“Okay,” Emily replies. “What’s the problem?”
“I’ve been a little distracted,” I reply dryly. “Between sexy lawyers and psychotic ex-husbands, I’ve been a tad busy.”
“Well, you’re not busy right now and you’re talking to me rather than writing.”
“You’re not helping!” I laugh and twirl in my office chair. “Seriously, I’m worried.”
“Ask for an extension.”
I wrinkle my nose and shake my head. “I can’t.”
“Because you’re the only author in the history of the world to ask for a deadline extension.”
“Shut up,” I grumble. “I seriously can’t ask for the extension. The publishing date on this book has been moved up because of the movie release, so I don’t have any wriggle room.”
“Okay, do you need any help?”
“Yes. Why are my characters determined to fight in almost every chapter? They are supposed to be falling in love and having lots of sex, and instead they fight like cats and dogs.”
“Makeup sex?” Em asks with a smile in her voice.
“Oh, there’s been plenty of that.” I worry my lip between my teeth and rock back and forth in my chair. “Maybe they should go on vacation and loosen up a bit.”
“I know! Send them to Tahiti! Lots of sun and water sex and they’re not required to wear much clothing, so your heroine can ogle the guy’s hot body a lot.”
“You might be onto something.” I nod and smile. “Maybe he has a private jet.”
“Plane sex!” Emily laughs, and I can hear her clapping. “I bet he has his own jet. He’s rich as fuck.”
“Yeah.” The idea is taking shape in my head and I grin. “I like it. I like it a lot.”
“Okay, you go write the fun plane sex. I have to write a murder scene.”
“I like mine better.”
She laughs and says good-bye and I dive back into my story, spending a few hours with my characters. The plane sex and sunshine are good for them, softening the mood of the story, making it fun and sexy.
I decide to stop at the end of the chapter, and when I glance at the clock, I’m relieved that I haven’t missed my weekly date with Mr. Darcy at the hospital.
I’ve gone to read to Mr. Darcy every Monday afternoon for the past year. He is eighty-five, and blind, but he once wrote amazing political and mystery novels. He was our neighbor when I was growing up and was a friend of my father’s. As an only child, I found things to keep me busy, and sometimes that included walking over to his house when he was doing yard work to talk his ear off or to listen to his stories. He used to tell me all about the books he was writing, and I never tired of listening to his ideas.
When my parents died, he was one of the few people who continued to check in with me, to make sure that the house didn’t need to be repaired, or that the yard work was getting done.
He was widowed young and never remarried. His children all live on the West Coast and don’t visit often, which is why when his eyesight finally failed due to his diabetes, they put him in convalescent care at the hospital, rather than take him home with them.
I wave at the nurses as I walk past to his room and knock gently on the door, in case he’s napping.
“Come in, darlin’.”
I push inside and grin at him. He’s seated in his favorite La-Z-Boy chair by the window, in a University of Montana sweatshirt with a blanket covering his lap, the newest James Patterson book resting in his lap, waiting for me.
“What if it wasn’t me?” I kiss his cheek.
“I know your knock by now, girl.” His voice is rough, but he’s smiling. His hand clasps mine firmly. “How are you?”
“I’m good.”
“Aren’t you under deadline?” Until I met Ty and his friends, Mr. Darcy was the only one who knew about the books, although he doesn’t know just how racy they are or how popular they’ve become.
“Yes, but I wouldn’t miss our date for the world.”
“You should be raising a family. Making babies. Writing books. Not wasting your time on an old man like me.”
“Stop that.” I take the book from his hands and sit in the wooden rocker across from him. “I like wasting my time on you.”
He laughs and shakes his head. “Sassy as ever.”
“So I take it this is the new book we’re reading?” I flip the book open and turn to chapter one.
“Unless you have something else you’d rather read?”
“Nora Roberts?” I grin.
“I have nothing but respect for that woman, but I don’t think I’m her target audience.”
“No, you’re probably right.”
I spend the next thirty minutes reading to Mr. Darcy, getting lost in the story with him. He grunts or mumbles during certain parts, but for the most part he just listens with a small smile on his lips.
“I’m sorry I can’t read longer, but I should get back to work.”
“Who is your young man?” he asks, ignoring my other comment.
“What young man?”
“Don’t try that with me, Lauren. I know better. I hear it in your voice.”
I swallow and frown, thrown. “Really?”
He just nods and waits for me to talk.
“Ty Sullivan.”
He nods slowly and taps his lips with his finger. “Ty’s a good kid. Despite that time I caught him and the King boys toilet-papering my maple trees in the front yard.”