Mitch flipped the letter over. “Pot roast is fine.”
She lingered. “Need anything?”
He scowled at the screen. “Just to get these words done.” He angrily tapped the Delete key until his opening line was gone.
“Right. Sorry.” She left.
He sat back in his chair, once again bested by the blank page. Soft sounds filtered in from the kitchen. Joyce putting groceries away or something.
He closed his eyes and imagined it was Jeanie instead. Just for a few seconds. It was unnecessarily indulgent and letting himself believe she was still here was foolish. That way lay madness.
Eyes open again, he steepled his fingers and tried to imagine what Charlie Nightingale, the half-vampire lead investigator of the Blackstone Detective Agency, might be doing at this point in the storyline. At the end of the last book, she’d been contemplating joining forces with the local werewolf pack to help track down a serial killer.
Maybe he should start with her meeting with the pack leader. Or was that too expected? Or was it okay to start with the expected? He groaned in frustration, mad at his indecision. He’d never had any trouble writing until Jeanie got sick.
Why had she been taken from him? He needed her. That was never going to change.
Without meaning to, he found himself staring at the letter from Arlington again. He turned it over so his name was visible. Seeing Arlington’s handwriting was bittersweet. Mitch picked the envelope up and tapped it against his palm. Then he tucked it away in his top desk drawer.
Some other time. When his words were done, and maybe when the mail Joyce had dropped on his desk was dealt with.
He went back to contemplating the empty screen in front of him. He typed out, “Chapter One.” But that just made the lack of words more obvious. Maybe he should reread Book Seven. That might jumpstart some ideas. He’d take notes of any loose threads, anything that could give him some scenes for this book.
At the very least, the reading would eat up a day or two.
He got up, pulled a copy of the book from the shelf, and lay down on the couch in his office to read. It felt like actual work. Well, it was. But it was progress. And that was good.
Even better, from the couch, he couldn’t see the blank screen.
ChapterTen
Harper stood in front of a photo of Arlington, Jackson, and Teddy Marsh. The same photo hung in Arlington’s office in his California home, but it looked like it had been taken on the beach here.
The three were standing on the sand, the blue ocean the perfect backdrop to their Hollywood good looks. But it was Arlington she was focused on. “I don’t know about befriending that man, Arlington. I don’t think he wants a friend. Not saying he probably doesn’t need one, but he’s not nice. How am I supposed to befriend a man who wants nothing to do with anyone? Most of all me.”
Arlington, of course, did not answer.
She sighed. “I get that the death of his wife wrecked him. I take it your passing wasn’t good for him, either. On that, we share common ground, but I don’t think it’s enough to get him to let me in. Honestly, I’m not surehowto get in. He has a lot of emotional walls up. The man isclosedoff.”
She shook her head. “I know you want me to befriend him, and Iamgoing to try, but just telling you now, I’m not sure I can make it happen.”
Arlington seemed to be looking directly at her, that knowing smile of his saying she could do it. That he believed in her.
That was so like him. She rolled her eyes. “I’ll make another attempt. If the opportunity arises. That’s the best I can offer at this point.”
She walked away. She didn’t have much to do until Frankie arrived, so she worked on reading the last few chapters of the memoir, finishing up her notes, and putting her thoughts into an email. She wouldn’t send it yet. She’d sleep on it, reread what she’d written, tweak it some, and make sure it was gentle and supportive while still being truthful.
Then she’d probably let it sit another day before doing one more read-through. At that point, she’d hit Send. She worked hard to craft her words and the feeling of such an email. Her clients deserved constructive criticism that was also kind.
They could get harsh, slanted analysis from the world around them. Every so-called influencer on social media would weigh in on this book when it was published. Harper hoped to spare her client from as much negativity as possible.
She couldn’t protect them from all of it. There were people on social media who made their money from being snarky and unkind. It was their brand. Those people were never going to change until the general public stopped feeding into their style of journalism.
Calling it journalism was like saying a selfie was the same as modeling, but that’s how those people saw themselves.
They were everything that was wrong with the world. People needed more kindness, not less. She sighed. They were the same people who would gleefully destroy her if the truth ever came out.
She went back to reading, jotting thoughts and suggestions down in her notebook as she did.
