For the rest of the morning, while the repairmen fixed the section of porch ceiling and roof, she worked on the project. SweetiePie sat on the front windowsill watching every move as Mudd and Symon seemed to be watching the work in progress.
It was nice having someone around. A man. What would her and Wes’s lives be like? Would he mow the lawn or have someone else do it? She tried to picture Wes on a mower. She laughed. Somehow it didn’t fit.
Well, of course not.
Aunt B had probably had this comfortable, cared-for feeling when Symon’s dad was caretaker. That’s why he was called caretaker.
Looking out occasionally, she’d see Symon walking around, moving the sprinklers from one section to another and inspecting the newly planted flowers that already looked as if they’d always been there.
Symon seemed the same way. More a part of the property than she had ever been. As if he belonged here. She could understand why Aunt B had said the cottage was his home. Not because she felt sorry for him. There was no need for that. And come to think of it, the cottage rivaled, if not exceeded, the worth of the house on Jones Street.
After the repairmen left and Symon neared the back, she invited him into the kitchen and showed him what she’d done.
“Good start,” he said. “Did you write the query?”
“What do I do, just say, ‘Hey, you want my book?’”
He laughed. “That may need a little revising. May I?” He gestured at the coffeepot.
“Sure. Cups in the cabinet above the pot.”
While he got the cup and poured the coffee, he instructed. “A couple sentences saying Pretty Is as Pretty Does is about grooming, exercise, nutrition...” He came to the table and pulled up a chair near her, permeating the odor of the out-of-doors. Fresh, cool.
“...and whatever other categories you will deal with. Then a paragraph going into a little more detail. You said it’s for children and teens, right?”
She nodded, and he continued, “Say it is a guide for anyone wanting to—” he grinned “—enhance their appearance and health.”
She gave him a sideways look and was reminded again of how pleasing he was to the eyes. She looked back at the laptop and typed.
“And the last paragraph is about your credentials. Your qualifications for writing this book.”
“You mean, like the former—”
“No,” he said. “Don’t say former. Say you’re winner of Miss Sunshine Pageant or whatever it was. First runner-up for Miss Savannah and any others. Modeling studio teacher. Describe what you do your way. Where you speak and teach. Mention your blog and all your social media.”
She typed as he talked, then had that helpless feeling. “It’s not as easy as you make it sound.”
“I know,” he said. “Like Mark Twain said, the hardest thing about writing is getting the words right. Now, do the best you can, then email it to me and I’ll send it to my editor.”
“May take a while,” she said, looking over at him. “How long does it take you to write a book?”
“I started at age five,” he said.
“Oh, so in about twenty-five years I can have this done.”
“Hey,” he scolded. “Twenty-four years. I’m not thirty yet. But, it’s only a letter.”
She looked at him askance and he looked at his coffee, then said, “I have an idea. Mudd and I are going to Tybee this afternoon. If you’d like to go along, you can read it to me and I’ll edit.”
“I have a better idea,” she teased. “I’ll drive and you put this thing together instead of telling me how. Then I’ll give you credit like you’re giving credit to Aunt B for your books.”
“Nice try,” he said, looking a little more than amused. “Miss B challenged and encouraged. She didn’t do the work for me. You do your own, and you take the credit.”
“In that case, I’m not going,” she said saucily, then grinned at him. “Really, I’d like to. But I have class from four to six.”
“I could pick you up afterward,” he offered.
“I’d like to, but...” she said, smiling over at him. He was fun. She could see why Aunt B was impressed with him. He told interesting stories, knew how to do things and seemed eager to help her. Of course, Aunt B wouldn’t be thinking of him as a very appealing man. On second thought, why not? A fact’s a fact. Nothing wrong with that. As long as she kept everything in perspective, which brought her thoughts back to Wesley. “Wes and I have a standing date. When we can, we meet after class and have dinner together. But if he works late, I might come out after class.”
“I understand,” he said. “Just work on this as you can, and we’ll see what develops.”
She nodded. “The firm is working on a big murder case.”
“I’ve been catching it on the news.”
“I don’t,” she said. “He can tell me about it later. I’m busy working on—” she emphasized “—my book.”
Oh, this was more exciting than planting those little flowers in the dirt. She laughed delightedly, and just as quickly it changed. “What if they don’t like it?”
She watched him finish his coffee, get up, and rinse out the cup and put it in the dishwasher. Apparently he’d done that before. She shrugged. “Well, it doesn’t matter. That’s not my life’s goal. I’m not a writer. Don’t plan to be. It’s not as if I’m trying to get into a writing career or anything. Besides, I’m applying for my graduate work at the college this fall.”
After about ten minutes of explaining why it didn’t matter she seemed to run out of breath and her face felt as if it was probably the color of those little pink anemones.
Symon stood propped back against the cabinets, staring at her with that wicked silver glint in his eyes, looking amused. He whistled. “Glad that’s settled. We can just forget it now.”
“Right,” she said, picking up her cup, but it was a little shaky so she returned it to the saucer. “But wouldn’t it be something,” she said, “if they liked it?”
Chapter 15
Symon walked back to the cottage smiling, then cautioned himself about getting caught up in something that could distract him from his purpose.
However, during lunch he checked his emails and was surprised to see Annabelle’s query letter already. She’d done a good job, but of course she already had a resume for her speaking engagements. And the other information was on her blog. He tweaked the information and felt it was ready to go.
Before sending it, however, he made a call to his editor, told him about her project.
“That’s not my department,” Jim said. “Have her send it in.”
“It’s only a query letter,” Symon said. “Just have them take a look.”
“You know this is atypical.”
“So is the amount of money I’m making for your company.”
Jim sighed, but acquiesced. “I’ll talk to the nonfiction department. But these things take months.”
“I’m not asking for publication. Just a response to an idea. If they can’t use it, let me know.”
“I’ll give it a try, but don’t expect anything for—”
“A few days. Thanks, Jim,” and he rang off.
He looked her letter over again, was satisfied, typed in her Jones Street address and sent it.
He wasn’t too surprised a couple hours later when Marsha, from the nonfiction department, called him. “This is a great idea,” she said. “And I see this as a possibility for a wider audience than being limited to girls preparing for pageants. One thing is missing. Under nutrition she needs some recipes to make it more appealing, not just food charts and calories. We looked at her blog and there’s interesting material there. For females,” she emphasized. “So tell her to work up a proposal and I’ll take it to committee.”
“How about yo
u telling her in a letter. Officially?”
“Sure,” she said. “Thanks for this.”
He felt like running up there and breaking the news. But it wasn’t really news. It was still just a possibility. He felt a sense of excitement about this and quickly told himself he’d felt it before, at writers’ seminars when he’d encouraged or taught an aspiring writer.
He thought about that. Yes, he knew she was Miss B’s niece. Wesley’s fiancée. And he needed to concentrate on what he came here for. His book about Miss B and ideas for his own future thrillers.
It was late afternoon when he arrived on Tybee. The two women were waiting on the balcony when he drove up and stopped to roll down his window.
“The door’s unlocked, just come on up the steps and through the house,” Miss Clovis called.
They stood, smiling like they were extremely happy when he opened the glass doors and stepped out.
“Oh, Symon,” Miss B exclaimed as she opened her arms to him. He hugged Miss Clovis, too, all the while thinking Miss B’s hug had been just a little warmer, a little longer, more intense than he’d known before. Or maybe that came from him. But it felt like a welcome home.
“Oh, just let me look at you,” she said after Clovis moved away from him. “You look wonderful. Older. I mean more mature.”
“And you two look the same. Beautiful as ever.”
Miss B really was. He never evaluated her appearance. Just knew everything seemed perfect. She was a gracious, lovely lady. He’d watched her around some people and she’d seemed rather stiff. But he knew her as pleasant and even surprisingly fun.
After a few expected formalities, Clovis said she had a few things to do in the kitchen and Miss B said he and she might walk on the beach. “You said you were bringing your dog?”
“Mudd’s down by the car. I’m hoping to reacquaint him with water. He’s wary of the creek.”
She petted Mudd, who came up to them when they reached the bottom of the steps, then the dog followed close behind them.
Symon inwardly reprimanded himself for having any misgivings about seeing her again. She made him feel as accepted as ever, maybe even more, and it seemed they’d simply picked up from where they left off. Maybe they were even closer. But, she had always been to him what he thought a mom would be.
She looked over at Mudd. “He’s a beautiful dog,”
Symon remembered the day he’d gotten him. That big dog had been in a cage just barely big enough. Symon almost suffocated at the first look. Mudd’s sad eyes didn’t hold any hope, more like acquiescence of his fate. Symon walked on and made his purchases and could have walked out into the parking lot without going by the animals again. But he felt something he rarely felt. That something was compassion.
It wasn’t that he didn’t care about others, just that he didn’t have any others to care about. That dog was messing with his mind. He was about to turn away when a woman started telling him about the awful ordeal the dog had gone through. A tornado had ripped apart a trailer, killed the elderly man who lived in it. The dog had been found with its nose barely sticking up out of the flooded puddle and his hind leg caught beneath some the rubble.
The woman said the dog needed him and he’d asked, “Why would I want a dog?”
She’d said, “It’s something to love.”
She’d turned out to be right. More than that, it was something who loved him.
It sounded like an apology when Miss B said, “Neither my parents nor Robert wanted animals on the property.”
“But you have a wild cat now,” he said and she laughed.
“I’ve heard how SweetiePie treats Mudd.” She shook her head, then turned reminiscent again. “I got her mainly for Annabelle after Robert and Gina were killed.”
“Animals can make a difference,” he admitted.
They paused to watch Mudd walk to the edge of the water. He ran from the flow when it neared him, but pawed at it and seemed to think that made it move away from him. Then he began to chance playing along the edge.
“It’s Mudd who got me to thinking about a permanent home, settling someplace.” They began walking again. “He needs a home. Maybe I do, too. New York is not where I want to spend my life.”
Her voice sounded as hopeful as her blue eyes, which looked over at him. “So you may be back for good?”
He tilted his head, indicating the possibility.
“I’ve told you the cottage is yours, anytime you wanted to return.”
“Thank you. Right now it’s the perfect place for my project. You know—” he looked at the warmth in her eyes, so accepting of him “—I’d still be like a lost little boy without your attention.”
“Oh, Symon. Don’t you know what a lonely woman I would have been without you?”
“You had your family.”
“Occasionally. They had their own lives. You were always right there.”
He was a little too old and too male to get emotional. “We’ll have to get that into the book,” he said and added quickly, “Speaking of books, you’ve never told me what you think about mine.”
“I’ve kept up with you, Sy DeBerry. On the internet, in literary journals. Your success speaks loudly.”
Not as much as her indirect response. He knew what the public thought. Her positive opinion was what he wanted most. “They haven’t lived up to your expectations?”
“Oh, they’ve exceeded them in many ways.”
“You’re saying I have an Achilles’ heel?”
He felt like a student again. Needed the lessons. His sales were great, but he wanted to improve in any way he could.
“I wouldn’t say it’s a fatal flaw. Just debatable. And not with the general public, I don’t suppose.”
“What is it?”
“I’ve read them over and over. I see you in them. Your beautiful mind. But when I read about some of those terribly evil characters I feel something is missing.”
“They always get their due. You told me a million times that the stories must end good. Mine do.”
“But is good the opposite of evil?”
“Yes.”
“Is it?” Then as he tried to figure out where she was going with this, she said, “I’ve been bad in my times.”
“Not you,” he said in jesting way.
“I was bad to marry Brandley. You remember. You were ten years old. You recognized his meanness.”
“He didn’t like me.”
She scoffed, “He didn’t like me either, after a while. Money was his obsession. But did that make him evil?” Her voice lowered. “Was your dad evil? Your mom?”
“No.”
He couldn’t keep walking. He stopped and she did, too. They faced each other. She said, “Think of people you know. Some have done bad things. But were they evil?”
He knew without thinking. Brandley and money. He was bad but not evil. His dad and alcohol. His dad was a good man. He’d simply liked his alcohol or become so addicted that it became a disease. But he wasn’t an evil man.
Symon knew an evil man. He’d interviewed a few for a better understanding of his villains. One in particular had exuded evil. He wasn’t sorry for the atrocious acts he’d committed and said he dreamed of getting out and doing those things again. His laugh had been maniacal.
“You see,” she said. “I’ve made bad choices. My parents made choices I thought were evil but in my more mature years I recognize their decision as making a choice between situations that weren’t good. But it wasn’t evil.”
“I can’t imagine you being bad,” he said.
“Of course you can. You can imagine anything.”
He acknowledged that with a small twitch of his head and they kept walking. Not talking.
Good was the opposite of bad.
&
nbsp; Ask anybody and they’d say good was the opposite of evil.
Somehow it was beginning to seem incorrect.
“I’ll have to think on it,” he said finally.
Her smile was faint. “We should turn back now,” she said.
Yes, he thought. She just gave him a quiz. He had no quick reply. But coming from her, he knew it was worth pondering.
“Otherwise,” she said. “They’re perfect.”
They both knew he wouldn’t rest until he’d dealt with that “otherwise.”
Chapter 16
Annabelle saw them walking up the beach when she drove up. They looked so relaxed with each other. Maybe it was the evening sun, but Aunt B seemed to glow. And of course she’d seen Symon in the sun, in the shade, in the morning, at noon, at night, so she didn’t have to think about him.
But a little later after they’d all sat at the table and had sweet tea and freshly baked cookies, he said it was getting close to high tide and asked if they would like to ride the waves.
“We did that this morning,” Aunt B said and Annabelle started to laugh. But they didn’t.
“Really?”
“Well, yes, honey. Is that a surprise?”
“I just didn’t know you did that.”
“Even I do that,” Clovis said. “I live on the beach you know, and my philosophy is as long as you do it, you can do it.”
“Who do you think taught me?” Symon said.
“Okay,” Annabelle acquiesced. “Shall we all go?”
“You two go on. Enjoy it.”
Symon looked at Annabelle. “I suppose you brought your suit?”
She clutched the front of her shirt with both hands. “What do you think I have on under here?” she said and then made a face. That was not the thing to say.
Aunt B and Clovis snickered. Symon smirked. “I don’t think about things like that. I’m an inner beauty kind of man.” He got up. “The boards still down in the parking garage?”
Clovis nodded.
Soon as he turned his back, Annabelle looked at the women and made a motion of zipping her lips.
“Go have fun, dear,” Clovis said and Aunt B just looked out at the ocean.
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