He reached down to pet Brontë. “Nothing wrong with that, right girl?”
She gave a thwack of her tail and closed her eyes.
Joe smiled, gave her a last pat, and turned to me. “How’s the book? Making it shine?”
I grinned. He forgot nothing of our previous conversations.
“Not yet,” I said. “Still have to finish it. Then I’ll at least try to make it sound not quite so rudimentary, so my editor won’t think I’m completely daft.”
“I’ll never believe you don’t write anything but glorious first drafts, my friend.”
“You are very generous, Joe.”
“You tip well.”
I laughed.
“Want a hot tip for your next article?” he asked.
“Always.”
He pointed. “A couple blocks down that way, take a right, and a few houses down there’s a gorgeous hollowed-out tree trunk the owner had made into a free little library. I even glimpsed one of your books in there.”
I pressed a hand to my chest. “Only one?”
“Shameful, I know. But maybe they treasure the others.”
“Well now I need to know which one they didn’t like enough to keep.”
Joe laughed. “And there’s your story. The One They Didn’t Keep.”
Brontë and I made sure to pass by the woodland creation on our way home. It was a perfect way to make use of the old tree, and felt very storybook-like with its strand of tiny fairy lights and small selection of books tucked within. I noted with a grin that my book was no longer there, took a few pictures with my phone, memorized the location, and decided the free little libraries in the area definitely needed to be recognized. I couldn’t wait to hear how I was going to owe Joe for this particular tip.
An hour later I was at my laptop, deep into a new chapter. When the timer went off, I saved my file, shut the laptop, gave Brontë a treat, refilled her water bowl, and took the stairs two at a time, hurrying upstairs for a quick workout followed by a shower.
Having hit my word count for the day, I spent the rest of the afternoon doing chores, paying bills, and perusing the internet for homes for sale in the area, as well as homes for sale in Seattle where Marley would be attending college. I then checked to see if Lior had posted anything new.
“Where is she?” I whined aloud. Brontë’s ears perked and she glanced up at me. “Do you know?” I leaned down and petted her head, staring into her age-fogged eyes.
If she did know, she wasn’t saying.
Bored, I opened my work in progress again, but my heart wasn’t in it. I was distracted, thoughts of Lior and that damn slinky black tank from our moment in the rain filling my mind again. The way the raindrops clung to her eyelashes and lips. I felt myself going hard and exhaled.
“Well, at least I know I’m not completely dead inside,” I muttered and pushed back from the table.
Nothing could wilt a promising erection like walking through the stark, cold home you’d shared with your now ex-wife. So that’s what I did for the next half hour.
I meandered from room to room, staring at the empty walls, angular, uncomfortable furniture, and the mostly empty side of her closet – save for a box of stuff she’d left behind and had never come back for. I lifted off the lid now and reeled at the image that greeted me. I’d forgotten I’d thrown a framed wedding photo of us inside. I picked it up and looked at what was beneath it. Trinkets that had sat on top of her dresser, makeup, a hairbrush, a pair of slippers, and some other odds and ends.
“Screw it,” I said, heaving the box into my arms. “To the trash you go.”
I had just dropped these last remnants of my marriage into the outside bin when my phone began to ring.
Francesca, my agent. My spirits lifted. She only ever called if it was good news.
“Hey, Fran. What’s up?” I said, walking back into the house feeling a little bit lighter.
“You have dinner plans this evening?” she asked.
