“You’re right,” she finally admitted to her friend. “This place is perfect.”
“Of course I’m right.”
Trish wished her best friend had joined her for this retreat week. Mindy was so much more outgoing. She’d make sure Trish took advantage of every exciting opportunity, even if it meant shoving her out of her comfort zone. “Call you later?”
“You better. And Trish?”
“Yes?”
“Maybe steer clear of mud puddles?”
* * *
“There’s our final writer now,”Lina called warmly as Trish entered the dining room to find a gaggle of women at a large table. Some were munching on veggies and some sort of fancy crackers with dip. Lina stood with a smile. “Trish, please come join us so we can get introductions underway.”
Upstairs, Trish had intended setting up her laptop and starting on her new story, but minutes after she got off the phone with Mindy, a wave of exhaustion struck. Knowing it might be the only opportunity this week to get in a nap, she decided to take advantage.
“Come, sit by me.” An older woman with purple-rimmed glasses pulled out the empty chair beside her and motioned for Trish to sit.
Mingle. I’m supposed to mingle.
Once Trish was seated, Lina clapped her hands together from the head of the table. It didn’t look as if she planned to sit. “Dinner will be served in a little over an hour, but I thought it would be fun to introduce ourselves. Tell us where you’re from and what kind of romance you enjoy writing. Maybe throw a fun fact in there for good measure.”
“I’m Glenda Gibbons,” said the woman next to Trish who’d offered her a seat. “I live in Rapid City.” After a quick pause, she added, “South Dakota.”
A couple women nodded, as if that answered some unspoken question. Trish thought she might mention she’d spent the night there last night, but Glenda continued before she had a chance. “I write mostly historical western romances. Twelve written and published to date. Working on lucky number thirteen this week. And fun fact . . . I’m a new grandma!”
Thirteen?Trish swallowed. Was everyone else here published?
“I’m Marti Swanson.” The woman seated on the other side of Glenda tightened her sandy colored ponytail with a pull as she spoke. “From a small town in Illinois. I write women’s fiction, but all my books have a romantic element and western flare. I like my women strong, independent.” She reached for a carrot from the veggie tray. “Oh, I like to run every day. Usually five or six miles.”
Trish felt panic rise. She’d only finished writing one book no one had ever read, and she didn’t think there was a single interesting thing about her. It wasn’t as though she could brag about a boyfriend she no longer had. She didn’t do Pilates or speak a second language.
Two more authors introduced themselves, but Trish found she’d tuned out until it was her turn. With a sheepish smile, she told the women her name. “I drove up from Omaha.” She cleared her throat, wishing she’d filled her goblet with water while she was waiting her turn. “I’m a new writer. Just finished my first book a couple of weeks ago, actually.”
The table erupted in excitement and words of praise. Trish surveyed the smiling women in suspicion. “It’s just one book.”
“Finishing your first book ishuge!” Glenda cooed. “It took me six years to finish my first one. I hope you celebrated?”
The first bits of pride burst from Trish. These womenunderstood. “I had a small party,” she admitted, deciding to leave out the detail about Henry skipping out. “It was fun.”
“Have you started your next?” another author asked—Lizzie, maybe?
“That’s what I hope to work on this week,” Trish answered.
“What about a fun fact?” Lina asked. “What can you share with us?”
Trish tried to think of something. Anything. But her day job working in a cubicle for a large corporation wasn’t something she considered interesting. In fact, only Henry seemed to think she’d landed a golden opportunity to build a career with a prestigious company. “I don’t know what there is to tell,” she finally admitted. “Writing is my interesting fact.”
“Oh, surely there’s something,” Glenda said. “Any pets?”
“Not even a goldfish.”
“Surely a young, pretty thing like you has a special man in her life?” Marti—the one with the ponytail—added.
“Well . . .” Trish debated how much to spill. She hadn’t intended to tell anyone about Henry. But these women, with their encouraging smiles and trusting eyes, broke her. “I was dating a man, Henry. He was supposed to come to my book celebration party, but he didn’t think it was important. He decided last minute to go golfing instead.”
The hisses of disapproval echoed in the room, empowering Trish to continue.
