by C B Cox
It must be night. Where did the day go? How long have I slept?
I untangle my legs from the sheets and crawl out of bed. At the bathroom sink, I turn on the cold faucet and let it run until the water is ice-cold. Put my mouth around the faucet. The more I drink, the more I want. A shooting pain rockets through my temple and I press the heel of my hand against my forehead. Brain freeze, my father used to call it, when I ate ice cream too quickly.
I’m a mess. Swollen eyes. Cracked lips. Smudges of black mascara cover my cheeks. My hair is crazy and matted. I’m naked. I don’t even remember undressing. Then I remember the distress I felt the night before.
I mustn’t let him drag me down.
I use a tissue to remove the mascara. Splash water over my face. The cold makes me shiver. Brings me around. I slip on my bathrobe, amble over and close the shutters. Rain puddles on the bedroom floor by the window.
Damn it!
I grab a handful of towels from the closet and use them to mop the floor: dump the soaking mass in the shower. I return to the window. I’m just about to pull the shutters closed, when I notice a faint orange light fade and disappear at edge of the causeway. It’s only a fleeting glimpse, but it’s enough to stop me in my tracks. I peer into the darkness. Press my nose against the window. The light has gone. I blink twice. Re-focus. It was nothing.
My eyes are playing tricks on me.
I take a long breath, close the windows and the shutters.
Downstairs, I enter the kitchen and put the coffeepot on the stove.
What time is it?
I recollect my cell phone crashing against the floor. Remember Charles’s text message.
I’ve let him get the better of me…
There’s no TV or radio at Tern Lodge. Charles insisted on tranquility. He considered it an antidote to his hectic working schedule, or so he said. I release a long huff. Return to the bedroom. Check my watch. It’s 10:42 p.m. I’ve been out of it for over twenty-four hours. I’m angry with myself. Feel, I’ve let myself down.
“This is crazy,” I say. No one is listening. I’m alone. I shake my head in disbelief. The sharp pungency of coffee breaks the spell and I return to the kitchen.
The caffeine hit permeates every nerve ending. At last, I feel human again. I also feel stupid. Why did one text message provoke such an extreme reaction? My life is challenging enough, without me making a mountain out of a molehill. I’ve lost a whole day to that man. I must be crazy.
Never again, Charles Madison. Never again!
I roll my shoulders. Muscular tension dissolves. The bones in my neck creak and crack. Oxygen reaches my fuddled brain.
Where’s Bella?
I call her, but she doesn’t respond. The front door is ajar.
I’m sure I closed it on the latch last night?
I dash to the front door, fling it open and step outside onto the porch.
“Bella. Bella,” I holler.
Where the hell is she?
I cup my hands into a megaphone shape. “Bella!”
Where is she? Idiot. You left the door wide open. It’s your fault…
Then I see the top of Bella’s head. She’s trotting toward the lodge from the direction of the causeway. She ambles up the terrace and across the cobbles. Her tail wags low to the ground. Her tongue flops from her jowls. I bend down to greet her, and she nuzzles her rain-soaked face into my lap.
“I’m sorry, little one. You must be starving. Supper time?”
I close the door. Give her a rub down with a towel from under the sink. Put fresh kibbles and water in her bowls. She turns her nose up at supper and pads upstairs.
“I know. It’s been a funny day. I’m not hungry either,” I say after her.
After twenty-four hours of sleep, I’m not ready to turn in. I’m wired on caffeine and not the slightest bit sleepy. I might just as well try to get some writing done, since my imagination is firing on all cylinders.
In the writing den – in my bathrobe – I settle into the chair, fire up my laptop, pull the hair from my face and reach for the hair-grip.
Where did I put it?
It’s disappeared. I must have misplaced it. No matter. I shrug, tuck my bangs behind my ears, wiggle my fingers and start to type.
To my relief, the words come with ease. The word count rises. After two hours, I’ve written two thousand words and I’ve managed to shake off the torpor of the last twenty-four hours. I’m doing what I do best.
When the clock in the right-hand corner of the screen clicks over to 03:00 a.m., I press SAVE and switch off the laptop. I step into the bathroom: brush my teeth, wash, undress. Crawl into bed. I snuggle up under the covers and listen to the patter of rain on the roof.
The lodge is silent.
Sleep comes quickly.
Chapter Seventeen
Day 9
When I wake, the rain has stopped. From my vantage point at the kitchen window, I see the rain has given the grass and trees, a new crispness. Fluffy white clouds dapple an astral-blue sky. The rising sun gains strength as it begins its daily east to west march.
There’s plenty of time before high tide to rustle up a breakfast of scrambled eggs, toast and bacon. I’m ravenous. I can’t remember my last proper meal. I really ought to give myself permission to relax for an hour or so, before I take the drive into Portland to get my cell phone repaired. It’s an inconvenience of my own making. An excuse to get away. It’s only ten days since I arrived on the island and already it’s starting to feel claustrophobic. I’m going a little stir crazy. Letting my imagination run away with itself.
Take a chill pill, Hope.
In my head, Sheryl Crow reminds me that a change will do me good. It’s decided. I won’t dither a moment longer. I’ll head into the city for a couple of hours of R & R and treat myself to lunch in a bistro. It’ll be nice to be around real people. Enjoy a little shopping. Treat myself. It’s good for the soul, occasionally.
I load the dishwasher with the breakfast dishes. When that’s complete, I collect the components of my shattered cell phone and seal them in a reusable food bag. I grab my car keys and purse. Tell Bella that I’ll be home in time for dinner and drag the door closed on the latch behind me. Having checked nobody is watching, I place the door key under the plant pot and make a mental note to pick up a new plant on my shopping trip.
I’ve lots of time. It’s actually a pleasant stroll across the causeway when the sun shines.
Stolling along the causeway, I notice the tool marks where my pioneering predecessors worked the rock. My mind recalls Charles’s research. He regaled me with weird and wonderful tales. Rumors of the existence of a labyrinth of tunnels under the island used by smugglers, bootleggers and escaping conscripts, and as a lookout against the British. Stories of a serial killer stalking the inlets and islands along the coast; the victim’s bodies, as yet, undiscovered. The latest disappearance being in the late 2000s when a teenage backpacker became separated from her boyfriend. She was last seen crossing the causeway.
Of course, it was the stuff of folklore. I shudder when I remember how Charles enjoyed teasing me with ghost stories as we cuddled by the fire; the wind howling through the eaves.
You’re a lowlife, Charles Madison...
Ascending the wooden steps, I catch sight of the Explorer. I peer around it. Still nothing stirs in the big house. No sign at all of Curtis Jackson. At first, I’m relieved. Relief swiftly turns to anger at my meekness.
What’s wrong with you woman?
I blip the doors, swing into the driver’s seat, throw my purse on the passenger seat and pull on the safety belt. I turn the ignition key. The starter clicks. I suck a long breath and blow a sigh. Turn the key again. The starter clicks, grinds and dies.
I don’t need this. What the hell is wrong with it? Why won’t it start?
“Don’t panic. It’s just cold. Perhaps, the battery is a little low.” I address my reflection returned in the rearview mirror.
Give it a
minute. Try again.
I spin the key. Still nothing. The battery is shot. I punch the steering wheel with my palms. A cocktail of frustration and despair roils through me.
Now, what am I going to do?
A face appears at the door glass startling me. It’s a man. His pale face is twisted into a frown. My heart performs somersaults, before I recognize Curtis Jackson. He’s twirling his hand. Suggesting I roll down the door glass.
I drag on the switch. The glass descends two inches, then halts as the power fails.
“You’ve got to stop doing that,” I yell through the opening.
“Doing what?” His frown deepens into a scowl.
He doesn’t know.
“Sneaking up on me like that. It’s unnerving.”
“I’m sorry, Mrs. Madison. Are you having trouble?”
Cool as a cucumber. The guy doesn’t seem to understand how disconcerting it is, him sneaking around like that. He creeps me out.
“Yes. Damn thing won’t start,” I snap, biting my bottom lip to prevent it sticking out like a petulant child.
“Shall I take a look?” He says, with a thin smile. As he speaks, his head tips on one side. I’m being a jerk. It’s not his fault. “I really don’t mind.”
“Thank you. I’d appreciate it,” I say. I need help and he’s the only one around.
Cut the guy some slack. I tell myself.
“Pop the hood,” he says. “I’ll tell you when to turn the ignition.”
He rests his hands on his hips. It endows him with an air of authority.
I follow his instructions. He lifts the hood. Props it on its stay. He listens to the stricken motor. It clicks and whirls. The engine does not start. He pulls at cables before dropping the hood and stepping around to the drivers’ side. He rubs his hand over his chin. I hear his close-trimmed beard scratch against his palms. He does that sucking in air thing men do, when they are about to deliver bad news to women about something mechanical.
“Is it terminal?” I ask, playing my part in the gender stereotype game.
“Starter motor is bust,” he says flatly, his mouth curling into a knowing smile. It does nothing to stem my anxiety. I slip out of the car beside him. I realize for the first time that he towers over me. He’s six-three. Maybe more?
“Damn it. I need to go to Portland, urgently. Any idea where I can get it repaired?”
He shrugs. “No working garage in town, I’m afraid. The last one closed down last fall. Too much competition from cheaper places in the city.” He’s tight-lipped.
“What about a tow truck?” I need solutions. Not obstacles.
“Nope. Not out here, there isn’t.”
Breathe, Hope … breathe…
“I’ll fix it. It’ll take a couple of days to get a new motor, but it’s doable. There’s space around the motor. Access isn’t a problem,” he says. At last he’s giving me solutions. Relief replaces anxiety.
“Could you?” I realize I’m sounding desperate and vulnerable. I straighten, stand tall and take half a step back. I’m trying to make myself bigger besides this skyscraper of a man, hoping to retain some semblance of dignity.
Charles is tall, but this guy…
“That would be great, thank you, Curtis. Of course, I’ll pay you for your trouble, time and parts.”
“Leave it with me. When the parts arrive, I’ll drop by the lodge,” he says, fixing me with earnest eyes. He holds his hand out. I drop the keys into his upturned palm and collect my purse from the passenger seat, before slamming the door shut. Curtis blips the lock. He’s handsome. And possesses a certain intensity.
Turn down the romance author, Hope Madison.
“Any chance I can borrow your cell phone? Like a moron, I dropped mine. I was going to drive into Portland to get it repaired. I need to text someone. Let them know I’ll be out of contact for a few days.”
“I don’t have one,” he says. “I don’t like modern technology.”
“Really?”
Who the hell doesn’t have a cell phone, nowadays?
“Yes. Really. I’ll get the motor fixed as soon as I can.” He’s talking to me, but gazing over my shoulder at the island. I can’t decide whether he’s preoccupied or bored?
“That’s really kind of you. Thank you. I’ll wait to hear from you,” I say, hoisting my purse over my shoulder. “I best get back. The tide’ll turn soon.”
“See you around, Mrs. Madison.”
“Hope. It’s Hope. My name is Hope.”
“See you around, Hope,” he says, waving, turning to leave.
Damn it.
I’m captured by a feeling of defeat. My shoulders droop. There’s nothing I can do about the Explorer or cell phone. I must get a grip. Get over it. Reconcile myself to the fact that I will be out of touch with everyone for a little longer. On the plus side, it’ll keep me focused on my writing and provide some respite from Charles and his annoying texts. I’ll survive.
Martha won’t worry. She’s used to me, and my writing habits. She appreciates that once I’m in the zone, days turn to weeks and my life enters a repeat cycle of writing, drinking coffee, sleeping and eating. Everything else becomes secondary. Charles never understood. Martha gets me.
When I arrive at the lodge, I find Bella sitting behind the front door polishing the wooden floor with her bushy golden tail.
“We’re marooned a little while longer, girl.” I tickle her ears. She’s expecting a walk and stands in readiness. “I’ll work for a couple of hours, then we’ll go for a walk on the beach. Promise.” Bella cocks her head on one side. Gives me sad eyes.
Bella understands every word I say.
I resolve to write for a while, take a walk, then I’ll make dinner. Bella woofs, pads out through the door and settles on the porch. Her jaw lies along her paws. I imagine she’s sulking.
She’s funny.
I stand in the door opening wiping my forehead. Humidity claws at my skin. The high midday sun has evaporated puddles from the cobbled path and dew from the foliage. Heat haze shimmers in the air. Sweat trickles down my back and tickles the base of my spine. I’m dressed for a trip to the city in tight jeans, cotton shirt and ballet slippers. I need a change of clothing.
This won’t do.
My thirst is raging. I sink a glass of water in a single draft. Decide on a shower. Change into shorts and T-shirt. I feel fresh, but my body refuses to be still. I open and close my fingers. Stretch out my back, legs and arms. I take an age to stop fidgeting. I’d worked myself up for a trip to the city and now I have pent up energy desperately clambering to escape. For the first time today, I notice how untidy the lodge is.
Gee, what a mess!
I throw open the windows, make the bed and fill the laundry basket with the clothes I’ve discarded haphazardly across the bedroom floor. Race around the upstairs rooms tidying up. ‘Tidy house, tidy mind,’ my mom used to say. I bundle up the wet towels from my earlier clean up operation, dump them in the laundry room and close the door.
With disarray brought to order, I grab a chilled bottle of Evian from the refrigerator and take it upstairs. Settle at my desk. Fire up my laptop.
The words flow swiftly from my fingers. I’m in my character’s life as it tumbles and unfolds in twists and turns. As her hopes and fears are revealed, I put aside my own. Writing is invigorating. It elevates me from the here and now. The old manuscript is long gone. My writing is alive. I don’t even feel it necessary to refer to the story plan. I know what she knows; feel what she feels. The words dance onto the pages in vivid Technicolor. The problems of the last few days fade and become a distant memory.
Onwards and upwards…
I lose track of time. Stiff from sitting, I yawn, stretch and shut down the computer. We need fresh air. It’s time to take a walk: the walk I promised Bella hours ago. I grab an apple and a bottle of water. Bella sensing the walk is imminent, lets out an excited yap. Her claws click-clack over the floorboards as she stretches.
&n
bsp; I step outside where the humidity has returned to bearable levels. And the low sun makes walking comfortable. Bella scuttles off towards the cove. We assume our designated roles of thrower and retriever. It’s great fun. Tufts of wiry grass punctuate the beach at irregular intervals. The ocean twinkles blue and silver. Towards the horizon, white sails levitate in the haze. I lose myself in the tranquility of nature until my tummy starts to rumble, indicating it’s time to head back.
Back at the kitchen, I feed Bella and throw together a Caesar salad for myself. We spend the evening on the porch, me with a glass of chardonnay, and Bella with a chew. I pick up the paperback that, until now, I’ve neglected to read. It’s the latest Lee Child Reacher thriller. I may write romance novels, but I like to keep up to date by reading an eclectic mix of literature.
I read for the simple pleasure of reading.
Chapter Eighteen
Day 14
After a great night’s sleep, I’m refreshed. Before sunrise, I’m showered and enjoying a double espresso in the kitchen, ready for a morning of productive work.
The lodge is quiet. The ambience perfect.
It’s eight-thirty and I’ve already been sitting here for two hours. I stare into space. An uneasy feeling fizzes in my gut. I’ve read over and amended the words I wrote yesterday, but I can’t seem to progress to the next scene. I stare at a blank screen ensnared by nagging self-doubt. My brain throbs.
Go for a walk. Clear your head. It will do you good. I tell myself.
I have to do something or I’ll go insane. I don’t want to stress over the scourge of authors everywhere – writer’s block!
I don’t even bother to change. I run downstairs, making a clicking sound in my cheek with my tongue. Bella needs no encouragement. We set off at a march to the cove. My head is pounding. The fizz in my gut becomes a knot, tightens. I experience an intense feeling of foreboding.
Get a grip.
I know it will pass. I’ve been here before. My creative muscle needs a rest. Usually, a break from the screen is all I need. Even though logic tells me this to be true, and no matter how many times I say it to myself, it scares the living crap out of me. I stress over not being able to pen another word. Ever. The demons of self-doubt flutter around inside my head and hunker down on my shoulder. They whisper and sow the seeds of doubt: a portent of failure?
