Choices

by Lyn Gardner

  “Maybe not,” Robin said, and looking around, she motioned for a waiter. “But there’s no harm in trying. Now, is there?”

  Bubba rubbed his hand over his stubbly chin, smearing more of the black face paint into the white as he glared back at Robin. “Oh, fuck it,” he grumbled, before gulping down what remained in his mug. “I’m out of suds anyway.”

  Robin took a step back so Bubba could pass, and as he wobbled to the bar, she slipped into the booth and immediately reached for her glass, slurping down the few drops that remained.

  “Are you okay?” Judy said, leaning forward. “You look a little pale.”

  “Of all the guys in this bar, you had to attract a clown?”

  “I’m sorry, but thanks for coming to my rescue.”

  “I would have been here sooner, except the lumberjack at the restrooms stopped me.”

  “Let me guess. He wanted to buy you a drink, too?”

  Robin smiled. “Close. She wanted to buy me a drink.”

  Before Judy could respond, the waiter returned with their food.

  “Here you go, ladies. Hot off the grill.” Placing the steaming plates in front of them, he tucked the tray under his arm and picked up the two empty glasses. “Can I interest you two in a refill?”

  Judy looked over at Robin. The color had yet to return to her cheeks, and by the size of the two slabs of prime rib in front of them, they weren’t going anywhere for a while. “Make it a bottle, Ed,” Judy said, picking up her silverware. “It’ll save you some trips.”

  Chapter Twenty-Five

  Robin had barely stepped out of her bedroom before she paused to breathe in the view. Judy was sitting at the dining room table with her head bowed as sunlight streamed in from the patio doors. It blazed its way into the kitchen, lighting up the entire room, yet as far as Robin was concerned, its warmth was no match for what Judy added to the space, merely by existing. “I could get used to this.”

  Judy looked up from the list she was making and smiled. “Good morning. Coffee’s done.”

  “I smell that,” Robin said, shuffling over to pour a cup. “How long have you been here?”

  “About an hour, I guess. I was trying to be quiet. I hope I didn’t wake you.”

  “You didn’t,” Robin said before taking a sip of her coffee. “What are you working on?”

  “I figured since we have almost six months to get all the rooms ready, we could split our time between that and everything else.”

  “What’s everything else?”

  “Well, I need to learn the accounting software, so I can start entering all the information from Adele’s old receipts and records. There’s a lot of good stuff in there, and I don’t think we want to lose it.”

  “I agree.”

  “We also need to look into getting a website, so I thought I’d do some research and see who’s got the best plans. Once I figure that out and you and I agree on a template, I can start working on designing one. With your input, of course.”

  Robin flinched back her head. “You know how to build a website?”

  “I did the one for The Wheelhouse. It’s not that hard, and the sooner we get it done, the sooner our name’s out there.” Judy stopped long enough to take a drink of her coffee. “And I need to get a copy of that spreadsheet you made with all the room rates. That way, once the accounting software is up and running, I can start working on the booking and management program you bought so we have the right rates tied to the right dates.”

  “And you talk about my energy level,” Robin said with a laugh. “Just how much coffee have you had this morning.”

  “This is only my second cup,” Judy said, lifting her mug. “Thank you very much.”

  Robin grinned. “And while you’re doing all of that, what exactly am I supposed to be doing?”

  “Writing.”

  “Really?” Robin squeaked.

  “Sure, why not?”

  “But aren’t you going to need my help?”

  “Not at first, and besides, what are you planning to do? Hover over me at the computer?”

  “No, but you forget. I still need a desk.”

  “We can move the one out of Georgian Bay,” Judy said as she got up to get more coffee. “We both agreed it was out of place in there, and it would fit perfectly in Firefly. Let’s just swap the chairs for the desk, and that way, you can write, and I can work.”

  “It’s not fair for you to do all the—”

  “What’s the best time for you to write?” Judy said as she topped off her mug.

  “Huh?”

  “What’s the best time for you to write? Morning? Afternoon? Night?”

  “Oh...um...usually mornings,” Robin said, scratching her head. “Why?”

  “Then this will work,” Judy said, slipping the carafe back into the coffee maker. “While I’m doing stuff down here, you go upstairs and write, and then we take a break, have some lunch, and spend the rest of the day doing whatever needs to be done.”

  “And you figured all of this out this morning?”

  “Yes,” Judy said, flashing a toothy smile. “It’s amazing what you can accomplish when you don’t sleep in.”

  Robin glanced at the clock above the sink. “It’s not even seven o’clock yet.”

  “What’s your point?” Judy said, folding her arms across her chest.

  It was a good question, but as Robin looked at Judy, between the dimples in the woman’s cheeks and her stance, whatever point Robin was trying to make was quickly forgotten. After taking a sip of her coffee, Robin placed the cup on the counter. “Let me go put on some shoes.”

  “Why?”

  It was Robin’s turn to flash a smile. “Because we have a desk to move.”

  ***

  Judy stood in the doorway of the office, sipping coffee while she looked back and forth from the small stack of records still needing to be entered into the computer and those she’d finished, now packed away in totes near the desk. It had been so easy on Monday to agree to change their plans for the day, but now it was Thursday, and Judy’s eyes were beginning to cross. She dared not tell Robin, for fear she’d pull her away from her writing, so for the past day and a half, Judy had hidden her weariness behind false effervescence.

  Tapping her fingers against the door frame, Judy considered her options. She still needed to find a website host, but that required sitting in front of the computer for yet another day. With a sigh, Judy returned to the kitchen long enough to refill her coffee, but as she made her way back to the office, something on the island caught her eye. Judy paused. She pondered. She shrugged...and then she smiled.

  ***

  To be a successful writer, one of the first lessons learned is commitment. The unspoken promise an author makes to their story that it won’t be forgotten or neglected. It will be written, and out of that dedication, a routine is born.

  Like the masses, authors’ work schedules normally include set times when they rise or slumber, but untethered by an employer’s expectations, writers must create their own. For some, it’s based solely on the amount of time spent. They allot two, four, or more hours per day to their craft and no matter what is produced during that time, they are satisfied for they’ve reached their goal. Others use word or page counts as their targets and focused on them, whether it takes an hour or an entire day, it will be attained before they walk away from their desk.

  Monday morning, Robin climbed the stairs leading to Firefly, and armed with the confidence she had once lost, when she opened her manuscript, she viewed it with an eye critical, but not condemning. Yes, her voice and style had been ensnared in a muck of adjectives, adverbs, and hastily written words, and no consideration had been given to telling versus showing, but amongst those words was a story...and it was a good one.

  By the time she and Judy met for lunch in the kitchen Monday afternoon, both were bubbling over with excitement. Robin’s novel wasn’t nearly as crappy as she first thought and Judy was quickly getting the hang
of the new accounting software, and before the last potato chip had been munched, they agreed to change their plans. Instead of working on any of the suites, Judy eagerly returned to what she had started, and Robin bounded back up the stairs to Firefly, a decision Robin hadn’t regretted until now.

  Robin’s goal had always been four pages a day. To some, the number seemed trivial, but it gave Robin an attainable target while keeping her on a schedule that had proven itself time and time again. She knew if she could write at least four pages a day, in no time at all, a novel could be produced, but writing a book versus repairing a poorly written manuscript wasn’t the same thing. Her mind no longer fogged with doubt and her abilities to weave words clearer than they’d ever been, Robin had already rewritten the first four chapters of the once gruesome manuscript. The fifth, however, had remained untouched on her computer screen all morning.

  She sat at her desk, staring out the window as the rain pattered against the panes. The sky was thick with ashen clouds choking out all but the most dismal of light. The skeletons of oaks and birch, naked of leaves, swayed to and fro in the wind while tiny whitecaps broke the surface of the Straits. It was indeed a dreary setting, and it fit Robin’s mood at the moment.

  Instead of sticking to her timetable, for three straight days, from sun up to sun down, Robin sequestered herself in Firefly. She had taken breaks for lunch, joining Judy in the kitchen for sandwiches or leftovers, but fueled by her passion to write, Robin had willingly returned to it, and that was her mistake. She hadn’t given herself time to reflect on what she was creating.

  Unlike many, authors never leave their work at the office. Their stories, characters, and dialogue churn in their minds whether they’re sitting at their computers, washing dishes, or eating dinner. They can picture their protagonists, and hear their voices thickened with accents, slurred by alcohol, or deepened by lust. They can feel the cold of winter chilling their skin or the summer sun beating down on their face, and as the crescendo of their scenes build, shivers run down their spines as well. And as writers mull over their creations, loopholes are found, better ideas come to mind, and dialogue once flat becomes crisp. Sadly, at the moment, Robin’s brain was about as crisp as a head of wilted lettuce.

  There were no words. There were no sentences or paragraphs or chapters inside Robin’s head. There was only an empty space, a black hole where thoughts were lost before they could be formed because Robin was tired. Not in the physical sense as if she’d run the circumference of the island every morning for her jogs in the foggy hours of dawn had been short, but mentally Robin was spent.

  Robin needed a break, and she knew the house was filled with distractions, but she didn’t want to interrupt Judy. All week, the woman had practically skipped into the house every morning, anxious to get back to the office and her data entry, and Robin was afraid if she decided to start a project, Judy would put her own work aside to help.

  Robin rubbed the back of her neck. She glared at her laptop, and with a sigh, she placed her elbows on the desk and prepared herself to read the words she knew she’d forget almost instantly. She took a deep breath, hoping as she exhaled her mind would clear, but instead, Robin found the distraction she’d been looking for.

  ***

  “Looks like someone is being productive. What smells so good?”

  “It’s one of your aunt’s recipes,” Judy said, turning around from the sink. “Hey, I didn’t know you wore glasses.”

  Robin snatched the black-framed spectacles from her face. “And you weren’t supposed to.”

  “Why not? If you need them, you should wear them.”

  “I never needed them until a couple of years ago, and it kind of makes me feel old when I wear them, so I usually only put them on when I’m working,” Robin said with a shrug. “Call it pride.”

  “You know, that’s one of the deadly sins.”

  “And so is gluttony,” Robin said, breathing deeply the aroma filling the kitchen. “What in the world is in the oven?”

  “It’s an egg, cheese, and bacon casserole. We had all the ingredients, so I thought I’d give it a try.”

  Robin glanced toward the office. “You finished with all the old paperwork? That’s great!”

  Judy’s shoulders sagged. “No, I didn’t, and I’m sorry, but I needed a break. My eyes were starting to cross.”

  “You mean it’s not just me then?”

  “What?”

  “I’ve been upstairs all morning staring at my computer without typing a word.”

  “But I thought you wanted to write?”

  “I did, and I do, but I need to get away from it every now and then to clear my head.”

  “Why didn’t you tell me? We could have started working on the rooms.”

  “Because I thought you wanted to get the bookkeeping done.”

  Judy pressed her lips together to suppress her grin. “I’m thinking you and I need to work on our communication skills.”

  “Well, how’s this for communication?” Robin said and going over to the island, she looked Judy in the eye. “I don’t want to write today.”

  Judy’s grin escaped, and she allowed it to fill her face. “I don’t either. I don’t care if we clean, paint, wallpaper, or rearrange furniture. As long as it doesn’t have anything thing to do with paperwork, numbers, or computers—I’m in.”

  ***

  “How you doing in there?”

  “Loving every minute of it,” Robin called out as she dipped her brush in the paint again. “I’m finishing up cutting in again. Then I just have to roll the walls one more time, and we can cross this bathroom off our list. How about you?”

  “I’m just starting the second coat,” Judy said, slowly drawing her brush across the baseboard.

  “Slacker!”

  “Slacker my ass.”

  Robin smiled, and setting her brush aside, she grabbed the roller and began giving the walls their last coat.

  By the time they had finished their casserole brunch, Robin and Judy had planned the rest of their day. Even though Judy doubted they’d have any guests before the season started in May, since paint had an odor and wallpaper didn’t, it made sense to get all the painting out of the way just in case. They merrily ascended the stairs carrying two gallons of bright white paint and heading into Sunset Shores, while Robin attacked the bathroom, Judy carefully freshened up all the trim in the bedroom with a new coat of white.

  “So, how did that woman know you were gay?” Judy called out as she dipped her brush into the paint can again.

  Robin stopped mid-roll, her forehead furrowing as she glanced over at the doorway. “What woman?”

  “The one at the Pony.”

  “Oh. I don’t know,” Robin said, shrugging. “Gaydar probably.”

  Judy tilted her head. “Gaydar?”

  “Yeah, it means...um...crap.” Robin set down the roller and went back into the bedroom, looking over the furniture blocking her view of Judy. “It’s hard to explain. It’s like an intuition that some of us have. We can figure out who’s gay and who’s not simply with a look or maybe a few words.”

  “And you can do this?”

  Robin snickered. “Not usually. I mean, if the woman’s butch or wearing a rainbow across her chest, it’s pretty easy, but I’ve struck out more times than I’ve hit a home run, that’s for sure.”

  “Oh,” Judy said as she went back to painting the baseboard.

  “Any reason you asked?”

  “No. I was just wondering how she knew. I thought maybe you approached her.”

  “Not a chance.”

  “Why not?” Judy said, looking over her shoulder.

  “Well, first off, I was with you.”

  “It’s not like we were on a date, Robin, and I don’t want to get in the way of you...um—”

  “Trying to get some?”

  Judy’s eyes widened. “That’s a little blunt, but yes, I guess.”

  Robin shook her head. “Why is it that heterosex
uals think that all lesbians are attracted to every woman on the planet? Are you attracted to every man?”

  “No, of course not.”

  “Then why would you think I was trying to pick that woman up?”

  “I don’t know. She didn’t look bad from where I was sitting.”

  “You thought she was a man,” Robin said with a laugh.

  “Yeah, but I don’t know your type.”

  “Wow,” Robin said, placing her hand over her heart. “Not only are you going to be my business partner, but you’re also planning to be my matchmaker, too. How cool is that?”

  Judy narrowed her eyes. “I have no intention of playing matchmaker. I was just saying that if you found that woman attractive, being out with me shouldn’t have stopped you from...from asking her out.”

  “Good to know, but you needn’t worry about the lumberjack. She wasn’t my type,” Robin said before disappearing back into the bathroom. She loaded the roller with paint and managed a few strokes before her progress was halted again.

  “What is your type?”

  Judy’s question brought a smile to Robin’s face, and returning the roller to the tray, she stepped into the doorway. “I thought you weren’t going to be my matchmaker.”

  “I’m not. I was just curious. That’s all.”

  As Judy returned to painting the baseboard, Robin pondered how to respond. She had dated tall women, short women, slender ones, and those not-so-slender. Blondes, brunettes, and even a few redheads had been in her bed, and sports dykes and baby dykes had been seen on her arm more than once. Bois and butch had come and gone, and she had had her fair share of lipstick lesbians as well, but if Robin had to choose a type, it would be the one fitting the woman sitting on the floor across the room. “Chapsticks.”

  Judy froze for a second before turning around. “Huh?”

  “Chapsticks.”

  “I don’t know what that means.”

  “You know, if you’re going to be my matchmaker, you really need to get up to speed with the nomenclature.”