“Wednesday and Friday?”
“Tuesday and Friday for trash, Wednesday for recycling.”
“I can remember that.” He’d write it down as soon as he got into his office. In fact, he’d put it on the calendar, so he didn’t forget.
She finished folding the shirt and put it on top of his pile. “What’s brought this on?”
He shrugged, frowning. “Nothing. I’m just outside more than you anyway. Might as well do it.”
She nodded slowly. He knew that nod. It meant she didn’t believe him, but she was letting it go. “What would you like for breakfast then?”
“I need to shower first, but eggs would be fine. And coffee.” He checked the pot on the counter. It was full. He went over to pour himself a cup and take it in with him.
“Toast? Bacon?” She looked at him again. “I’ve got a little goat’s cheese I could scramble with the eggs and for the toast, there’s some of that good strawberry jam from the farmers market.”
He nodded, cup in hand. “Whatever you feel like making. I’m going to shower.”
That ended the conversation. He went into the bedroom, grabbed a change of clothing for the day, just his usual uniform of jeans and a T-shirt, and went into the bathroom.
He was quick today, even though the hot water felt good. He wanted to get to work. See if he could come up with an opening for the new book. He felt oddly optimistic. No, not exactly optimistic. But less pessimistic than usual. It felt like something he needed to act on.
When he returned to the kitchen with his empty cup, hair still damp, feet bare, Joyce was just slipping an omelet onto a plate next to two slices of bacon. The deep yellow omelet was flecked with bits of green. Chives or parsley, he wasn’t sure.
Bread popped up from the toaster. She set the plate down and got his toast, putting it on a second, smaller plate and buttering it. Then she carried both to the table, which had been cleared of laundry. A placemat sat waiting, accessorized by a napkin, fork, and knife. A pot of strawberry jam wearing a homemade label sat nearby, along with salt and pepper.
She returned to get the coffee. “Refill?”
He nodded, unsure what he’d done to deserve the spread or the extra service. It couldn’t just be offering to take out the trash. Could it? He stood there, slightly frozen by the change.
She refilled his cup, then returned the carafe to the warmer. “Sit. Eat. Before it gets cold. I’m off to the market soon. I’ll check the post office box, too. Need anything?”
He hadn’t moved from where he was standing. He snapped out of his disbelief and shook his head. “Nothing I can think of.”
“Fish for dinner tonight. Not sure what kind. Need to see what’s fresh.”
“Okay.” He moved to the table and sat, putting his cup down. The view from the kitchen table was one of Jeanie’s favorites. Blue above and below with touches of green. “Thank you,” he called out as Joyce headed down the steps.
“You’re welcome,” she called back. There was a smile in her voice.
He frowned. She was up to something. That’s what all of this was about. He didn’t know what she was planning, but he wanted none of it. She’d schemed a few times before. Once trying to get him to go to a grief-share meeting at her church. Another time, she’d invited a woman over, also from her church.
A woman about his age, single, and new to the area.
Like he was even remotely interested.
He spread jam on the toast before cutting into the omelet with his fork. Between the layers of perfectly cooked egg was a thin smear of goat cheese and a sprinkle of spring onion. It was one of his favorite omelets and she hadn’t made it in ages. Not that he’d asked.
She was definitely up to something.
He ate, devouring the meal and downing his second cup of coffee. He cleaned up, putting the dishes in the dishwasher and wiping off the table. The less she had to do for him, the better. He refilled his cup and retreated to his office, closing the door so she’d know not to disturb him.
Today was the day he broke the seal on the new book. Didn’t matter if the opening was subpar, he was writingsomething. Even crap was better than a blank page. It had to be. This was getting ridiculous.
Setting his coffee down, he opened his laptop and logged in. He checked his email first, as always.
Not surprisingly, there was a message from Lucinda, asking when he was going to sign the Netflix contract.
He sighed. What was he waiting for? He knew the answer to that. He wanted to be sure he actually had another book in him before he signed it, but did that matter? Netflix was doing their own thing with the books anyway, so what if the new book wasn’t any good? His publisher could always hire a ghost to fix it.
