After we hang up, I put on my coat and boots and hurry out of the house. I lock the door behind me and feel silly as I pause on the patio, checking the edge of the woods surrounding the cabin.
Come on, Riven, the big, bad wolf isn’t coming to get you. Not today.
Still, I cross the yard at a faster pace than usual and am relieved when I make it safely to my Grand Cherokee. The old Jeep is so battered, it’s the only thing Cassie won’t fight to keep in the divorce—she’s already taken the Mercedes.
I grab the wheel, not caring how cold it feels under my palms. This car and I, we’ve been on many adventures together. This ancient Jeep is the only memento of my life as it was before my soon-to-be-ex-wife hauled me into an upscale neighborhood with posher houses, posher friends, and a posher lifestyle that I hated and that never seemed to be enough for her. More, more, more. She wanted more clothes, more jewelry, more restaurants, more expensive trips…
And, thanks to California’s fifty-fifty divorce laws, I guess I’ll be the sucker who keeps financing her swanky lifestyle even after our marriage is over. At least until she marries another sucker.
Unexpectedly, the thought of Cassie re-marrying hits me in the guts with brutal force. I push her, the divorce, and her future imaginary husband out of my head. She’s wasted enough of my life for me to keep pining after her.
As I reverse the car and turn into the snow-covered driveway, the reflection is blinding in the mid-afternoon sun. I should tell the agency to send the plowing service more often. Until November it was manageable. But now, it snows every other day, and even when it doesn’t, the wind pushes the old snow around forming snowdrifts down the road.
At least the Jeep doesn’t have a problem overcoming the rough terrain. I’d like to see Cassie drive her precious Spider up here. She’d get stuck in the first mile. But I’m not thinking about my ex-wife, right?
***
The real estate agency is located in my favorite part of town, the Park City’s Historic District. I love its quaint buildings and unique restaurants. And now, with fairy lights crisscrossing over the street and sparkling from every shop window, Main Street is even prettier.
I find a parking spot right in front of my favorite pub, and my stomach begs me to go in, but I prefer to sort the subletting business first. With great effort, I ignore the smell of grilled meat coming out of the pub and cross the street toward the Richter Real Estate Group’s offices. I push the glass door open, prompting the wooden reindeer above the entrance to fill the room with the tingly notes of Jingle Bells.
Charlotte, a young administrative clerk, looks up from behind her computer screen and smiles. “Riven.” She blushes. “I mean, Mr. Clark.”
I approach her station. “Hey, Charlotte. No worries, I told you Riven is fine. How are things going?”
She pouts her lips and puffs out air. “This holiday season is pure madness. Every single house we manage is rented back-to-back throughout January. The number of check-ins and check-outs we have to deal with is insane.” She gestures at the empty office around her. “As you can see, it’s all hands on deck. I have to hold the fort alone. Have you come in to drop off your monthly check?”
“Yes, that…” I hand her the check and scratch the back of my head with my other hand. “And also, Kelly Anne called me this morning…” I explain the whole sublease business and why I have to cancel.
“Oh, I’m so sorry for your father,” Charlotte says when I’m finished. “What a horrible time of the year to have a burst pipe. At least in LA, all that water won’t freeze overnight. Up here, it’d be a complete disaster.”
“That’s California for you,” I say as my stomach growls.
Did she hear that?
“Hungry?” Charlotte asks.
Yep, she did.
“Yeah, sorry. I skipped lunch.”
Her lips part in a bright, wholesome smile. “Let’s sort your house situation, then, and you can be on your way to the pub. I won’t even bother you to ask for an update on the new book.”
Charlotte, I discovered, is a fan and has read all my novels. Whenever I come in, she begs me for spoilers on the story I’m working on, and I promptly refuse to give up anything. “Thank you, Charlotte, and you know you never bother me.”
“Ah, you’re too kind. I bet you get sick of all your fans pestering you.”
“Actually, it never gets old. I love my readers.”
Charlotte blushes again, and I’d better stop talking if I want her to be able to work.
“Let me just pull up the calendar.” Her eyes shift from me to the computer. She clicks on the mouse a few times and frowns. “I don’t see any openings in your rental. Kelly Anne must not have had time to free up the slot yet.” She turns the screen toward me, showing a monthly view of December where all the days are colored in red. “I’ll just add a note saying you no longer wish to sublet, and you should be fine.”
She types a quick memo and looks up at me. “You’re all set. Have a great lunch…” She scrunches her face in an eager but embarrassed expression. “And please finish the book soon, I can’t wait to read Preacher’s next adventure.”
Nothing strokes a writer’s feathers better than an avid reader. I smile at Charlotte and give her a mock military salute. “Will do, ma’am.”
If I keep writing like today, my manuscript will be completed in no time.
Five
Riven
Three weeks later, I’ve written a grand total of 4020 more words—nothing! Less than 200 words per day. At this rate, it’s going to take me longer than a year to finish the damned book.
I’m sitting on the living room faux-sheep rug with my back against the couch, staring at the blank page opened on my laptop, devoid of any inspiration. The text cursor blinks, mocking me in an intermittent dance that’s become the bane of my existence. As if on cue, my phone rings. The caller ID informs me it’s Carmen, my agent.
I’m tempted to ignore the call, but that would only postpone the conversation by a few hours, a day tops.
I tap the green button. “Carmen.”
“Tell me you have something new for me to show to the editor. A page, a chapter, anything?”
Of the 4000 words I wrote, maybe 3000 are usable. “Sorry, Carmen, but I told you I’m writing this book differently. The process isn’t linear. The single tidbits won’t make sense until I put them all together.”
Carmen remains silent for a few long heartbeats, then sighs. “Riven, you’re one of my most reliable authors. Not only a sure bestseller, but an organized writer who delivers on time, which, with you artists, isn’t always the case. I know you’re working hard and not fooling around like some of my other fibbers who wait until a month before their manuscript is due to get down to writing…”
“But?” I prompt.
“But the past year has been stressful for you, and it’s not the end of the world to miss a deadline. As long as you give us enough warning to plan ahead.”