions like “potential,” “not very well-known,” “possibly inexperienced in working with best-selling authors like you” which assured me he felt threatened by her. Both of their reactions and commentary cemented she was the one for me.
Oddly enough, I’d never seen a photo of her so I was going into this cold-turkey. Since I didn’t ask them her age or anything about her appearance, I half-way expected a vamp-ish 20 yr. old due to my agent’s snobbish and seemingly jealous account or an aging dowdy woman with maybe capable skills to accommodate what I required.
Needless to say, she was physically near perfect, a real understated beauty near my age give or take 5 or 6 years. She was clever once I dropped the intimidation persona and did my best to present myself honestly – which surprised me that I did. Although tentative at best, there did seem to be an initial rapport which to my surprise I discovered I was wholeheartedly counting on.
I took a quick shower and put on some jeans and a blue-grey plaid button-down shirt. I even used a dose of Sauvage which I hadn’t done for months since my last interlude with a female had turned out to be a waste of the expensive cologne and my time.
Okay, I admit I felt I needed to impress her after the rather crude and sloppy welcome I’d given her. I pulled on my Stacy Adams black leather high-tops, ran my fingers through my longer locks, and briefly checked out my reflection in the full-length mirror. Passable. Sliding the necessary elements into my pockets, I selected my pickup keys from my open safe, closed it, and headed to the back door to take the short walk to the cottage.
I tapped on the beveled window glass on the door and within a few seconds, she answered with a smile, all changed into Levis and a coffee brown long-sleeved tee which I couldn’t help myself noticing how well it fit. Unusual for me, I realized I smiled back at her.
“Does this mean you’re accepting my offer?” Amazed I couldn’t dispel the hope from my inquiry.
“It does.” A brief hesitation. “If you’re sure.” A hint of trepidation.
“Why wouldn’t I be?” Suddenly serious.
“No ‘try-out’?”
She used quotation marks with her fingers. I stared into her eyes and instead of giving my patented smart-ass answer, I said with every bit of sensitivity I could muster, “Sara, I read your resume, I talked to my agent and current editor. I gave you a rough interview and you stood up to it perfectly. I will say if at any time either one of us comes to the place that we think it isn’t working, then mutually we can discuss the amicable conclusion.” I paused briefly. “Does that sound fair?”
“Yes. I accept. This place,” she gestured backward at the cottage, “is perfect, and this location? I can understand how you might find it inspiring. Thank you for the opportunity.”
I marveled at her sincerity, unpolluted by trying to impress, seduce, or put on airs. She fascinated me, and it felt a bit like a tremor went through me. I had to quickly regroup.
“Well, if you’re game, I thought we could take my pickup into town, show you around this little place of your new address, get you some groceries, and treat you to the best Mexican restaurant in town – just happens to be the only one – but it’s authentic and the food’s delicious.”
She smiled. “I would love that. I’ll grab my purse and a jacket.”
“I’ll meet you in front of the cabin.” I felt a rush like I hadn’t in what seemed like eons as I walked away to get the truck. Bona fide heat briefly pulsed through me and a sharp jab of pain and dread accompanied it. Why? How could I corrupt something that finally felt good? Like it was meant to be! I cussed out loud, returning to my usual dour mood, which to my surprise evaporated like yesterday’s rain when I saw her waiting for me. I knew she couldn’t see me through my truly dark smoked windows so as I slowly pulled up, I filled my eyes with her form.
Leaving it idling, I got out to hold the passenger door for her. She actually thanked me as she slid on to my black leather upholstery.
“May I ask what kind of pickup this is?”
“It’s a 2000 Ford Lightning with a custom canopy and extra-tinted windows. They don’t make these anymore – they’re hotrod pickups. Ford makes a newer pickup supposed to be the next generation of this kind of truck, but it’s not even close to what these are – everything’s different about them.” I was venting to her about pickups!
“It’s a beautiful truck. I read a little bit about them in a manual I proofed for a car enthusiast. I guess the canopy threw me off so I thought I’d ask.”
I noticed she caressed the leather seat with her left hand.
“This one has all the bells and whistles under the hood, custom exhaust, all that stuff, and it’s a blast to drive. The canopy was the previous owner’s contribution, but he didn’t keep the truck long. I kept it because it made this truck one of a kind.” It gave me great pleasure to share it with her, and I found myself truly enjoying something for a change.
We came to the end of the long driveway and after checking for the rare car or truck that traveled by, I turned right toward town.
Chapter 4
She knew she shouldn’t be enjoying his company quite so fast, so soon. By his own admission he could be volatile but maybe that only surfaced in regard to his writing. That remained to be seen. He probably wouldn’t assign her any editing duties until he was able to deduce her skills. She loved copy-editing and formatting and had made a career of it, perfection being her objective. She hadn’t had a lot of exposure – her most used skills didn’t carry the same status as editing, but those who hired her spread the word and free-lancing had been good to her.
He kept a cooler in the back of his truck for when he went shopping and bought ice to put in it at the store so she could keep anything she bought cold in it while they enjoyed their dinner. All the grocery store employees seemed to stop whatever they were doing to greet him, and he was cordial to each one, calling them by their names and introducing her to them. The young cashier who checked her out wore a solid blush as he engaged her in conversation while she packed the bags. He pushed the cart out to his truck and bungee corded her groceries in place in the back after placing the cold items in the cooler.
She sampled first-hand the difference he’d stipulated between business and pleasure, this evening obviously designated for pleasure because he was amazingly charming and socially “present.”
As we awaited our dinners, she gauged my response to a few of her writing questions when I surprised her with one of my own.
“Alright, Ms. Sara Bristol, do you have a favorite one of my novels?” I asked as I took a short drink of my Dos Equis, assuring her when I ordered the beer that it would be my one and only alcoholic beverage of the evening.
“I do, although there are probably three tied for second place.”
“Ah, so an outright winner of first place. Are you going to tell me which one?” I admit I usually found it mundane information which one of my novels my fans viewed as favorites probably because I was too cynical to want to engage in getting to know them. With Sara I couldn’t wait to hear her choice.
“Untold,” she said firmly with a dash of a blush to her cheeks which I for some unknown reason thoroughly enjoyed.
“Hmm. I went a bit over my limit with the sensuality in that one.” I accompanied the comment with one of my best and, in this case, truly genuine smiles.
She took just a moment to respond.
“You captured the real essence of desire,” she said perhaps a tad quieter than her normal speech, like she was sharing a secret of her soul with me. “I loved it.” Even quieter.
I almost couldn’t respond. Her words pushed me up against the wall and kissed me. But I had to say something or she’d feel like I disregarded her opinion or worse ignored it.
“Wow. That’s the finest compliment I’ve ever received, I do believe.” I matched her lowered voice. “Thank you. Sincerely.”
“You’re welcome.”
Our dinners arrived, and I was grateful since I was still reeling from her admission about Untold. No question it was a bestseller, but her opinion elevated it to another level for me. I went through all manner of literary contortions to write that one. Being gut-level honest isn’t easy for me, and somehow I searched my soul to reveal a part of me I’d disguised so many times – successfully I might add – that it was the hardest challenge I’d ever met in my writing. In seven words she summed up what I hadn’t admitted to myself was my innate goal in the story.
As we ate, I asked her a few things about her work, her upbringing, and then, after she’d been forthright and given me a brief recall of her life pertaining to what I’d asked, I inquired if I might get a little personal. She looked straight across the booth at me, adjusted her posture, and nodded.
“I’d like to hear about the relationship that ended in divorce,” I ventured.
I watched her inhale, look down at her plate, then past me, and finally directly at me, which, when she did, I realized my eyebrows were gathered over my eyes which had become almost squinting at her. It was then I saw real pain in hers which sent me scrambling for an excuse to retract the question, but she spoke before I could find one.
“I was 20 when we met. He was 24, handsome, carefree, kind of a bad boy but not at heart. Drinking, some drugs, definitely lots of girls.”
I noticed two simultaneous occurrences as she paused: a brief fond smile and a nearly unnoticeable shake of her head.
“He noticed me – I was new at the place we worked. We did the usual kidding around, flirtations, and then we went out which was really only a gathering of the people we worked with at a bar or the lake or wherever there was drinking and some dope. It was all new to me, but I did the minimum to join in. The people were nice, fun, hard working.”
She looked down again and quickly summed it up. “It was exciting for a while, things happened, we got married. And for another while it was good. But then it wasn’t. Those same ‘fun’ things weren’t fun for me anymore. Some different things happened. Long story short, I left. Two years later our divorce became a reality.” She gave an exaggerated exhale. “I know that’s an inadequate account of our lives together, but we really were not meant to be together. That much I know.”
I gave her a moment before I said, “But it hurt just the same.”
“It did.”
We finished our meal, the waiter brought the check, I paid it, and we moseyed out to the car in the late summer evening that had just begun on certain nights to take on the chill of the oncoming fall.
“Thank you for this evening,” she said as we traveled back to my place in the dusk.
“My pleasure,” I said and I meant it. I considered with some trepidation what I said next but decided it was only fair. “You didn’t reciprocate with any personal questions for me. Was that intentional because of how you thought I might react?” I chanced a glance at her.
She met my look before answering. “Possibly, but I think it was more because you strike me as a private man, and I didn’t want to assume that any intrusion on my part might be considered as quid pro quo – because I don’t feel like you owe me any explanations for your life. In your interview you explained you made distinctions between business and pleasure. Until I have a working definition of what those entail, I determined you’ll tell me what you want me to know about you.”
As we pulled into the driveway all lit up by the attractive solar lights marking our way, I explained there was a garage for her vehicle beside the guest cottage and that she’d find the automatic opener in one of the kitchen drawers. I stopped behind her SUV and let my Lightning idle as I walked around to let her out and then back to help her haul her groceries in the house. When we got them all inside the cottage, I stopped at the door on my way out.
“There’s no routine yet for the manuscript I’m working on. If it won’t be awkward for you, I can either call, text, email, or knock on your door when I have some things I need you to do. Feel free to explore the property. I try to walk early in the morning after I’ve had my coffee.”
“Would it interfere with your walk if I joined you, and please tell me the truth,” she said with doubt in her tone.
“Is 6 AM too early?”
“Not at all.”
“I’ll see you then.”
“Thank you, Burn. I had a wonderful evening.” The sincerity and gratitude in her words gave me a sweet reward for having done nothing terribly special.
“So did I. It really was my pleasure. See you in the morning. Good night, Sara.”
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