Not Mine to Take

by C B Cox

  He could have told me last night…

  What the hell does he think he’s doing, anyway? I’ve told him not to contact me. I made it perfectly clear I will only communicate via my attorney. The last thing I need right now, is Charles son-of-a-bitch Madison holding my hand through every domestic chore.

  Why can’t he just leave me the hell alone?

  I throw the cell phone across the kitchen counter. It bounces off the tiles and rests perilously close to the sink. I stomp around the kitchen. Silently, I seethe. Refuse to text him back. No way will I give him the satisfaction.

  When the percolator reaches temperature, I pour a steaming mug of java and heave my butt up onto a tall stool by the counter. The burned caramel elixir steadies my frazzled nerves, and I try to fathom the unfathomable.

  Two cups of coffee later, I’m back on point.

  It’s nine-thirty. Three hours before the midday high tide cuts me off from the mainland.

  “Come on Bella, let’s fetch the rest of our stuff. Then, we’ll explore.”

  I stuff the cell phone into my back pocket and head for the door. Exiting, I flick the latch and drag the door closed behind me and hide the spare key under a pot of dead geraniums by the rocker. I make a mental note to buy a new plant for the pot.

  I step out onto the porch and gaze across the garden. The low sun is blinding. The subtle methane odor of decaying foliage tickles my nostrils. I pat a jeans pocket.

  Car keys. Ditz.

  I let myself back into the lodge. I swear I hear Bella tut.

  “I know … sorry,” I stroke her ears. “What am I like? Don’t worry, I’ll get my act together, I promise.”

  After the false start, we trot off along the path and pass the empty bird table.

  Wild birdseed…

  My shopping list is growing by the minute.

  “Come on Bella, keep up, girl. Follow the Yellow Brick Road…”

  Arriving at the parking lot, I open the Explorer with the fob. Once inside, I retrieve my sunglasses from the center console and stab the tailgate release on the door. I step around to the rear. My worldly goods from my condo-cum-prison cell are piled high in the trunk. I glance over a range of Louis Vuitton luggage: suitcase, matching vanity bag and gym holdall. They represent the trappings of marriage to a wealthy man.

  A plastic storage box contains the tools of my trade: notebooks, reference books, dictionary, post-it notes, pencils, erasers, ballpoint pens, highlighters, colored pens. It’s a stationery fetishist’s wet dream.

  Another box contains assorted cooking ingredients. I enjoy cooking and wasn’t sure that the general store in the nearby town would carry my favorite brands of mayo, stockpots and Himalayan pink salts.

  Essentials.

  I realize I’m turning into Martha. I tut and sigh.

  I’ve still not called her.

  “Is it too early to call Martha, Bella?” My dog looks away, studies a seabird pecking at something indistinct washed up on the beach. I imagine Bella telling me, ‘yes.’

  “Yeah, you’re right. She’ll be with her personal trainer … training.”

  I laugh at my own joke, return my attention to the job at hand. It will take two or three return trips since there’s no one to help. I’d better get started before the tide turns.

  I heave the suitcase and vanity bag out first. Turn and appraise the big house, hoping that someone might see me and offer assistance. There’s no sign of life. Even if Carl Jackson is at home, most likely he’s retired. I imagine him snoozing all day. I can’t imagine him being my knight in shining armor.

  I huff, set the case down onto its wheels. Balance the gym and vanity bags on top. Steel myself for the expedition.

  Get a grip, Hope.

  By the time I return to the Explorer for the second haul, my sweatshirt is living up to its handle. I roll my sleeves up above my elbows, push my sunglasses along my nose and mop beads of sweat from my brow with my shirt sleeve.

  “Bella, I’m out of shape. I must, really must, start exercising.”

  I’ve spent the last three months hiding away on the pretense of a demanding schedule. Told myself I needed solitude to write. The fact is, I spewed out a second-rate novel and hid away from my social circle – whom, if truth be told, are Charles’s friends and family, anyway. What’s more, I neglected my physical and mental well-being.

  Stop feeling sorry for yourself.

  I snort out my frustration by hefting the box of stationery from the trunk. It’s heavy. Awkward. This box will require its own expedition back to the lodge.

  Better get a move on.

  Back at the lodge, I dump the box on the porch and steel myself for the final trip. Only the kitchen cupboard provisions remain to be collected. Bella hunkers down on the porch and refuses to join me. She doesn’t care if we have Himalayan pink salt or not. I’ll make the final trip, alone.

  Approaching the Explorer, I notice it’s sitting markedly higher on its suspension now that I’ve relieved it of its cargo. It’s getting hot. The air hums with insect chatter and the sun rises higher in the sky. A blackbird noisily chastises an unseen interloper. I smile. Grab the final box. Check the doors are locked and set off towards the causeway.

  Negotiating the steps, I feel the hairs on the back of my neck prickle. It feels like someone is watching me. I turn and direct my gaze towards the big house. Look for movement. See only stillness. I conclude it must be the Jacksons going about their day, oblivious to my comings and goings. I huff and shake my head.

  There’s no one there.

  With the box hoisted at arms length, I step onto the causeway. A chill breeze wafts in from the ocean. The tide laps against the edge of the causeway. I’m only halfway across and my feet are already soaking wet. The speed of the tide takes me by surprise. Giggling nervously, I pick up the pace.

  I ascend the terraced hillside and reach the cobbled path at the threshold to the lodge’s garden. I settle the box on the ground and turn to face the mainland.

  The causeway is fully submerged.

  A seabird screeches on the updraft. Fluffy white clouds race across the sky, blotting out the sun. Sunshine becomes shade. I’m marooned and all alone on my island. I’d forgotten just how isolated Tern Island can feel at high tide.

  I collect the box and strike out for the door.

  Chapter Ten

  I change out of wet sneakers, drag on walking boots and reward Bella with a trek around the island. She doesn’t need my guidance. She knows every path, nook and cranny, intimately, or so I like to believe. She also knows the best trees to hide behind and quickest route to the cove and the beach. Her doggy senses remind her not to stray too close to the edge of the sheer cliff which lies behind the pine wood south-east of the lodge. We spend an hour mooching around the island. It’s not vast, around three acres, but the variation in landscape is amazing.

  At the beach, I launch a stick of driftwood into the ocean and Bella cavorts in the surf. She retrieves the stick, drops it at my feet, bounces on her hind legs and begs me to do it again. Tiring of the game, she drops the stick one last time and shakes the salty ocean from her matted, yellow fur. I’m drenched.

  “Bella. Stop,” I squeal. She yaps and mocks me. It’s all part of the game. My dog is the happiest I’ve seen her in a long time.

  I watch her roll in the long grass that tumbles down the hillside where it meets the beach. I feel a rush of pleasure and pride. She’s a beautiful creature. A sudden, compelling and unexpected emotion of optimism captures me in its spell.

  The distant, high-pitched whine of an outboard motor punctures my tranquility. My heart flutters. Races. I feel lightheaded. My blood sugar dips.

  “Time to eat, Bella. Come on, girl.”

  We bound up the steps from the beach two at a time and race through the pines to the lodge. Once there, I throw myself into the rocker, drag off my hiking boots and socks, and rub the sand from between my toes.

  To the soundtrack of birdsong and Bella’s
dog tag clinking against her metal bowl, I brew fresh coffee. I find readymade pancakes and frozen berries in the freezer. Two turns of the dial on the microwave, a squeeze of organic honey, and my very late breakfast is ready. I eat the sweet, doughy delight, gazing out through the kitchen window. It’s my first meal in over twenty-four hours. It’s delicious.

  You can’t live on coffee, Hope.

  Satiated and full of energy, I set about hauling my suitcase upstairs to the master-suite. Once there, I open the shutters and throw open the windows. Golden sunlight, birdsong, the scents of ocean and pine, flood in.

  I push Charles’s clothes over to one side of the closet and drape a sheet from the ottoman, over them.

  No need to look at those, again.

  I start to fill the closet, shoe racks and drawer space with the contents of the suitcase. When the task is done, I push the empty case under the bed. Dust mites dance on rays of sunlight. Next, I turn my attention to the vanity bag. Arrange perfume, cosmetics and skincare on the dresser and on the shelf under the vanity mirror in the bathroom. Next, I plug the electric toothbrush charger into the wall socket above the mirror. Then, I scoop up Charles’s toiletries and dump them unceremoniously into a garbage bag, ready to toss in the dumpster, downstairs.

  Tasks complete, I brush my palms together like some kind of magician waiting for a round of applause. When none comes, I curtsy and stick out my tongue at my unappreciative audience – Bella. I twirl twice, scissor kick and throw myself onto the sofa.

  Good job, well done. I say to myself.

  “Coffee for me, Bella, and a Scooby snack for you.”

  I spring from the sofa and skip through to the kitchen.

  With my back resting against the kitchen counter, I inhale the rich aroma of coffee. I really ought to use this time at Tern Lodge to reduce my caffeine habit, I reprimand myself.

  No way, Jose!

  Bella worries at a doggy chew in the shape of a deformed head – the ones that claim to clean your pooch’s teeth – and makes light work of it.

  “Okay, Bella, time for the writing den. I had better get some writing done. To the bat cave…” Bella’s ears flatten. She rises, saunters over to her bed and flops into it – lays half in, half out.

  “Please yourself. Laying down on the job won’t get it done, will it?” I tickle her ears and leave her be.

  I lift the box of stationery from beside the front door, collect my purse from the armchair and heft them upstairs to the writing den.

  An oak desk sits under the window with vistas to the south, towards the beach and the ocean beyond. I take out my writing equipment and arrange it on and around the desk. I position the laptop center stage, notebook beside it on the right, pencil pot closest left, and my prized silver photo frame on the left. I lean forward, plant a kiss on the folks sitting on the bench in the photo.

  Love you. Miss ya.

  In a corner of the den, an ancient school easel supports a puncture free corkboard. On the narrow shelf at its base, I balance post-it notes and marker pens in assorted colors. That done, I arrange reference books and dictionary on the bookshelf and run a finger along the spines of ten hardcover books.

  They’re my books.

  My life’s work sits before me wrapped in beautifully designed dust covers. Each one features a bestseller rosette.

  I’m good at this.

  I take a long look around. My workplace feels right. In an instant, I decide to make a start on repairing the manuscript tomorrow. First things first: I’m overdue a check-in phone call to Martha. My tummy is rumbling; I need something substantial to eat.

  Charles’s steely blue eyes follow me down the stairs and around the living room. I curse the man behind the lens. Curse the man that became a love rat.

  I select Martha’s name from contacts and hit the green call button.

  She answers on the second ring. “So nice of you to call. You’re not dead, then?”

  “Passive aggressive. Nice.”

  “Excellent. Hope Madison is back in the room.”

  “I’ve spent the day housekeeping. New broom,” I say. “Clean sweep.” If I sound upbeat, it’s because I am.

  “Good for you, Sweetlips. All good?”

  “Perfect. I’m all set.”

  “I’m delighted to hear it. Carpe diem. Get your tight little ass working on that manuscript,” she says. I know she’s smiling.

  “I’ll start first thing tomorrow. Promise.”

  “I want regular updates. A.J. will be on my case until he’s holding his next bestseller in his sweaty paws,” she says. Her smile has left the building, Elvis style. Martha is putting me on notice.

  Even though she can’t see me, I nod.

  “End of August. Promise. I won’t let you down.”

  I owe Martha big time. She’s put her reputation on the line for me.

  “Call me at least once a week. No excuses.”

  She ends the call and I’m left standing in the middle of the kitchen holding my cell phone, in shock. Never has she been so blunt. So cold. The screen illuminates and displays the low battery icon. I relax my jaw. Realize that I’m sticking out my chin. I plug the phone into the socket by the window.

  Outside, daylight is fading. Tern Lodge is silent. My tummy continues to rumble like distant thunder.

  “Supper time, Bella. Let’s see what delights Rhoda’s left in the freezer.”

  I slide out the drawer and peer into the cavernous freezer compartment at the base of the refrigerator. There’s a pepperoni pizza in plastic wrapping, a serving of meat pasta that has seen better days in a Tupperware container and a half eaten tub of chocolate chip ice cream. It’s not much of a selection. I drag out the ice cream. Close the drawer and the refrigerator.

  From the wine chiller, I select and uncork a bottle of chardonnay. Bella lifts up to join me on the porch. I settle into the rocker. Balance the tub of ice cream on my lap. Pour a goblet of wine. Lift it to my nose. Inhale. The rich oak and vanilla notes delight my senses. I sigh with contentment. Eat ice cream as the light fades. Over my shoulder, the ocean bubbles as the tide laps against the causeway and prepares to cut Tern Island off from the mainland.

  Bella pads over, curls up at my feet and settles her face on her paws. Her long and nasally sigh suggests she’s not best pleased with my nutritional choices.

  “We’ll go see old Mr. Wiley tomorrow, Bella, and buy some provisions.”

  I relax into the rocker. My mind stills. The clock on the wall behind me tells me it’s past nine o’clock. As the sun settles beyond the horizon, the air cools. My eyelids flutter closed. I feel myself drifting off to sleep. My chin droops onto my chest. A seagull caws. I bolt awake, run a hand across my face.

  “Time for bed, Bella.”

  I drag the door closed. The latch clicks into the frame. I make my way through the lounge and pad upstairs. Bella – taking her sentry duties seriously – leaps up onto the bed and settles at my feet. Tern Lodge creaks and groans as the timbers cool.

  I drift off to sleep with a newfound sense of renewal.

  Chapter Eleven

  Day 3

  I wake early, shower and shrug into jeans and pull on my favorite cardigan. I race downstairs and make coffee. Wait for the caffeine hit. Once she’s been fed, I let Bella outside to do what we all need to do most mornings.

  I write best in the mornings. By five thirty, I’m sat at my desk, ready to tackle the re-write. I collect a tortoiseshell hair-grip, scrape the bangs from my face and pin my hair back. I double click the file icon and watch the Trivial Pursuit style icon spin. As I wait, I rattle my fingers on the desk. A half minute later, the file opens.

  The title jumps out of the screen in sharp relief: Betrayal.

  I scan read the opening line: In the dead of winter ... I am betrayed. My life is over.

  Martha’s right. It’s dreadful.

  I select the notebook I’d assigned to the original project and scan the plot outline. Study the notes with care. Reacquai
nt myself with the characters, plot, heroine’s peril, the love interest and the inevitable, heady rush towards the happy ending. I remind myself that one person ruined the entire project – Charles son-of-a-bitch Madison.

  Thirty minutes later, with the original story outline refreshed in my brain, I open a new document and write a new working title: Tern Island.

  At first my fingers hover over the keys. Afraid of making mistakes, I’m overthinking. I’m experiencing writer’s block: the curse of every author.

  I lift my eyes from the screen and gaze out through the window. The ocean beyond the cliffs is calm. Pine trees sway serenely in the lightest of breezes. I hear the ocean lap against the shore and a chorus of birdsong from the pines.

  You’ve got this. I tell myself.

  I take a deep breath and start to type. At first, the words stutter onto the screen. Then, as my imagination tumbles and flows, the words gather momentum into sentences and paragraphs. I enter ‘the zone’. I start to live my heroine’s life. I feel what she feels. Sense what she senses.

  Writing is a muscle. Like all muscles, you either use it, or you lose it.

  Time evaporates. I write until I can no longer ignore the uncomfortable feeling in my bladder. The clock in the corner of the screen proclaims 10:00 a.m. I’ve not moved from my desk for four-and-a-half hours. The word count reads 3,025. Four weeks writing at this pace and the draft will be ready for its first edit. Never have I written so prolifically.

  I press SAVE. Sit back and stretch my arms to the ceiling. The change of position threatens to release the valve in my bladder. I bolt up and make a dash to the bathroom. Pee for what seems like an eternity. When I’m through, I slosh cool water over my face, apply tinted moisturizer, lip gloss and anti-frizz oil to my curls.

  I go downstairs, enter the lounge. Cynical blue eyes follow my every step from above the mantel. I drag a footstool over to the hearth, step up and take hold of the photo frame – the photograph taken on our wedding day – and flip it over; consign Charles’s mocking stare to the wall.