This morning, when he came to the office, the sun was a shimmer of light in the east, the dark diminishing in the west. Now the bright orange globe hovered over the western horizon. In the east, the dark was now gaining.
While he was tied to his desk, dealing with reluctant employees, courting new advertisers, wrestling with his editor over the new plan for this magazine, the sun had stolen across the sky and he had lost an entire day.
Glowering, he walked to his vehicle, a battered and rusty Jeep. He patted its dented hood, as if commiserating with it. “Only eleven months and twenty days to go,” he murmured, “and we can be on the road again. Outside during the day, the way we should be.” He glanced around once more. The town looked complacent this time of evening. Most people were, he was sure, sitting at the dinner table, eating with their families.
Domestic bliss.
An oxymoron as far as he was concerned. When he and his mother lived with Colson, all he remembered of domesticity were large cold rooms that echoed as he walked to the wing of the house that his grandfather had set aside for Rick and his mother. He remembered sad music and the sounds of his mother’s muffled crying.
When she died, Rick’s life became a round of boarding schools during the year, and nannies and housekeepers over the summer months.
Colson remained a shadowy figure in Rick’s life. A figure to whom Rick spent most of his youth trying to gain access. And trying to please.
Rick did a monthly book review column for his grandfather’s magazine, one of Colson’s many enterprises, as a way of acknowledging Colson’s contribution to his education. Through it he enjoyed the chance to take a contrary view of some of the more popular literary works lauded by other critics.
But it was traveling that ignited a passion in him he didn’t feel for anyone or anything else. It provided a ready-made conduit for his articles, and the money they made him became a way to finance more trips. He usually found time to make semiannual duty trips back to Toronto to connect with his editor and, of course, to see his grandfather.
Going home always turned to be a straightforward debriefing of what he had done, how he was doing. But in the past year Colson had been getting more involved in Rick’s life—putting increased pressure on him to join the family enterprise, inviting him to supper, with eligible young women in attendance.
This put Rick in a quandary. He felt he owed his grandfather, but at the same time didn’t think he had to mold his entire life around Colson’s whims. It came to an ugly head in a confrontation, which led Colson to offer Rick this ultimatum. Bring this small-town magazine Colson had bought on a whim to profitability in twelve months and Colson would leave him alone for the rest of his life. That was all Colson required of him and Rick had reluctantly accepted. It was only the thought that he wouldn’t have to listen to Colson’s tired lectures on Christian faith and Rick’s lack of it that made Rick accept this position.
Rick stopped at one of the few streetlights in town and glanced over at the café, the lights and the bustle within luring him on. He was hungry but didn’t feel like eating alone in the furnished apartment he had rented. At least at Coffee’s On, the crowd would provide some semblance of company.
The café was surprisingly full, this time of evening. Rick paused in the doorway, letting the clink of cutlery, the chatter of conversation wash over him. He nodded at the owner of a car dealership he had met yesterday on his trip with the sales team around town, smiled at one of the waitresses who hustled past him.
He glanced around the café looking for an empty table. As he walked farther inside he spotted one beside Becky Ellison.
Becky sat at her table, chin in hand, staring out the window, her laptop open in front of her. The overhead light caught flashes of red in her auburn hair, burnished her skin glowing peach.
When she had bustled into the meeting room, that first morning, late, laden with papers, coffee and a muffin, he couldn’t help feel a frisson of energy and attraction. There was something beguiling about her that drew his eyes, his attention to her. He didn’t want to be as firm with her as he had, but the magazine staff had been working together for some time, making him the interloper.
Something that was made fairly clear to him the first time he and his editor spoke.
Antagonism radiated from her from the moment she raised her hazel eyes to his. And in most of the meetings since then the feeling only seemed to grow.
But tonight there were no other empty places, so with some resignation Rick walked over to the table beside hers and sat down.
Becky’s gaze was averted so she didn’t see him. She wore her hair down today instead of pulled back in her usual clip. A half smile played over her lips as she absently toyed with her hair.
If it wasn’t for the fact that Rick knew Becky didn’t care much for him, he’d be more attracted than he was.
“Coffee?” The waitress came between his table and Becky’s and he looked up.
“No. Just a glass of water. And you can bring me the special.”
Her wide smile gave Rick’s ego a light boost.
The sound had broken Becky’s reverie. As if waking from a dream, she blinked, straightened up, then looked around.
Rick could tell the instant she saw him. Once again the smile faded and once again he was treated to a detachment that negated the little lift he’d gotten just seconds ago.
“Hey, there,” he said, leaning back in his chair. He folded his arms across his chest, a defensive gesture, he had to admit. “Taking work home?”
Becky glanced at her computer and gently closed the top, a surprising flush coloring her cheeks. She looked as if he had caught her doing something illegal. “No. Just a writing project I’ve been spending my scant spare time on.” Her tone was careful, almost resentful.
Writing project. Obviously not work, or she would have said so. Formless thoughts tumbled through his head.
“What kind of writing project?” he asked, intrigued in spite of himself.
“A book.”
“That takes a lot of time.”
“Exactly. Trouble is, I can’t seem to find the time.”
Rick grinned. “One thing I learned is that you don’t find time to write. You make time and then defend it. You’ll never get a book written by ‘finding’ time.”
“I have written one book already,” Becky said, her voice taking on a defensive note.
“Really? What kind?”
She lifted her chin in a defensive gesture. “Fiction.”
Rick could only look at her as his thoughts coalesced. Becky. Rebecca. “You wrote a book called Echoes.”
She nodded.
“I did a review of one of your books, didn’t I? For my grandfather’s magazine?”
Becky’s only response was to look away, but he knew he was right. He remembered now.
“I gather the review wasn’t favorable.” He couldn’t remember the details of what he had written. The editor of his grandfather’s magazine liked Rick’s reviews because he wasn’t afraid to go against the grain and pronounce a currently popular literary novel prose without purpose.
Obviously he had done just that with Becky’s book.
“‘Wasn’t favorable’?” she repeated, fixing him with a steady gaze. “Try unnecessarily cutting. Or sarcastic.” She looked like she was about to say something more, but she pressed her lips together.
Rick let her words wash over him as he had done with other authors and authors’ fans. He refused to take her seriously, his opinion was his own opinion, and as he tried