“Indeed.”
The boys have gone suspiciously quiet, and we both look out at the large maple trees in the sizable garden beyond the brick patio.
“Eddie? Charlie?” Lana says.
One of them replies with a noise that sounds similar to what I expect a sick jungle bird might make, and the other hoots like an owl.
I sip my tea and smile.
Lana relaxes back into her chair. “I really will kill you if one of them falls out of the tree. I don’t have the bandwidth to handle broken bones on top of getting Mom prepped for moving into the home.”
“’Tis a risk one takes when one decides their children cannot live on electronics alone, and lucky for both of us, I have all the time in the world to play nursemaid if necessary.”
She points to the notebook balanced on my knee. “Did your computer finally die?”
Ah, the computer.
My lucky laptop computer.
I’ve written all of my best scripts on it, and it’s so ancient that it now runs at a speed that could be outpaced by a drunken snail who has forgotten how to move. It also randomly orders my equally ancient printer to spit out random web pages, old scripts, and the occasional email chain.
“She’s operating as well as ever,” I tell Lana.
“That’s not the flex you think it is.”
I smile.
“Is the fresh air helping with inspiration?” she asks.
The lovely thing about Lana is that I don’t have to keep up pretenses.
So I have no problem letting her see me grimace as I, too, look down at my notes. “I find myself in a conundrum.”
“That must be uncomfortable.”
“I’ve found a plot for the show the studio ordered.”
One of her delicate eyebrows arches. “And the problem is…?”
I could lie to her. Invent some ridiculous reason that this is a problem. Blame a cowriter.
But this could affect her too, and if there’s anything that I owe the mother of my children, it’s honesty.
Especially as I know the studio well enough to know it’s likely they’ll love this pitch and greenlight it immediately.
She’ll see the entire thing on television soon enough.
“It’s rather inspired by living…here.”
She purses her lips together and stares at me.
I shift in my seat.
“This house here?” she asks.
“Did you know that the former owner of this house held a week-long wake in the sunken living room for her husband when he passed? I was unaware that was a tradition here.”
“Zada Young used it as an opportunity to show off her house since no one had been inside for twenty years. I came to the wake.”
