“A new book. Or I’m supposed to be working on it. I just can’t… find the words.” He drummed against the notebook’s blank pages, a quiet movement filled with frustration.
Recognition dawned on her.ThatMark Donovan. The highly successful mystery author. She hadn’t seen a new book of his out in a while. How long had this writer’s block been going on? His last novel—what was it called?—had been a bestseller about three or four years ago.
He looked out at the bay for a moment before turning back to her with a hint of vulnerability in his eyes. “Worst case of writer’s block ever. I feel like the words are there, but they’re stuck deep inside me, refusing to come out on the page. I thought that maybe coming here would help me find my way back to writing. But instead, it feels like I’m lost, spinning in circles.”
“Sometimes the best thing we can do is to be patient with ourselves. Inspiration will come when it’s ready.”
He laughed, but there was little humor in it. “I wish I had your optimism. I feel like I’ve been waiting for inspiration for—well, a long time—ever since…” He trailed off, his gaze drifting to the horizon.
She sensed there was more to his story, but she didn’t pry. He could tell her in his own time, or keep his secrets.
“So,” she said, “what story are you hoping to tell?”
His eyes widened in surprise, as if he hadn’t expected the question. “I…” He shrugged. “I’m not sure yet. I think I’ve lost sight of it.”
His hand drifted back to his pen, fidgeting with it. Frustration showed in every movement, in the tension across his shoulders.
“You know what I do when I’m stuck on a problem?” She adjusted her position in the chair, letting the sea breeze cool her face. “I bake. Or garden. Or take a walk along the shore. Anything but focus on the problem itself.”
“But I have deadlines.” He frowned. “My publisher?—”
“Will still be there whether you write today or not.” She gestured toward the water, where sailboats dotted the horizon. “This island has a way of helping people find what they need, but only if they let it.”
He raised an eyebrow. “You sound like you’re speaking from experience.”
“Oh, I’ve seen it happen more times than I can count. People come here wound up tight as a spring, and after a few days, they remember how to breathe again.”
“I suppose.” He set his notebook aside. “It’s just that writing used to be as natural as breathing. Now every word feels forced.”
“Then don’t force it. Take some time to explore. Take a walk. Visit the lighthouse. Grab dinner at Sharky’s. Try the fried grouper and make sure you get a side of hushpuppies. Sit and watch the sunset from the beach.” She leaned forward. “The words will come back when they’re ready. But first, you need to give yourself permission to just… be.”
His shoulders relaxed and for the first time since his arrival, she saw a glimmer of relief in his eyes.
“The island has its own rhythm,” she continued. “Slower, steadier than life on the mainland. There’s no rush here.”
He studied his cookie for a moment before taking another bite. He smiled at her. “This is delicious.”
“Family recipe. Been making them for years.” She paused, letting him enjoy the moment. “See? Sometimes the simplest pleasures are the best medicine.”
“You might be right.” He brushed the crumbs from his hands and looked out at the water again. “Maybe I have been pushing too hard.”
“The best stories come from living, not from staring at blank pages. Give yourself time to experience the island. The rest will follow.” She rose. “Well, I’ll leave you to it. Or you could just sit here and watch the boats pass by. It’s very relaxing.”
He nodded slowly. “Thanks for… the wise words. Maybe I will just sit back and enjoy my time here for a bit. Maybe that’s what I need.”
“Anytime.” She offered him the tray of cookies, and he took another one, smiling. She went back inside, hoping her words had helped him. He did look a tiny bit more at ease after they talked. But not enough to totally erase the haunted look in his eyes. The island would have to do its magic to help with that.
Mark settled deeper into the cushioned patio chair as Darlene went back inside. He turned his gaze to the garden, where brightly colored flowers swayed in the afternoon breeze. The second cookie he’d taken from Darlene sat untouched on the small table beside him, chocolate chips peeking out from the golden-brown surface.
The familiar scent of fresh-baked cookies stirred memories he usually kept locked away. Sarah had been the baker in their family, filling their home with the enticing scent of baked goods every Sunday afternoon. Even now, he could picture her hands dusted with flour, her reading glasses perched on the end of her nose as she studied her mother’s recipe cards. The ache in his chest, unrelenting these days, squeezed a little tighter.
Two years, four months, and twelve days since Sarah had gone. He really should stop counting…
The same amount of time since he’d written anything worth keeping. His agent called weekly now, asking about progress on the new novel. She said his publisher was getting nervous. That his advance might have to be paid back. There was talk of dropping him entirely from their stable of authors. At this point, did he really care? Did he have any stories left inside him?
But there was no progress to report no matter how often his agent called.
His fingers traced the worn edges of his notebook. Sarah had given it to him on their last Christmas together. “For your next bestseller,” she’d said, her eyes bright with the certainty that he’d fill those pages with another best-selling mystery.
