Merritt stared at him, not letting him off the hook. He wanted to close his eyes to hide from the glare, but he wanted to stand firm, too. He did believe in Merritt, but there was a lot riding on this.
“Just what did you tell her?”
Merritt dropped her head backwards, clearly annoyed, but after a moment she straightened back up.
“I told her I was helping you with copy. I kept it very vague.”
Whit considered this with squinted eyes, talking as he thought. “So I, who have written several books on my own, suddenly need to hire someone to do some sort of copy—”
“Oh stop,” Merritt said, standing up. “That’s basically what she said, too.”
Whit had never seen her like this.Miffedwas the word that came to mind, and he understood, but still, he needed this to all work out.
“We’ll just workshop the line,” he said eventually, “and work on your, uh,mediocrelying skills.”
To his surprise, and clearly despite her best efforts, Merritt laughed.
“Shut up, please.”
Whit nodded, and Merritt sat again, this time sideways in her chair.
“And please trust me, Whit,” she added. “I won’t mess this up.”
Whit nodded. “I believe you,” he said, and he really wanted to mean it.
They started writing soon after, in the living room with the fireplace going. They were in it now, writing what could eventually become the first few chapters of Helen’s book. Merritt had an uncanny knack for imitating the narrative voice, and she knew the characters like they were her own inventions. But Whit was an experienced novelist, and he had a better handle on plot, suspense, stakes, satisfying revelations. He did a lot of concurrent editing of Merritt’s words, cutting here or asking her to elaborate there, occasionally suggesting something that Merritt would then acknowledge good-naturedly but unenthusiastically. Only once, days ago, had she outright laughed at his ignorance: he’d suggested that they bring in a character who had famously died a tragic death in book3.
“Shecouldcome back,” he had said, laughing as well, despite himself. “It’s a magic world, isn’t it?”
“Yes,” Merritt had said, rubbing her eyes, “in which one of the three primary and oft-repeated rules is that no oneeverreturns from the dead.”
“Oh, shut up.”
Today they were more in the zone than usual, keeping their side conversations to a minimum as Merritt researched an allusion in book 4 that she thought might be worth capitalizing on in book 5; Whit was doing his thing, reading and rereading what they’d already written, cutting and condensing here, pushing for more there, and adding to or adjusting their copious outline in aneffort to give the story all of the thrust and inevitability and occasional surprise of a good mystery novel.
Still, Whit kept feeling antsy, thinking about Diana and the tiff with Merritt and, beneath all that, worrying again that he was somehow doing something wrong. He had to keep telling himself to sit on his hands, to refrain from suggesting they take a break fifteen minutes in, then thirty minutes in. Finally, the hour mark rolled around.
“Break?” he said, cutting Merritt off midsentence. “I mean... sorry. Should we break in a minute? It’s been an hour.”
Merritt glanced at the clock on her phone. “Yeah, sure,” she said, clearly surprised.
“Actually, do you think we could go on a walk or something? I’ve got all this nervous energy for some reason, and I think I need to get rid of it.”
“A walk? It’s freezing.”
“Maybe for Texas,” he joked, “but in New England this is basically spring. Come on, I’ll show you my favorite trail. It’s where I go when I have writer’s block.”
“Do you have writer’s block right now?”
“No.”
Merritt considered this, then shrugged. “Sure, fine.”
“What?”
“It’s just...” Merritt paused and searched the ceiling with her eyes. “I’m starting to see why you haven’t written very much. All these breaks you take.”
She smiled in a prodding way, and Whit smiled back, shaking his head as if she had disappointed him.
