After this essay, I take a quick plunge into the refreshing water of the lake to give her a chance to assemble hermea culpa.
Oh, William. I’m so sorry. I didn’t mean to be disrespectful to you or Becky, and no, I did not know her name. First, I’m happy to change the title. You’re right, it’s way too on the nose. I’m lousy with titles, and I just grabbed it because—I guess it was in my mind after I visited your support group. My bad. It’s gone. My editor would likely have changed it anyway, even if you didn’t have a problem with it.
And second, at the risk of further upsetting you, the novel IS fiction. You know how this goes, too: something sparks inspiration, and then the rest of the project takes off from there, in a new direction. This has nothing to do with your life.
I shake off water, comb my hair back with my fingers, and type:
You’re mistaken, Simone. I do not agree. I am a person, not your “spark.” I don’t exist merely to light your fire.
But there is still a slim chance. I am in your hands. We are. The future perfect. All our gorgeous potential. Should you choose to kill this new project for the historical novel you were working on—and in which I had considerable creative equity, by the way—there’s room for another conversation.
I set the phone in the bag and lean back, closing my eyes. The sun has dipped toward the horizon and I can feel the mineral chill wafting off the big rock as I float half in light, half in shadow. The sun on my legs is warm. I hear a loon call and another answer.
The dry bag rattles. I listen to the loons for some time, and perhaps doze off, for when I open my eyes I have drifted back onto open water. I yawn, finish my electrolyte drink, and flick open my screen.
I hear you, William. Likewise, you’re very important to me, and I’m processing all of this. Are you still at the inn? I can skip the author dinner here tonight. Can you come to the retreat? Or shall I come there? Any challenging conversation is better had in person, and I would rather have this one with my foot on yours, or holding your hand.
She’s right, of course, under normal circumstances. These are not normal circumstances.
I rapidly peck back:
Honey, my schedule is not flexible. You know what it’s like on tour. I’m right in the middle of something.
I don’t feel it necessary to mention it’s the middle of a lake.
I can’t get away right now. Why do you think I didn’t answer you sooner? When I don’t respond, it’s because I’m engaged in something crucial.
The three dots. Pause. The three dots again.
Okay. Understood. And yes, I know what it’s like on tour. I have a few days left here, so as rattled as I am, I think I’m going to stay and work longhand. I need to give a statement to the police anyway, and with your permission I’m going to mention the Rabbit.
I mark this with a thumbs-up and wait, floating.
If you change your mind, if you get a break in the schedule, I’ll be here. If not, let’s please coordinate a meeting, okay? I’d really like to see you and talk this through. I’ve fallen for you, William. I hope it’s not too much to say that. I have great hopes for us too. And again, I’m sorry.
One of the loons pops up right in front of the kayak and regards me with his red devil eye before disappearing again.
I hear your apology, Simone. Let’s see if you actually back it up with action. If you make the right decision about your book, you know how to find me. Otherwise, I’ll be in touch when—and if—I’m ready. I require some space to nurse my sore heart. XO
The three dots, then Simone sendsXOXOX.A minute later,??.
I don’t respond. Nor do I put the phone back in the dry bag. I set it in my naked lap, squinting into the sinking sun and letting small waves carry me where they may. Thinking.
It’s a little astonishing to me I’m not just bringing the axe down. Perplexing, really. But Simone has always been an outlier. She’s so different from the women I’ve normally sought. She’s published, for onething. She’s relatively well known. She’s got a readership—at least, she did. She’s the only one who’s been anywhere close to my level of success. Not that most writers ever get here. I’ve been very lucky. Still, my other romantic possibilities have been unpublished. Aspiring. Grateful for my assistance. Call it what you will, ego or a savior complex, or perhaps I’m simply softhearted: I’ve always been drawn to women who need my help. I’m a giver that way.
Simone was a risk, no question, as a pattern change always is. Yet there was something about her that struck me ever since I was perusing social media before setting off on tour, idly scrolling in the bath, as one does. I had a list of women from the Darlings that I was cross-sectioning with profiles. Simone had not then been to the group, but one of her students had, a former journalist named Tabby, and when I tugged on that string, it led me to Simone. From the instant I saw Simone holding up a mic in her profile photo, I was intrigued. Simone waspiquant. I fancied I could see the hopeful eight-year-old beneath her painted face, and I thought:Yes. It’s you!I was concerned that she was published, by Hercules no less—but due diligence proved that only her first novel had done very well. Perhaps she was a one-hit wonder, and since then her literary star had lowered book by book. If it was beneath the horizon, she might welcome my guidance.
I was delighted to discover that my instincts were correct: Simone is in as much need as any of the others. Hapless. Floundering. Flaky—tossing away a potential book contract, and for what? Because she doesn’tfeelit? Amateur move. Luckily for her, she’s had me to help her. She’s got a decent mind, and I could feel the engine starting to churn, the pistons revolving, as she produced her idea and I helped her refine it. The rumrunner piloting his boat across Lake Superior, ferrying moonshine in his Tin Lizzie; the injuries to his wife and family; the ways they echoed through the generations: This is good stuff. But underdeveloped as a negative forgotten in a chemical bath, and now useless. How careless, how criminally thoughtless, of Simone to turn her back on a projectwe created to flit off to something else unspeakably base, commercial, and based on . . . me.
However. Simone might still be swayed back to historical fiction. We might still make amends. I’ve heard makeup sex is fantastic; I wouldn’t know, I’ve never had it, since if a woman offends me, gives me the slightest trouble, I just amputate. But I’m willing to pay out some rope in this case. There’s a chambermaid here at the inn whose shy smile is at odds with her wickedly flashing tongue ring; I’ll spend another night here finding out which speaks to her true nature. Clearing the pipes. Then I’ll visit Simone at the retreat tomorrow and we’ll have a conversation.
Meanwhile, a prudent man always has a backup plan, and a backup for his backup. In case my romance with Simone does not continue, even after I give her another chance... I remove my phone from my dry bag. No more texts from Simone, just a puzzled, injured silence I can almost feel smoking from it like dry ice. Good, she’s taken my point. I swipe open my social media and visit a few of the other profiles I have bookmarked for this occasion. I send a message here, drop a wave there.Luminous!?, I write on one post;Bewitching!??on another. Then I secure my phone in my dry bag a final time and, with the shadows growing long and the loons calling mating songs to each other, I stroke back toward shore.
Chapter 19
Into the Woods
Imagine my surprise, then, when I arrive at the Woodstock Hill retreat at noon the next day, armed with good intentions, only to see Simone... leaving.
