“No, just let me have that cup of coffee and I’ll knock on his door.” Harper prayed she didn’t make things worse. But he had signed an NDA and asked her to work for him. Whether he liked it or not, this was part of the service. Even if he hadn’t signed up for it.
She wasn’t about to let one of the nation’s most entertaining storytellers disappear into the murky depths of grief. It was hard, she understood that. But it was easier when you weren’t alone. That much she could do for him.
They went upstairs, neither of them saying a thing. Joyce poured her a cup of coffee, putting out sugar and cream after she’d handed the cup over.
Harper fixed the cup the way she liked it, took a quick sip, then nodded at Joyce.
Joyce nodded back and whispered, “You know the way?” She pointed toward the door, too.
Harper nodded and whispered back, “Wish me luck.” She had a feeling she was going to need it.
She went to the door, found her courage, and knocked. “Mitch? It’s me. Harper. I hope you don’t mind, but I had a great idea for the book, and I wanted to talk to you about it.”
There was no response. No noise, either. She waited a few more moments before calling out again. “Mitch? You there?”
The door opened a crack. Not enough for her to see in or see him. “We can talk about it later. Today’s not a good day.”
The door closed.
Harper swallowed and dove in. She wasn’t going to get a second chance. “Grief is like that, isn’t it? You think you’re making progress and then, bam, you’re not. You’re right back in the deep end and swimming feels like so much work. Maybe…too much work.”
One second ticked by. Then another. Then the door opened, slightly wider than the first time. “I appreciate whatever you’re trying to do but it won’t help.”
“Okay, maybe it won’t. Would you like company anyway? We don’t have to talk at all.”
She could hear him sigh. To her mind, it sounded like he was looking for another way to say no.
The door opened a little further. Mitch was in a rumpled T-shirt and loose drawstring pants, barefoot, unshaven, hair uncombed. The dark circles under his eyes completed the picture. He hadn’t slept much, if at all. “There’s nothing you can do for me.”
She nodded. “You’re right. There isn’t.”
His eyes narrowed. “What do you mean? Isn’t that why you’re here? To talk me out of this?”
“No. I’m here just to be here. For you. No one can talk you out of grief. I know some things you can do for yourself that might help, but you have to go through the process. Do you want to go through it? Or do you really want to be left alone?”
If he didn’t want help, there wasn’t much she could do. She couldn’t force him to try any of the techniques she knew of.
He stared at her, then said in a soft, ragged voice, “I want to be alone. But I also don’t.” He shook his head. “I’m not good company right now.”
“I’m all right with that.”
Another moment of hesitation and he opened the door. His office matched the rest of the house with its cabin-in-the-woods kind of feel. It was bigger than the office at her house and, unlike that one, it had views of the water.
She stepped inside. A dark blue leather sofa took up one wall. It had small tables on either end that each held a lamp, and a long ottoman upholstered in tapestry fabric in front of it. “Okay if I sit on the couch?”
He nodded and closed the door behind her. Then he seemed to have a second thought about that and cracked it slightly. He moved toward the desk awkwardly, like he was going to sit there, then picked up his coffee and joined her on the other end of the couch.
He cleared his throat. “So, how do we do this?”
“We don’t have to do anything. Or you can tell me whatever you’d like me to know. Talk or not, it’s up to you.”
She was happy to sit there in silence for however long he needed. But she was happy to listen, too.
He swallowed some of his coffee. Rubbed the stubble on his face. Stared toward the windows. Sighed. Looked like he might ask her to leave.
Then, finally, he started talking.
ChapterForty-Two
