“I don't think you're going to be escaping today.” He lifts his enormous coffee mug to his lips and takes a long gulp of what I know to be coffee so strong it could lift a car to save a trapped baby—a little habit he picked up when he was studying English literature at Harvard. Why anyone would leave the birthplace of the English language to study the subject is beyond me, but somehow Zach came home with an incredibly keen eye and the ability to spot a plot hole from a mile away. That combination, and his dry sense of humour, make him the only person to whom I would trust one of my books. “That fog has grounded all of this morning’s flights.”
“It’ll lift by noon and my plane isn't scheduled to leave until three.”
His expression says ‘damn, foiled again,’ because Zach, along with my agent, Judith, do not want me to disappear into the jungle for the next two months. Apparently, they not only doubt my ability to be any more productive there than I am here, but they’re also terrified that if word gets out that I’ve disappeared into the jungles of the West Indies, NBO may just relinquish the two-month deadline.
Seeming to decide to drop the topic (a wise choice), he asks, “How did the writing go last night?”
“I'd rather not talk about it.”
“You know, if you just show me the pages you've got, I'm certain I could help you crack the story wide open. A lot of my clients—”
I hold up one hand. “I'm going to stop you right there. You know my process better than anyone. Let's not mess with the process.” I rinse my razor under the tap, then start on my right cheek.
“Yes, I'm well aware of your process, Pierce. But it doesn't appear to be working for you this time. I’m not sure if you saw the interview Cromwell gave last night when he was leaving the Prince’s Gala, but I’m afraid you’ve pushed him to his limit.”
“I saw the interview but it’s really nothing new. Kent said the same thing last week. Many thanks for calling to remind me my career is hanging on by one bending fingernail, though.”
“Anytime. Now, about this trip… I’ve thought of a delightful alternative—somewhere much closer to home, with a more moderate climate, no mosquitoes carrying the Zika virus…”
“If you’re referring to the cottage in Bath, my stupid brother is hiding out there at the moment, so you may as well give up.” My younger brother, Leopold—yes,thatLeo, the one who allegedly (read: definitely) flashed the Queen at the garden party celebrating her 90th birthday—has managed to stir up a hornet’s nest here at the Valcourt Palace. His latest antics have finally resulted in our father washing his hands of him, which has upset our mother (who believes the sun rises and sets out of her youngest son’s behind) to no end. My eldest brother, the tow-the-family-line, uber-responsible (read: total prick) Greyson, actually issued a statement on behalf of Davenport Communications that the corporation has severed ties with Leo and that he is no longer welcome at any of the properties owned by the corporation. So, that’s going to make for a lovely family Christmas dinner, don’t you think?
“How about a quaint castle on the north shore? Remember when you met Princess Arabella and she offered it up for you if you ever needed a quiet getaway?” He waggles his eyebrows at me. “A little getaway with a possible side order of royal action?”
“As tempting as that is, I probably should focus on my work at the moment.” Flipping open the lid of my towel steamer, I pull out a face cloth and clean off the remaining shaving cream.
“God, those warm towels always look so inviting. I tried heating a wet cloth in the microwave the other day, but it didn't work out as well as I'd hoped.”
“Is that how you got that angry blister on your forehead?”
Nodding, he says, “Apparently when you heat something like that in the microwave, it comes out with hot spots that will scald you.”
“Do you really have to shave your forehead? You’ve never looked that hairy to me.”
“Very funny. I was trying to give myself a bit of a man spa.” A sheepish look crosses his face.
If it were anyone else admitting that to me, I’d go after themhard, but with Zach, I just can’t. The poor bastard really doesn’t have a lot going for him, so I’m not about to have a go at his expense. “Now, I believe you were about to try to talk me out of my badly-needed escape from the crushing pressure under which I’ve existed for over seven hundred days…”
“Right. Yes, back to this snake-infested island of insanity where you will certainly spend the next two months typing, ‘All work and no play makes Pierce a very dull boy…’”
“I’ll be just fine. I've been assured it's heaven on earth, which I doubt includes snakes or insect infestations.”
“But Zika is a definite possibility. The entire Caribbean is crawling with it.”
“You may want to fact check that one. But even in the event you’re right, Zika doesn't frighten me because I'm not trying to get pregnant this year. Besides, I shall pretty much be inside the villa day and night until I can finally type ‘THE END,’ so unless there are dangerous wild reptilesindoors, I shall consider myself much safer than I am here in Valcourt with all the snakes camped outside my building.”
“What about having to go through the torturous process of adjusting to a new set of servants? Remember how long it took for Mrs. Bailey to figure you out and how annoyed you were until she did?” Zach asks.
“Ha! Here's the funny thing—the housekeeper on the island is Mrs. Bailey’s sister, so really it will feel very much like home. I'm sure she's filled her in on my little quirks.”
“Seriously?”
“Yes, that's how Mrs. Bailey got me in on the soft launch of the island.”
“Soft launch? Aren't you the one that always says a soft launch is just an excuse to turn a poor man into a guinea pig?”
“Trust me, for what I'm paying, I guarantee there will be no experimenting.”
“I still think you should reconsider. What if—?”
