by C B Cox
After a breakfast of more eggs – Bella won’t touch the dog food – I get straight to my desk. I won’t allow myself a walk or swim. I won’t deviate from my core task.
To write a novel.
Except for forays to the kitchen for coffee refills and many trips to the bathroom – because of excessive coffee consumption – I write. I write thousands of words. Good words. No. Great words. I’m good at what I do. Scrub that. I’m great at what I do. I love the feeling. Adore the way the story appears on the page. Most writers agonize over daily word count, plotting twists and clever foreshadowing. They fear rejection and scathing reviews. I’ve always trusted in good planning and fully realized characters doing my bidding. It may sound arrogant, but until that day in May when Martha dropped the bombshell that shattered my confidence, I never once doubted my craft. I like to believe I understand what my fans love and expect.
I also appreciate that until my own happy ever after life collapsed around my ears into an emotional heap, I’d never been truly tested. My life was one long romance novel. I gave my readers what they wanted. Regurgitated my candy-coated beautiful life onto the page.
Now I’m here, alone, on Tern Island. Isolated. Edgy. Afraid. Hiding behind the sofa from boogeymen of my own making.
I resolve to put those feeling behind me. To see the future with renewed optimism. Endeavor to create stories that mean something. My protagonists will be ballsy. My antagonists, not so clean cut, or so easily identifiable. My fans will love them for it.
A loud rap-tap-tap on the door brings me back to the present, from my mental soiree. I can’t see the porch from where I’m sat, so I race downstairs and gingerly open the door. The last thing I need is a return visit from Levi Wiley, Charles son-of-a-bitch Madison or Curtis Jackson.
Martha stands on the porch clutching her purse in her left hand, an expensive bottle of red hangs from her right hand.
“Look what the cat’s dragged in,” she says, with a wide smile. I feel my eyes filling up.
“Martha!” I cry, taking her in my arms. I hug her like she’s a long-lost relative.
“Well, that was a welcome!” She can’t hug me back. Her hands are full.
“What the hell are you doing here? OMG, I’m so pleased to see you,” I babble. She stands aside, reveals Curtis Jackson weighed down with an overnight bag over his left shoulder, what appears to be a gourmet food hamper slung over his right shoulder and a box of wine balanced against his chest. Bella sits at his heel.
“Aren’t you going to invite us in? As luck would have it, this handsome young man rescued me from your godforsaken moat. This place, it’s a goddamned fortress.”
She steps inside. I hold the door open for Curtis. We make our way into the kitchen.
“Drop the hamper in the kitchen, darling.” Martha instructs Curtis. Turning her attention to me, she hands over a bottle of red. “Take this darling. Put it somewhere safe. It costs about the same as a meal at De Niro’s.” I’m watching from the wings as Martha – in full party planner mode – directs proceedings. Curtis unburdens himself of the overnight bag, the box of wine and the hamper. Familiarizing himself with the kitchen, he locates the wine cooler, breaks out the wine from the boxes and loads the bottles inside.
Martha and I gaze at one another, conspiratorially.
Curtis appears in the kitchen doorway. “Would you like me to unpack the hamper?” he says to Martha.
“No, I’ll do that,” I say. He nods. But not before raising a questioning eyebrow at Martha. She has that effect on a person.
“Thank you, Curtis. You’re an absolute angel. We’ll take it from here,” she says. I watch and hope to God that she doesn’t try to tip him. Instead, she says, “Why don’t you join us, this evening. There’s plenty of food and more than enough to drink. It’ll be fun to have some male company.” She turns to me. “Won’t it, darling?”
I’m stunned to silence. Less than five minutes and she’s already relegated me to second in command in my own home.
“Hope?” She nudges me. I give her a ‘WTF’ look.
“Sure… How does eight o’clock sound?” What else can I say?
“Sounds good … yeah. I’ll look forward to it.” His intonation suggests surprise.
“Great. It’s a date,” says Martha. “We’ll expect you at eight. And don’t you dare be late,” she says, Atlanta drawl in flirt mode.
“Gee… Thanks… Yeah… I’ll see you both later,” he says, stepping outside, bounding off with a newfound spring in his step. Bella follows him. I call her back. She ignores me. Curtis gives her an instruction, and she trots back towards the lodge.
Like I say: she’s a man’s dog.
“He’s cute,” Martha says, kicking off city heels. “You never said you had a male friend, up here.” Her eyes sparkle like gems.
“He’s not a male friend. He’s not even a friend. He’s just a single man living alone in a big house at the other end of the causeway. You had no right to invite him. What were you thinking?” I say, defensively.
“Well, in that case, he’s fair game then, isn’t he, Sweetlips.” She raises her eyebrows. All coy and flirty.
“Martha, how can you say that? He’s not even your type. What’s more, he isn’t even the correct gender. And he’s certainly too young for you.” I laugh out loud. She shrugs.
“I like pretty things. And he sure is damn pretty,” she says, teasing me. Turning on the Southern Bell.
God, I’ve missed her.
“Martha Klein, stop that. You’re making me blush.”
“You’re such a prude. Look at you, all wound up like a spring. For goodness sake, get me a drink. The drive was a pain in the ass.”
“Is it wine o’clock, yet?” I glance at the clock on the wall. Ten after five.
“You bet it is. It’s gone five. I ought to be on my second gin by now.” She laughs. Her eyes gleam with mischief.
Martha is a drinker. That said, usually, she’s an after eight kind of gal.
“Sorry, no gin. There’s plenty of wine, though,” I say with a chuckle.
“Grab a bottle and two glasses, then. Don’t dawdle. Meet me on the porch. I want you to sit down and explain yourself, young lady,” she says, dumping her jacket on the sofa.
“I’ll put the hamper in the fridge. I’ll be right there.”
Thankfully, there’s no chai in the hamper. I take my time putting away the food.
A lecture is the last thing I need.
Martha has taken the rocker, so I drag over the outdoor sofa and a low table and join her on the porch. I brim large goblets with cool white wine, sit and curl my legs under my butt. We chink glasses. I breathe in a long sigh. Take a mouthful of chardonnay. The wine is sublime.
“I’m so glad you came, Martha. Why didn’t you call? I would have meet you. Helped you carry things.”
“Call ahead! That’s a joke, right? It’s the 4th July, for goodness sake. I’ve been calling you for four weeks. Four weeks. It would be easier raising the dead! What’s going on, Hope?” She says, draining her wineglass. “Top me up. That didn’t even touch the sides.”
I obey.
I remember. Replay the movie of the cell phone smashing against the floor in my head. “My cell, it slipped off the kitchen counter and broke. The Explorer, it’s broken, too. Getting it repaired is turning out to be a nightmare. Truth is, I’ve been so wrapped up in my writing, that I haven’t given anyone else much thought. Sorry, babe.”
The last part is a lie. I don’t want to divulge my mental state to Martha.
Four weeks? Has it been a month already?
Martha’s eyes narrow. Her stern glare burns into me. “I’ve been frantic with worry. Although I was loath to do it, I called Charles,” she says. She’s exaggerating. The ‘frantic’ part doesn’t ring true. It’s not in Martha’s DNA.
“You called, Charles. Why?” I’m perturbed, but don’t want to show it.
“Ask yourself, who else knows where you are? I don�
�t know the zip code for this place. I had to ask someone.”
“What did he say?” Now, I’m worried about the web of deceit he might have spun to Martha.
“All I’ll say, he was less than complimentary about you. He said you were the last person on earth he wanted to speak to. Asshole suggested I’ve filled your head with delusions of grandeur,” she complains, placing a flat palm on her breastbone, studying me above her glasses. She’s indignant. Offended. “He’s pissed with me, because he reckons I’ve encouraged you. Given you hope – pardon the pun – that you can succeed without him. He’s been going around saying you’ve got cabin fever. That you’ve let yourself go. He mentioned that your hair was a mess. Can you believe it? What a total bastard he is. Mind you, darling, he’s right about your hair,” she laughs.
I roll my eyes to the porch ceiling. Sigh. Take a long slug of cool wine.
“Did he tell you he came here?”
“No. Did he?”
“Yes, he did. Arrived out of the blue, unannounced. He let himself in. Informed me that Tern Island was his. Threatened to take it back. Of course, I sent him packing with a flea in his ear,” I say, putting on a less than accurate spin on my last encounter with Charles. I don’t want Martha to see that I’m rattled. Fearful, even.
“Don’t worry, darling. Charles is a twenty-four carat asshole. He’s not worth the time of day. I came here to see you. I knew there had to be a logical reason you weren’t picking up on your cell. I know you can take care of yourself, but I was worried about you.”
“I’m sorry, babe. I’ve been so wrapped up in my re-write.”
It’s a white lie.
“And…”
“You want a progress update?”
“Well?”
“I’m a happy bunny.”
“Percentage complete?”
“Ninety.”
“How long until it’s done?”
“Two weeks and I’ll be typing those two magic words, ‘The End’.” I mime quotation marks.
“That’s fantastic. Can I read it?”
“No. Too early,” I blurt. Realize I’ve answered too quickly. “I want you to read it fully formed. No half measures,” I say. It seems to allay her fears.
“Okay. Two weeks. Not a day over,” she says. In that moment, Martha is my agent, not my friend and confidant. “Okay?”
“Okay.”
We finish the bottle of wine. I feel a little dizzy. I’ve hardly eaten all day. I don’t care. It’s so good to see her.
Martha lifts from the rocker. “I need a shower. You girl, need to spruce yourself up. And while you at it, do something with your hair. It looks like you’ve been dragged through a hedge, backwards. Then, you and I, we’re going to eat something nice from that gorgeous hamper. Drink wine. And entertain that handsome young man of yours. It looks to me like you need a good meal and some downtime,” she says. I won’t take the bait.
Everybody wants to fatten me up. And he’s not my young man!
I carry Martha’s overnight bag to the spare room. Fetch fresh towels from the closet. She brings refilled wineglasses. We shower and gossip through open bedroom doors, like sophomores getting ready for a double date.
My face aches. Has it been so long that I’ve forgotten how to smile?
Chapter Thirty-Six
The air is sultry and heady with pine and salt. Martha swoons out of her room wearing a full-length lilac Kaftan. Her ears and neck drip with antique gold. She’s added thick black liner to her eyes. Swapped the slash of red for the palest of pink lip-gloss. She’s Elizabeth Taylor stunning.
“Wow!” I say, as she gives me a twirl. In contrast, I’ve chosen simple summer attire. I’m top-to-toe in white linen.
“You look gorgeous, darling,” she says, collecting my hand. God, she’s beautiful and sexy. She’s all things to all men, and women.
We haven’t reached the bottom of the stairs when Bella pushes through the door. In her wake is Curtis Jackson. That man is David Blaine reversed. He appears just when you least expect him.
“You came. Your timing is impeccable,” says Martha. He’s toned down the denim-on-denim vibe. He’s wearing a pale-blue chambray shirt and beige chinos. His cologne is musky and overpowering.
“Hi,” he says, stepping across the threshold carrying a cardboard box. Glass chinks on glass inside. Two neatly tied posies of hand-cut flowers lay atop the box. I take it as evidence that there are flowers growing amongst the weeds in his dead mother’s cottage garden. He places the box on the counter, collects the posies, hands one to each of us. Nervously, he air kisses our cheeks. His breath is fresh and minty.
“Gee, you two look ravishing,” he says, hazel eyes glistening with sparkles of topaz. Martha makes a big deal of smelling the blooms. Her huge earrings jingle as she flicks an imaginary ponytail. She’s overdoing it. Trying too hard.
What the hell has gotten into her?
“Thank you. They’re beautiful. I’ll go fetch a vase. Martha, would you be a gem and organize a drink for our visitor?” I say, hoping to bring Martha back to her senses.
Martha turns to me, lips turned up into a thin smile. “Of course... Since it’s such a beautiful evening, why don’t we go and sit outside on the porch? Is that okay with you, Curtis?” She’s piling on the southern drawl. The charm.
Curtis shrugs his shoulders. “Fine by me. I’ll go get a beer first, if that’s okay? I brought the wine for you two,” he says, shifting his attention from the praying mantis.
Curtis and Martha follow me into the kitchen. Curtis takes a bottle of white and a Bud from the box and sidles around to my side of the counter. He rifles through the cutlery drawer until he locates a corkscrew. Takes down two huge wineglasses from the wall cupboard. He arranges the bottles and glasses on the counter, lifts the remaining contents from the box and fills the fridge and wine cooler. Returning to the counter, he flicks the cap off of the beer bottle with his thumb. I’m impressed. He opens the bottle of wine with a flourish. Pours two glasses. Distributes them with a genial smile. We chink glasses and beer bottle. Martha does her thing again with her imaginary ponytail. I look on, wine in hand.
I feel uncomfortable – a gooseberry in my own home. As if sensing my awkwardness, Curtis breaks eye contact with Martha and turns his attention to me. Offers to top up my glass.
“I’d just like to say how much I appreciate you asking me over, tonight,” he says, beaming. He’s charming and friendly. Confident. I guess we city dwellers – being quick to lock our doors and slow to speak to strangers – aren’t familiar with the friendliness of country folk. Out here, in the boonies, it’s natural for neighbors to make themselves useful when they are guests in your home.
I sip the crisp chilled wine and feel myself relax.
“I’m delighted you came. Why don’t we go outside? It’s stifling in here,” I say, winking at Martha. My smile is so broad, I feel my eyelashes touch my cheeks.
We step outside onto the porch. The setting sun touches the horizon. We’re bathed in a warm orange glow. Martha slumps into the outdoor sofa, pats the cushion beside her and smiles at Curtis. Curtis folds his long legs and sits beside her. I take the rocker. Bella flops down at Curtis’s feet. We make a perfect picture of conviviality, as we chink glasses three ways. We take long draws on our drinks. There’s a silence that cries out to be filled.
Martha clears her throat. “Hope tells me she knows absolutely zilch about you, Curtis, other than you’re the mysterious man from the big house. Since my darling friend is socially inept, why don’t you tell us a little about yourself,” Martha says, flashing a mischievous smirk in my direction.
“Martha. Don’t be so rude. Lay off of him,” I implore. I shouldn’t feel embarrassed. I know her inside and out. She’s an outrageous flirt. Forthright. Inquisitive. She didn’t become a success by being a wallflower. I ought to take a leaf from her book, but I’m simply not made of the same stuff. I’m too polite to ask awkward questions, and far too shy to be flirt
y.
“It’s fine. What do you want to know?” he says, settling back against the cushion, crossing his right leg over his left knee, swigging beer.
“Why, everything of course… For starters, what do you do for work? How long have you lived here? Do you have a partner? You know, usual icebreaker stuff,” Martha says, cocking her head on one side. She’s being a tease. Curtis picks up on it.
“I’ll tell if you tell,” he says, arching an eyebrow, licking beer from his lips. “Fair’s fair. What do you say?” The temperature rises a few degrees. I sip wine. This could get messy.
“You go first. I never kiss and tell,” Martha says. I hear the click of teeth on glass as she toys with her wine and our guest. I feel like a voyeur watching foreplay. I clear my throat. Laugh nervously.
Martha directs her gaze past Curtis to me. “What’s a matter, darling? You really ought to lighten up. Curtis is a big boy. I’m sure he can take care of himself. Can’t you?” She says, rotating her head toward him.
“You bet I can. It’s just nice to have someone half decent to talk to. This place, it’s a cultural desert. Present company excepted,” he says, with a grin. “I suppose I’ve become a little wary around people.”
“I’m sorry. I’ve not exactly been the most sociable of neighbors, have I?” I’m suddenly aware that his intense gaze has switched to me. I try hard not to look away.
Martha rescues me. “Well there you go. You’ve both been missing out,” says Martha. She knows me intimately. “Curtis, you go first. Icebreaker number one: your work?” She’s like a terrier with a bone.
Curtis draws a long breath and sucks beer. “I’m taking a little time out. I’m a trained physiotherapist. In response to your next question, I’ve lived here all my life, except for boarding school and college. And, before you ask, yes, at the moment, I’m single.” He balks, chews on the inside of his cheek and narrows his eyes at Martha. He’s realized she’s curious about his relationship status. He’s reeling her in. Drip feeding her curiosity. “How about you, Martha? Is there a special person in your life?” he says.
