“I’d expect you to have more character,” I say.
I open the door. “I was just about to tender an invitation,” I say. “To my island in Maine, after my tour. I had a plan. Icalendarizedit. I wanted to let you into my home, writing sanctuary, my private life. But I can’t be with a woman I can’t trust. Think it over, Simone. It’s your choice. Youdecide.”
I leave and stand outside the door. I hear nothing. Simone is not crying. I am annoyed. These tactics would have worked with the others. Not with Simone. Damn her. How could I have been mistaken? All this investment, wasted. But it is possible I am overreacting, especially after the shock of hearing her plot. Perhaps by morning, Simone will have seen the error of her ways. I walk down the stairs and out into the night, as I said I would do; Simone, like the others, will come to understand that I always mean what I say.
Chapter 18
On the Lake
I’m in a kayak in the middle of a lake near the inn when the texts start coming in. I can hear them rattling my phone in the dry bag the innkeepers thoughtfully provided with the boat. God forbid we should be without our devices in this age of documenting as we live, perchance to make others jealous. For me, the phone is also marketing; I’m sure my readers would appreciate a shot or two of where I am now, the red kayak on the blue water of this lake, in a bowl of mountains, surrounded by pine trees so crisp they could be used as a scratch-and-sniff. The white clouds, the late-September sunshine. And, bonus, a selfie of my shirtless chest, glistening and seal-slick postswim.intermission, my caption would read, with my characteristic e.e. cummings brevity and lowercase punctuation, orwish you were here. Responses would come pouring in:I wish I were there, too!... WTG taking some down time!... when are you coming to MY bookstore?... nice pecs lolz!... #inspiring #smokeshow #faveauthor.If they could see I am completely naked, as I believe in being as much as possible, it might break the literary internet.sun’s out, buns out!It’s unlikely my publisher has numbers correlating what Simone once referred to as “writer man meat” with book sales, but I have no doubt the connection exists.
Alas for my readers, I have the phone with me for a different reason today, and that is Simone herself. I am waiting to see if she expressesadequate contrition. I am not yet sure what she would have to do to weasel back into my good graces, but she sure as hell had better start trying. I stayed away from our room until 5:30 a.m., when the bird orchestra was tuning up outside. Simone was asleep when I let myself in, or more likely pretending to be. She was deft at it. She breathed with little snorts and sighs while I stood watching her. Cogitating. Weighing things.
She “woke” quickly, however, when I got back into bed with her, and she slipped a warm hand into my briefs, which I had kept on to signal my displeasure. I let her fondle me for a few moments before I deliberately moved to my own side of the bed. I then slept; I am blessed by being able to slumber in any circumstance. I don’t know whether Simone did or not. When I woke, I didn’t say a word but instead slid under the covers and lapped her with my tongue until her yells became yelps became yips—tending to Simone is often like being in an X-rated Dr. Seuss book—then got up, showered alone, dressed, and extended my arm. I walked her to the inn’s dining room, where we had breakfast, croissants and jam. We strolled around the grounds, and I praised the chest-high wildflowers, the preponderance of bees in the designated pollinator areas.
I could feel Simone watching me, her small but powerful mental engine churning as she tried to deduce, from my behavior, what to say. Whether to apologize; whether to further defend or explain herself—which would have been a grave mistake; whether my prebreakfast meal of her meant I had forgiven her; what would happen next. When I accompanied her to her car to return her to her retreat, she ventured,Are we okay?I leaned in through her window and kissed her.That’s up to you, I said. I tapped on the roof of her car to send her on her way.
Now her texts, for of course they are from her, indicate significant distress.
Hi, William.??Well, it must be Mercury retrograde or something, because in addition to our disagreement, when I got back to the retreat, my room had been broken into. Everything was tossed and my laptop was missing—which makes unfortunate sense because it was the only thing of value.
I could be grateful, because thanks to my being with you, my wallet and phone weren’t in the room, but of course if I’d been there, the break-in wouldn’t have happened.
I feel like the past 24 hours are a terrible dream I’d like to wake up from. I can’t tell which upsets me more, honestly, the theft or our argument. It’s probably a toss-up. Can we talk, please?
??
I bob gently in the kayak as I read these messages. I could point out the irony of Simone being burgled after she so wantonly proposed stealing my life story. This might constitute, in her mildly woo-woo view, karmic redress. Instead, I type:
Esclknfakre70379rujklscnklaefih;;;
... and erase it without sending, so she’ll see the three dots rippling, then ceasing.
I put the phone in the dry bag and paddle to another part of the lake, an inlet next to a large rock with sheltering pines growing from it. It’s amazing that in my afternoon here, there have been no speedboats or Jet Skis to blast top country hits or kick up disturbing wake. Perhaps because it’s a September weekday, the kids back in school, but still, a minor miracle.
The dry bag is silent. I can practically feel Simone quivering as she tries not to check her phone. I take mine out again.
Hi Simone.
I’m sorry to hear about the break-in. That must upset your equilibrium considerably. From what I recall of my time at the retreat, the owners are very conscientious. I hope they’re able to assist you in locating your laptop. Have you/they called the police? Is it insured? I assume you’ve backed up your files.
I assume no such thing. In fact, I’ve verified the opposite is true. So many writers don’t save their work. Superstition, or a fear of making something seem like business when they believe it’s a magical act. I myself back up religiously, but not to any drive that might be stolen; instead, I email myself my work via a password-protected account under a pseudonym. Simone, however, is one of the careless ones. There were no thumb or zip drives in her apartment, and she’s superstitious. When I asked her about it, she told me she never shows her work until a first draft is done—past the point of miscarriage, she said. She works within one document and several handwritten journals. She doesn’t back up.
The response dots are rippling; of course they are. Before her next message can come through, I write:
I don’t know what Mercury retrograde is or what it might have to do with anything, but as far as we are concerned, I meant what I said this morning. And last night. Assuming you were actively listening and not merely attempting to defend an indefensible position.
Simone, I’m embarrassed to admit how much I’ve already planned our life together. I have pictured you on the small island I call home, wandering the shoreline in the morning with a mug of coffee I have made for you in your hand. I have pictured us stargazing on my dock, holding you on my lap beneath the Milky Way. I have thought about where we could set up shop in my house, where I could offer you a space that provides both a view and privacy. Of course, I have imagined us in our bed.
The three dots have disappeared. I can feel Simone scanning my messages, collating them through that quick brain of hers. Holding her breath.
I have permitted myself to wonder if you are the partner I have searched for my whole life. Now, since you confessed the topic of your new novel, those dreams are dashed.
Not only have you used me, my time, creative passion, and yes, my love, to develop a project you discarded like yesterday’s lettuce—I am speaking, of course, of our rumrunner—you have shown the greatest insensitivity about Becky. Did you even know her name? Becky Bowman, my first Darling. Did you ever ask me about her? A single question? You did not because to me she was a person, is a person, whereas to you she is a character, a pawn to be moved around the fictional board as it suits you.
Now the dots are rippling. Again, I am too swift for her.
You will no doubt protest that it’s fiction. That your characters bear no resemblance to the people I lived with and treasured. I sincerely doubt it. Even the title, as I mentioned last night, is a dead giveaway of your plagiarizing my past.
