“I don’t need your money. I have insurance,” he grumbled, raking his casted hand through his hair. The sticky medical gauze got caught and he winced, pulling it free, taking with it several strands of dark brown hair. “Man, I can’t do anything with this thing on my hand.” Turning, he took quick, long strides out of the room.
She followed him into the hallway. “Mr. Walters, wait.”
He paused on the staircase, clearly exhausted.
“Is there anything I can do to help?” she asked, crossing her fingers behind her back. Please say no.
He hesitated, and she held her breath.
Shaking his head, he continued up the stairs. “No.”
* * *
LOGAN STRUGGLED TO position his hand on the desk, straining the fingers on his right hand to reach the keys on the laptop keyboard. The edge of the cast hit the space bar and he raised his arm, flinching in pain, and backspaced to where he’d left off typing. Flipping the page of his handwritten work, he tried to focus on something other than the pain in his arm. He could do this. He hit a few keystrokes and grimaced. With each letter, his wrist spasmed and pain rippled through his arm. The extra weight of the plaster cast made the muscles in his right shoulder ache.
Tossing the papers aside, he stood. How was he supposed to meet his editor’s deadline like this? The writer’s block had been bad enough; now he was physically incapable of getting the work done on time. Picking up his cell phone, he punched in his agent’s number. The man had called him three times already today, and now there would be no more avoiding him.
“Clive Romanis,” the man answered in his strong New York accent after the second ring.
“Clive, it’s Logan.”
“Hey, man, where are you? I’ve been calling you. You were supposed to email me those sample chapters two days ago.”
Logan cringed. The promised chapters hadn’t been written yet. Another reason he’d had to leave the city. It was easier to avoid his agent when he wasn’t living two blocks from his office. “Yeah, sorry, I left the city for a while to clear my head, get this book finished.”
“What do you mean you left the city? Where did you go?” The man’s voice barely contained his disbelief. Clive wasn’t truly convinced that there was anything beyond the New York City limits.
“Just a small town in New Jersey. I wrote part of the first book out here. It’s quiet and peaceful,” he lied.
It used to be.
“New Jersey?”
“Yes.”
Clive released a deep breath. “Tell me this isn’t you running away from your commitments.”
“No, of course not.” Running away and needing to get away for a while were two different things, weren’t they?
“So you’re writing? You’re getting it done?”
“Yeah.... Look, I’ve run into a bit of a problem meeting the deadline.” His best bet would be to pack up, head back to New York and hire a typist. The thought made him uneasy. He never let anyone read his work before it was done, especially a stranger. Other than his agent and his editor, he never discussed plotlines with anyone. And with the comeback he was making, he couldn’t chance that the resolution of years of work would be leaked before the book even hit the shelves.
“Logan, we’ve pushed the deadline back twice now. If I ask for another extension from the publisher, they may postpone the release dates.”
Logan pushed the covers aside and sat on the edge of the bed. “That’s ridiculous.” So he’d had a few years of a dry spell after the fourth book. He’d delivered book five to them on time. Book six was almost done. Sort of. If he could just figure out a conclusion.
“They’re nervous that you’re going to flake on them again. Truthfully, I’m not sure you won’t, either. I’ve pulled all the strings I can, Logan. If you don’t have the book on my desk in three weeks, they won’t release book five next month. You’re lucky your readers haven’t given up hope on you yet.”
“I broke my right hand,” Logan said with a sigh as he stood and paced the room again.
“Nice try, Logan.” His agent sounded discouraged. “Now I’ve heard it all from you. If you call me next week and say your dog ate the final draft, I’m walking.”
“Seriously, I broke it. It’s in a plaster cast and it’s useless.” Logan sat in the wooden rocking chair near the window, the painkillers they’d given him at the clinic, making him drowsy but not doing much for the pain. Closing his eyes, he leaned his head against the back of the chair.
“How far along are you?” Panic had crept into the older man’s voice.
Logan hesitated. If he told the truth, that he no longer had any idea where the plot was heading or how to end the entire series, the man might drop him as a client. “Far enough from the end that I can’t possibly type it all with only one good hand in three weeks.”
Clive let out a deep, slow breath. “Okay. This sucks, but we can still meet the deadline. Why don’t you check out that voice-recognition software? Some of my other clients use it and love it.”
“Uh-uh, forget it. The thoughts just don’t seem to flow that way. Besides, I doubt there’s a store nearby that would carry it, and ordering it could take a few days.”
“Well, get your butt back to the city and I’ll call a typing service. I’m sure they can have someone available within twenty-four hours.”
“I’m really not comfortable with that idea.”
“Now is not the time for your paranoia. Those people don’t even read, they just type.” Clive’s voice rose. “For that matter, Logan, I’ll come type it for you myself.”
The last thing he needed was the one person in his life who still believed in his talent to give up on him. He had to get this book finished. “No. I’ll think of something. I’ll get it done.” Logan rubbed his aching forehead with his good hand and stood.
“I need the finished manuscript on my desk by November fifth.”
“You’ll have it.” Logan disconnected the call and tossed his cell phone onto the bed. Walking to the window, he drew back the thick lace curtains for the first time. Through the fall leaves of the maple in the yard, he could see the day care lady next door, removing the children’s blankets from the clothesline.
He watched as she folded the blankets and laid them neatly in the basket.
She didn’t seem like someone who would rush to the media with the book’s ending. She probably hadn’t even heard of him.
As she put the plastic cover on the outdoor sandbox, he couldn’t help wondering about her. In the few days he’d been there, today had been the first he’d even noticed anyone next door. Years ago, he remembered the place being vacant. Now that the day care kids were gone, he didn’t see anyone else around—no husband? No kids?
His phone chimed and reaching for it, he read the text message from Clive. I need you to get this done.
Going back to the window, he scanned the yard next door, but she’d already gone back inside.
He hesitated. If he went back to the city now, Clive would be riding him for the next three weeks. The media and reviewers were already starting to hound him for interviews since the press release announcing the new book was sent out the month before. And being in his apartment without his daughter and worrying about her in California would be torture. He’d left the city for those reasons and they would be waiting for him when he went back.
He didn’t