She sighs. “Some more than others. Speaking of crazy authors, how’s your big comeback novel coming along?”
Urgh. I was hoping to avoid this. “Good. Slow. I mean, it’s hard with the renos going on around me and the massive amount of yard work to get done before winter, but it’s starting to come.”
“Really? That’s great!” She sounds excited. Shit.
“Mmm-hmm, it feels great.”
Walt, who’s been sleeping for the last hour, sits up on the bed and stares at me, then shakes his head, almost as if he’s disgusted by the lies coming out of his food source’s mouth.
“What are you working on?”
“It’s really in the first stages, so I’m not ready to talk about it just yet.” Oh, the guilt. Tell her the truth, Abby. She’s your best friend. But she’s also your agent.
“Well, that’s just excellent.” Her voice brightens. “I cannot tell you how thrilled I am to hear that.”
“Yup. The words have been pouring out.” How far can I stretch the truth? Quite far it seems…
“Great! Just great. When you’re ready, I’m always around to talk plots or give feedback, or whatever you need.”
“I know. I’ll definitely take you up on that when I get stuck.” I wince at the hollow sound in my voice and pray she doesn’t notice.
“Listen, Abby, I just wanted to say that I was wrong about your move. It was clearly the right choice for you. Every time we talk, you sound better. More like yourself.”
“I feel better.” That part, at least, is true.
“It’s such a relief, honestly. You’ve given yourself a fresh start. You’re gardening and writing and exploring.” She sighs happily. “I mean, I still wish you were doing all those things about fifteen hours closer to me. I miss you every day, but I’m just so happy you’re doing any of those things at all. I’m proud of you.”
“Aww, thanks, Mom.”
“Take the compliment, Abby. I’m serious. You should be proud of what you’ve done.”
Ugh, that makes me feel so much worse. “Okay, Lauren. Thank you.”
She yawns loudly. “Okay, that’s it for me tonight. I need to get my beauty sleep.”
“Me too. Good night, my friend.”
“Good night.”
I hang up and glance over at Walt, whose eyes follow me as I get up to go brush my teeth. “All right, quit judging me. I wasn’t lying. I was just talking about what I am going to do. In the future. Starting tomorrow. Possibly.”
* * *
The next day, we get an unexpected rainstorm which annoys Liam to no end because he and Colton only have about two more hours of work up on the roof. Colton stayed home and is likely in front of his computer at the moment. Liam’s working on the main floor bathroom, which shares a wall with the den. I can tell it’s not going well because every few minutes I hear a thump, followed by a loud curse word. I’m actually sitting at my desk, but since the thought of writing an actual book makes me want to throw up, I’ve undertaken the monumental task of answering the over three-thousand emails that have been patiently waiting for several months now.
I have just written a long reply to a fan who has sent me a very terse note admonishing me for not writing a book about the Duchess of Wiltshire yet. Apparently, I’m ruining her life and letting down readers everywhere, who areallgoing to lose faith in historical romance writers around the globe. My lengthy, rather nasty reply—designed to make her feel roughly the height of an ant—outlined in cruel detail Isaac’s illness and last few days, followed by my numb and grief-filled existence since his death.
As soon as I signed it off, I promptly deleted it and started the second draft—a much shorter reply, including a quick acknowledgment of the pain of waiting for something you truly enjoy, a brief overview of what has happened in my life, and a thank you for reading my work and taking the time to reach out. I ended by stating my sincere wish to get back to work soon.
The moment I hit send, I see Liam carrying the old toilet out to the front door. I get up and hurry to open it for him, but he’s somehow managed it with one hand by the time I get there. I watch as he lifts it into the bin, then turns to the house, his hair and shirt already drenched.
“Finally got it?”
“Yup. That was one stubborn old bastard of a toilet.” He wipes his face with his forearm. “Just like me, I suppose.”
“Stubborn bastard, maybe, but you’re not old.”
He chuckles. “Tell that to Olive. She thinks I’m ancient.”
