it had on her. He preferred the restaurants, shops, and golf farther north in Highlands, and once the kids were old enough, Kendall brought them instead—all three of them spending the two months of summer together with only occasional visits from Cal.
Now she carried in her groceries and her overnight bag and dropped them on the kitchen floor. In a burst of energy, she went from room to room, throwing open windows and removing dustcovers from the furniture. She carried the outdoor furniture from the screened porch out to the back deck and plopped down into a chair so that she could prop her legs up on the deck railing. The trickle of a distant waterfall carried on the wind and there was a tinkling of wind chimes outside the master bedroom.
The stillness both filled and surrounded her, muffling, if not halting, the litany of fears and disappointments that had been running nonstop through her head. She wasn’t fooled. The panic wasn’t completely gone. It lay coiled inside her, ready to rear its diamond-shaped head and strike at the slightest provocation.
But for the moment she was in the one place she felt safe calling home and once she pulled herself together—please, God, let that happen soon—all she had to do was write a book. And find an attorney. And get a divorce. And explain it to her children. And . . . No, she couldn’t think about any of that right now.
Because right now she was going to sit on this deck where her grandmother once shelled peas and her children had swung lazily in the old rope hammock and do absolutely nothing. That was all she had to do. Just sit right here and breathe.
For as long as she felt like it.
Kendall inhaled then exhaled. And then she repeated the exercise, drawing the fresh piney air deep into her lungs. And then, with the steady drone of insects as background, she closed her eyes and tilted her face up to the late afternoon sun and let the breeze sweep over her skin.
An hour and a half after their conversation, Faye received an e-mail from Mallory with nothing but Calvin Aims’s name and cell phone number in it. She printed it out and left it sitting in her printer tray while she finished the chapter she was on and roughed out notes for the next.
She’d offered to help because she was worried about Kendall, but she wasn’t looking forward to speaking to her friend’s husband. The few times she’d met him, he’d struck her as self-important and self-centered. His support of Kendall’s writing career had been totally monetary, and he’d managed to get in plenty of digs about her disappointing earning power when he’d finally understood how little most midlist writers earned.
Some markets were more lucrative than others, but the publishing business was very cyclical; what was hot one year might be over the next. There were paranormal writers who couldn’t get arrested five years ago, who were riding the crest today. The same had happened to historicals, comedies, chick lit, mystery. If it had been popular, it also had not. And a writer couldn’t necessarily change her voice or style, simply to fit the current market.
She worked steadily through the afternoon and then broke at about 4:00 P.M. to see what could be organized for dinner. The freezer bulged with carefully labeled Tupperware and disposable containers undoubtedly delivered by female parishioners convinced that Pastor Steve might starve to death without a wife to cook for him for two and a half days. Never mind that he had a married daughter who lived less than a mile away. Or opposable thumbs completely capable of removing plastic wrap and operating a microwave.
Faye selected a tuna noodle casserole, a loaf of crusty cheese bread, and a rectangular container labeled, “Maybelle’s marvelous marbled brownies.” After all the food she’d consumed in New York this weekend, she was not about to quibble over a few extra calories now.
She had no doubt that if she ever disappeared for more than a day or
Now she carried in her groceries and her overnight bag and dropped them on the kitchen floor. In a burst of energy, she went from room to room, throwing open windows and removing dustcovers from the furniture. She carried the outdoor furniture from the screened porch out to the back deck and plopped down into a chair so that she could prop her legs up on the deck railing. The trickle of a distant waterfall carried on the wind and there was a tinkling of wind chimes outside the master bedroom.
The stillness both filled and surrounded her, muffling, if not halting, the litany of fears and disappointments that had been running nonstop through her head. She wasn’t fooled. The panic wasn’t completely gone. It lay coiled inside her, ready to rear its diamond-shaped head and strike at the slightest provocation.
But for the moment she was in the one place she felt safe calling home and once she pulled herself together—please, God, let that happen soon—all she had to do was write a book. And find an attorney. And get a divorce. And explain it to her children. And . . . No, she couldn’t think about any of that right now.
Because right now she was going to sit on this deck where her grandmother once shelled peas and her children had swung lazily in the old rope hammock and do absolutely nothing. That was all she had to do. Just sit right here and breathe.
For as long as she felt like it.
Kendall inhaled then exhaled. And then she repeated the exercise, drawing the fresh piney air deep into her lungs. And then, with the steady drone of insects as background, she closed her eyes and tilted her face up to the late afternoon sun and let the breeze sweep over her skin.
An hour and a half after their conversation, Faye received an e-mail from Mallory with nothing but Calvin Aims’s name and cell phone number in it. She printed it out and left it sitting in her printer tray while she finished the chapter she was on and roughed out notes for the next.
She’d offered to help because she was worried about Kendall, but she wasn’t looking forward to speaking to her friend’s husband. The few times she’d met him, he’d struck her as self-important and self-centered. His support of Kendall’s writing career had been totally monetary, and he’d managed to get in plenty of digs about her disappointing earning power when he’d finally understood how little most midlist writers earned.
Some markets were more lucrative than others, but the publishing business was very cyclical; what was hot one year might be over the next. There were paranormal writers who couldn’t get arrested five years ago, who were riding the crest today. The same had happened to historicals, comedies, chick lit, mystery. If it had been popular, it also had not. And a writer couldn’t necessarily change her voice or style, simply to fit the current market.
She worked steadily through the afternoon and then broke at about 4:00 P.M. to see what could be organized for dinner. The freezer bulged with carefully labeled Tupperware and disposable containers undoubtedly delivered by female parishioners convinced that Pastor Steve might starve to death without a wife to cook for him for two and a half days. Never mind that he had a married daughter who lived less than a mile away. Or opposable thumbs completely capable of removing plastic wrap and operating a microwave.
Faye selected a tuna noodle casserole, a loaf of crusty cheese bread, and a rectangular container labeled, “Maybelle’s marvelous marbled brownies.” After all the food she’d consumed in New York this weekend, she was not about to quibble over a few extra calories now.
She had no doubt that if she ever disappeared for more than a day or
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