So, he’s forever walking backward, like you.
I’m making progress.
You could be making more.
I’m inside the kitchen warming up and staring at a Russell Stover candy box sitting on the table. I’m afraid to open it, though it still has its plastic wrapper, because it has to be at least six or seven months old. It was a “just because” gift to Noël; I forget what for. Just one of those loony romantic things I used to do “just because” right before…
Don’t think about it.
It was the last gift I ever gave her.
I’ll bet they still taste good.
I’m not hungry.
A little chocolate never hurt anybody, and you need to gain some weight.
I won’t eat the ones with the nuts. Noël loved the ones with nuts.
Because she said she married one.
I’m not that nutty.
Yes, you are.
If I keep talking to myself, maybe I will be.
No. It’s good therapy.
While I eat only the nougats, I look around the kitchen. I should have carpeted the floor. It’s so cold. Oh, and that border still looks so good! I thought it would come out crooked, but Noël was there to help me. I should remove all the latches on the cabinets that kept Stevie from messing around. But…maybe the next family will need them.
You can’t stay here much longer.
I know.
I can’t stay in a four-bedroom house alone. It’s a waste of space. I haven’t been downstairs except to throw dirty clothes into the laundry room, and some of the crumbs in this kitchen are starting to move. Most of the crumbs are at Stevie’s place—
Don’t go there.
I can’t help it.
Get out of the kitchen, then.
I wander down to Stevie’s—my—room and jiggle the top bunk. I’m sure it will come off the other one. Maybe I can set them up side by side and put Noël’s king-sized mattress over top of them. That would save me a daily bump on the head anyway.
Good thinking.
Thank you.
Though your daily bump knocks some sense into you.
I grip one end of the top bunk and lift, and the entire bunk bed comes off the floor. Is that supposed to happen?
Evidently.
There must be some trick to this. Hmm. I should take off the mattresses first, maybe put the entire bunk bed on its side…What’s this?
Sticking out from under the top bunk mattress is a picture book about planes, trains, and automobiles. As I slide it out, I see two more books wedged underneath, each of them a picture book about animals. How did Stevie get up here? And why did he hide them? And where and when did he get them?
I see a bar code on the back of the first book, “Roanoke Public Library” in bold letters underneath the dark lines and numbers. Noël used to take him nearly every Saturday morning to the library for story time. It gave me most of the morning to write since they would often go to a park or a museum afterward.
I guess I should return these.
Tomorrow.
Yeah, I guess tomorrow is as good a day as any. I have lots of nothing to do tomorrow, all day as a matter of fact.
Nothing to do and all day to do it.
Is “nothing” something to do?
Sure. And you’re good at doing it.
The phone rings, and I answer without checking the Caller ID. “Hello?”
“Is Thomas Mann there?”
We used to get Mr. Mann’s mail when we first moved in, and we—I—still get phone calls for him. “Thomas Mann hasn’t lived here in six years. Please put me on your do-not-call list.”
“Are you the new home owner?”
“Yes, but—”
“And is there still a VA loan on this property?”
“That’s none of your business. Now please put me on your do-not-call list.”
“Is your current loan at seven percent or higher?”
Pushy bastard.
“It’s none of your business. Now please, put—”
“We here at the Financial Group can help home owners like yourself who have high-interest, VA loans and—”
I hang up. I doubt anyone can help me.
Don’t be so sure.
Now what am I really supposed to be doing?
You’re doing fine.
No, I’m forgetting something.
You’re supposed to be writing another book, but don’t rush it. Live a little first.
You call this living?
I had signed a two-book deal. I have no idea what to write about for the second book, and I’ve been avoiding even thinking about writing it.
You’re good at that.
What?
Not thinking.
Thanks.
It’s all a part of doing nothing.
My agent and editor are expecting something similar to the first one. It’s supposed to be full of dramatic, guilty pleasures on every page. And I have a January 31 deadline for three chapters and an outline.
I’m screwed.
No, you’re not. You’ll think of something.
I can barely function in my own wearisome life, and I’m expected to create other, more exciting lives?
So, they’ll be as dysfunctional as the characters in the first book.
What I should do is write the exact opposite of what they expect. I should give readers dramatic, innocent pleasures.
Like a picture book for children.
Yeah, like a—No. I write for adults.
It’s not possible to write a book about innocent, adult pleasures.
Well, I’m going to try.
Your agent and editor won’t like it.
What can they—or anyone for that matter—do to me that hasn’t already been done to me?
Good point.
I am going to the library to return these books tomorrow, and while I am there, I will read up on some of my competition.
But you’re supposed to be writing.
One step at a time, right?
You’re the boss, chief.
9
Diane
I pick up the fourth and last book, Wishful Thinking, by D. J. Browning. Nice, colorful cover photograph of an average sister in a hard hat with a Mona Lisa smile. Different. Opening the book to the first page, I read:
1: Daniel “Dan” Pace
I know I am in trouble when Beth says she wants to eat at Hooters on a Monday night.
Asking a guy to Hooters has to be some kind of new test for men, and I’m failing miserably.