“What happens after it’s written?” Kyle asked from his spot on the other side of the picnic table. “I mean, do you start on the next one?”
Buoyed by his sudden interest, she took the opportunity to bring clarity to an unfamiliar picture. “Ideally? Yes, I’d start on the next one. But, realistically? That doesn’t always happen. For the first few weeks after I finish, I’m running around getting caught up on all the things that got shoved aside while my face was pressed to the keyboard—appointments, reestablishing contact with friends, cleaning, you name it.”
“Angela forgets to clean sometimes, too, but I’m not sure what her excuse is,” Tom quipped only to release a groan as his wife’s elbow met the side of his stomach.
Shaking his head, Kyle gestured to Betsy. “Go on.”
“I also use that time to rid my mind of the fictional world I just completed so it can be ready for the next one. For me that means reading for the first time in months, or seeing movies. Or going for long walks in the park, that sort of thing.”
“There’s some great walking trails down by Paxton Bridge,” Angela offered, her meaning not lost on Betsy even without the accompanying wink.
“Then what?”
She looked back at Kyle. “Then I start writing again.”
“But what about the book you’ve just finished? Aren’t there commitments tied to that one even after you turn it in?”
“Sure. There are a few rounds of edits prior to production, and book signings, interviews and speaking engagements after. But the after-stuff only lasts a few weeks.”
“Sounds like a pretty good job for someone with a family, doesn’t it, Kyle?”
Nibbling back the laugh that threatened to escape, Betsy bowed her head only to peek up at Kyle through long lashes as he stared at his partner. “I guess…”
Taking the ball from her husband, Angela planted a quick kiss on Callie’s head. “Seriously, so other than two, maybe three weeks of traveling when the book releases, you’re home? Writing? Or getting caught up on other things?”
She felt Kyle’s eyes on her as she pondered her answer. In the end, she simply reiterated the truth as Angela had summed it up. “Exactly. And when I haven’t been facing writer’s block for a year, I don’t play my deadlines quite so close. Which means I write for a few hours each day and never really face a huge crunch time like I am now.”
“Pretty cool, huh, partner?” Tom ducked as Kyle chucked a marshmallow at his head. “What? What? I just said it was cool. What’s wrong with that?”
Rising from her spot at the table, Angela began gathering plates and cups. “As wonderful as this has been, I’m going to have to be a party pooper and call it a night. I’ve been dragging lately and if I don’t leave now I’m going to fall asleep on the graham crackers.”
Betsy jumped up, her hand stilling Angela’s mid-clean. “I can get this. Really. All that’s left is the s’more stuff.”
“Yeah, you guys go on ahead. I’ll help Betsy get the rest of this inside.”
“Cool.” Tom pointed at Callie. “Can I help with her, at least?”
They all laughed as they looked at Kyle’s daughter, the little girl’s head pillowed in her hand as she slept soundly beside her half-eaten s’more.
“Sure.” Kyle stood by as Tom lifted Callie into his arms then hurried ahead to hold Betsy’s back door open. “Why don’t you set her down on the couch in the family room for now.”
“It’s okay if you want to take her all the way home now,” Betsy protested as she followed behind them. “Really, I can handle the rest of the cleanup myself. There’s not much left.”
“No. I’m not leaving you out here alone at night.”
Kyle’s tone, kind yet firm, wiped any further objection from her lips. “Okay.”
When Angela and Tom had left, and the door was safely closed, Kyle cornered her in the kitchen. “I’m sorry about the other day at the park. I guess I let fear win again. My feelings for you are stronger than anything I’ve ever felt and—”
“Ever?” she whispered with surprise.
“Ever.” He reached out, placed his hands on her hips and pulled her toward him. “And the realization that you’ll be gone in less than three months took me by surprise.”
She opened her mouth to speak only to be stopped by his finger. “I love you, Betsy, and I’m willing to see where that can take us. I really am. I just don’t want Callie getting hurt.”
“I wouldn’t hurt Callie!”
“I believe that’s the case…at least not intentionally. But it could happen.”
Rising up on tiptoes, Betsy nuzzled her nose against Kyle’s chin, the warmth of his skin bringing a moan of pleasure to her lips. “It won’t. We just need to jump together. As a team. It’s the only way.”
“No surprises?” he asked, his gaze finding hers and holding it.
“No surprises.”
Chapter Seventeen
“Betsy? It’s Hannah.”
Grateful for the reprieve, Betsy positioned the cursor and pressed Save. “Hi, Hannah. How are you?”
For as long as she could recall, she and Hannah had been more like friends than business partners, their agent/writer relationship a rarity from everything she’d heard. Perhaps it was the fact that they were similar in age and thus understood a little bit about the pressures that entailed. Perhaps it was their common love for New York and the vast cultural life that spoke to both of them. Perhaps it was their shared interest in books and authors that gave them fodder for hour-long phone conversations.
Or perhaps it was a combination of all three. But whatever it was, or wasn’t, she was simply grateful for the woman on the other end of the line.
“I’m not sure.”
With radar on high alert, she stood and walked to the window, her gaze instinctively finding the gap in the hedge that forged a makeshift path straight to Kyle’s house. “You’re not sure? What does that mean?”
Her agent sighed in her ear. “Well, it depends on how you react.”
Uh-oh.
“Tell me they’re not moving up my deadline? C’mon, Hannah…they gave me less than three months!”
“They gave you twelve months, Betsy.”
She considered arguing but realized it was futile. Hannah was right. They’d given her twelve months. It was she who had squandered it away. “For the hundredth time, I’m sorry. I really am. But if it’s any consolation, the story is flowing really well right now. And as long as they don’t move it up on me, I have no doubt I can make the first of August.”
“Neither do I. And neither does Marsha.”
She felt her shoulders relax. “So then if it’s not a change to my deadline, what’s up?”
“Marsha wants you in her office at nine o’clock tomorrow morning.”
“Nine o’clock? Hannah, I can’t!” She spun around and headed toward the kitchen. “How can they expect me to make deadline if I’m flying halfway across the country for—for…for what, exactly?”
“A prep session.”
Hannah’s words sent her radar pinging. “A prep session for what?”
“For your interview.”
Stopping in the middle of the kitchen, Betsy looked around, a sudden craving for chocolate leaving her wide-eyed and desperate.
Now where did those chocolate bars from last night end up?
“Isn’t it a bit premature for interviews when I haven’t even finished the book?” She wandered over to the cabinet beside the refrigerator and flung it open. Nothing.
“Well, this particular story wouldn’t be about the book, exactly.”
She tried the cabinet to the left. Nothing again. “What, exactly, would it be about then?”
Hannah’s responding sigh made her fling open the cabinet beside the stove, her gaze falling on the stack of three chocolate bars.
Oh, thank heavens…
“Are you sitting down?”
She shook her head then repeated the sentiment into the phone as
she unwrapped the first bar.
“Are you eating chocolate?”
Breaking a small rectangle from the first bar, Betsy popped it into her mouth. “You know what? It’s almost scary how well you know me. But wait…you know I need chocolate when I’m stressed.”
Silence filled her ear.
“What’s going on? What is this interview about?” she asked, her voice rising despite the chocolate she continued to stuff in her mouth.
“The house feels that your readers have gone too long without a book from you. That there’s a chance their interest might wane.”
“I’m typing as fast as I can. I really am.”
“I know that. And so does Marsha. But it will still be almost a year until it comes out.”
She unwrapped the second bar. “Okay…”
“Which means a gap of two years since the last book.”
“So?” she prompted as she moved her free hand in a circular motion her agent couldn’t see.
“The house feels that’s unacceptable.”
“But you just said Marsha was okay with the deadline.” She could feel her hands beginning to tremble. Pulling the fridge open, she grabbed a carton of milk and set it on the counter. “How can it suddenly be unacceptable?”
Hannah rushed to explain. “It’s not the agreed-upon deadline that’s unacceptable. It’s the gap between books.”
She considered bypassing a glass in favor of whacking her head against the cabinet, but she opted for the glass instead. “You’ve lost me.”
“The house wants you in front of your readers now. To remind them you’re still out there. To build their anticipation.”
Uh-oh.
“You mean, they want to exploit what happened with Mark?”
“Exploit is a bit harsh, don’t you think?”
“No. I don’t. That’s the focus they want this interview to take, isn’t it?” She poured herself half a glass of milk, downing it in short fashion.
“That’s the whole point behind the prep session with Marsha beforehand. To find out what questions you’re comfortable with and what questions you’re not.”
Setting her glass back on the counter, she leaned against the refrigerator and closed her eyes, memories she’d finally tucked away resurfacing with a vengeance. “What happens if I’m not comfortable with the whole idea of this interview?”
Again, there was silence.
“Hannah? Are you still there?”
“Yeah, I’m still here.”
“Well, what if I don’t want to do the interview?”
“I’m not sure either of us wants to know that answer, Betsy.”
And she was probably right. As much as she hated the notion of opening her pain to strangers, it was the consequence for neglecting her career in the way she had. The publishing house was about the bottom line. If she wanted to continue writing—for them or anyone else—she had to care about it, as well. Even when the bottom line threatened to reopen wounds that had finally begun to heal.
“Okay. I’ll do it. But I will veto any question I feel is inappropriate or unnecessary. And I expect that my veto will be honored.”
“It will be,” Hannah assured. “If you want me in that prep meeting with you, I’ll be there.”
“Nine o’clock, you said?” She glanced at the clock, mentally calculating how quickly she’d need to move in order to be sitting in her editor’s office the next morning.
“I have you on a five-fifteen flight out of O’Hare,” Hannah volunteered.
“Oh, you do, do you?”
“And I have a car picking you up at your house at one-thirty.”
“One-thirty? I can’t make that!”
“Of course you can. What’s it there? Ten?”
“Ten-fifteen.”
“You can type on the plane.”
Pushing off the counter, she wandered over to the still-open candy cabinet and shut the door. “Okay.”
“Did you say okay?”
“Yes.”
“Thank you, Betsy.”
“It’s no big deal. It’s just a day, right?”
Silence.
“Hannah?”
“Two, actually.”
She opened the cabinet once again. “Why two? Isn’t this interview right after the prep session?”
“Um…the first one is.”
“The first one? You mean, there’s more?”
“There are three, actually. A print one, a radio one and a TV one.”
Grabbing the third candy bar, Betsy slammed the cabinet and headed toward the desk in her bedroom where she kept her best stationery. “Okay, fine. But just two days. That’s it.”
CAREFUL NOT TO STEP ON the freshly planted flowerbed that bordered the side of Betsy’s house, Kyle made his way from the front porch to the back. Although they hadn’t made any specific plans for the evening, he’d hoped they could hang out for a while and talk. Truth was, the more he got to know Betsy Anderson the more he craved every single solitary second he could have with her.
All day long he’d thought of little else besides his neighbor. The way her hair swished against her back as she walked, the way the corners of her eyes crinkled when she smiled, the way her cheeks flushed when she caught him watching her.
And it felt good. Damn good.
When he reached the back door he cupped his hands to his eyes and peered inside, the darkness in the front end of the house duplicated in the back. Where was she? And why was her car still parked in the driveway?
A hint of unease reared its head as he walked around the far side of the house only to find more of the same. Darkness.
His cell phone vibrated against his skin and he pulled it from his pants’ pocket. With a quick check of the screen, he flipped it open. “What’s up, Tom?”
“Nothin’ much. Just bored, I guess.”
“Oh.”
Holding the phone to his ear, he started back toward Betsy’s rear door. It, like the front door, was locked, no lights visible anywhere. If something had happened would she have—
“What are you doing?”
Tom. Right. He’d almost forgotten he was holding the phone.
“Right now I’m outside Betsy’s back door and I’ve got a bad feeling.”
“What’s wrong?” Instantly, the boredom that had laced his partner’s voice just seconds earlier was gone. In its place the kind of quick focus he valued in the man both personally and professionally. “Someone break in?”
“No, I don’t think so. The windows and doors are all locked. The lights are off.”
“Oh. So then what’s the problem?”
His attention moved to the vehicle parked in the driveway. “Her car’s still here.” Raking his free hand through his hair, he willed his head to remain cool. “I don’t know. Maybe she went for a run or something…though I don’t think she runs.”
“No, dude. She’s in New York.”
“Come again?” he asked.
“She’s in New York. She left a few hours ago.”
“New York?” he repeated. “Why?”
“Don’t know. I just know what Ang told me. Betsy called and asked her to water her plants for the next two days. Something about some interviews or something.”
He felt his jaw tighten as the meaning of Tom’s words hit home. Betsy had taken off without so much as a call to tell him where she was going and why. Yet she’d found the time to call Angela and make sure her plants were looked after?
“Hey. You still there?”
What an idiot he was for believing all that garbage about being home all the time. What? She’d been in Cedar Creek less than two weeks and she was already jetting off to New York?
“Kyle! You there?”
“Yeah, I’m here.” He could hear the anger in his voice but could do nothing to stop it. “Tell me something, Tom…”
“Shoot.”
“What does being part of a team mean to you?”
“Seriously?”
“Yeah.�
�
“Sticking together. Having each other’s back. Working together. Communicating. Why?”
He closed his eyes. “No reason. I already knew the answer. I just wanted to make sure I wasn’t the only one.”
“Oh, okay, good. You had me confused for a second there. I think you’d be hard-pressed to find someone who doesn’t know what it means.”
With one last look over his shoulder, Kyle made his way between the hedge that separated his yard from Betsy’s, anger morphing into sadness with each passing step. “Actually, it’s not as hard as you might think.”
Chapter Eighteen
The first time or two she heard his taped recording, she thought nothing of it. Lots of people stopped by the market and ran errands after work. Add in the fact he had a daughter to care for and his inability to answer the phone made perfect sense.
By the third and fourth time, however, she was starting to wonder.
Glancing at the clock on the nightstand, Betsy flipped open her cell phone once again, Kyle’s position on her contact list all but memorized. When she reached his name she pressed Send, the all too familiar succession of rings starting once again.
And once again, as it had all evening, Kyle’s phone went to voice mail. There was no ignoring the truth any longer. If his phone were off, it wouldn’t take five rings to reach his recording. Which meant he was screening calls and deliberately avoiding hers.
She closed her hand over the phone and snapped it shut, her body sinking back against the splay of pillows that stretched across the hotel bed. It had been a trying day, the kind of day that made a person want to pull the covers over their head until it was all over. But Kyle was her covers. He was all she’d thought about during the prep session with Marsha that morning and the television interview that afternoon. In fact, it was the sensation of his arms around her that had gotten her through some of the roughest questions.
Yet now that she finally had an opportunity to call him, to hear his voice, he wanted nothing to do with her or her phone call. But why? Was he angry that she left a note rather than calling?
No. He couldn’t be. She’d explained that in the note. He’d been working a double shift when she left, his intended task to track down more information on the suspected gang-member-turned-graffiti-artist. The last thing she’d wanted to do was disrupt his concentration. It made perfect sense.
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