The Writer's Romance

by Elsa Kurt

  “Katharine? Can you do me a big favor and stay right here? Right here, this spot, for one second?”

  “Hokie Dokie, Pokie. I’m going to stay right here, just like Mr. Big Shot T.V. Show said. Yes, sir Mr.—”

  “Okay, great. Hang on.” Mitch weaved his way through the crowd amidst back claps and gasps of, ‘that’s Mitch Ford.’ He politely acknowledged them, but all the while kept his eyes on the musician. Their eyes met, and recognition flashed in the singer’s eyes.

  “Hey, man, I know you! Me and the wife watch the Rebuilder all the time. So glad you could make it out to my show.”

  “Thank you, much appreciated. You guys put on a hell of a show, my friend.”

  “Thanks, man. Thanks a lot.”

  “Hey, can I ask you a quick favor?”

  “Sure, sure. What’s up?”

  “Follow me and play along.”

  He shrugged and followed Mitch to the bar. Much to Mitch’s surprise, Katharine had indeed stayed put. Only, she had a small fan club of her own surrounding her. All men, what a shock. Mitch gave a wry head shake.

  “Excuse me, fellas. Uh, Katharine? I’ve brought a friend over to meet—”

  “Oh, my God! Jeff Pitchell. I love you. I totally, totally love you!”

  Jeff chuckled, “Well thanks, sweetheart. We love our fans, too.”

  “Yes,” interrupted Mitch, “in fact, Jeff was just saying he’d like for you to sit up in the VIP section, up there on the balcony.”

  “I—what? Yes, yeah, right. Our, uh, VIP section is right up there, go make yourselves comfortable. Well, I’ve got to get back out there. Nice meeting you both.”

  “Thanks, buddy. I owe you one,” Mitch said in his ear.

  “No worries, man. Get that girl some coffee, pronto.”

  Mitch turned back to Katharine. She was swaying to music only she could hear, her fingertips steepled below her chin and her eyes closed. That strange sensation tugged at his chest again, and he was momentarily frozen. A small smile pulled at the corners of his mouth. I could fall for this woman. Easily.

  Katharine, as if sensing his stare, opened her eyes and gazed softly into his. It was as if she was seeing inside of his soul. Don’t be ridiculous, man. She’s a drunk woman in a bar. A mean dragon lady when she’s not that. Get a grip. Mitch grabbed her hand and pulled her through the crowd a little less gently than he’d intended. From behind him, her giggles bubbled, and her husky voice strained over the crowd.

  “’Scuse us. Pardon us. VIP, people. VIP coming through.”

  At the staircase to the balcony stood an imposing bouncer with a neck tattoo. His too-small short-sleeved shirt clung to the contours of his exceptionally muscled torso, and he stared stonily over their heads, only dropping his gaze to them when they were directly in front of him.

  “Sorry, no balcony access tonight,” he looked around Mitch at Katharine, “too many drunks. Not safe.”

  “I appreciate that. I really do. Any chance you could be persuaded to let us go up there? I promise I’ll keep an eye on her.”

  Mitch gave him his best, ‘hey, c’mon, buddy’ smile, tilting his head to the side and spreading his arms out, palms up.

  “Sorry, no… wait. Aren’t you Mitch Ford? From the Rebuilder show?”

  “Guilty as charged,” said Mitch.

  “Aw, yeah, cool. I heard you were in town doing a show. The house on Hawk Nest Road, right? There’s a neighbor everyone says is gonna be a real—”

  “Right! Yes, well. So, about that balcony?”

  The hulking man’s eyes darted around, then he unlatched the rope and motioned them up.

  “If anyone asks, I gotta say you snuck up there, okay?”

  “Understood, my friend, understood. Katharine? Katharine.”

  Katharine had begun swaying again, a plastic cup held high in her hand. At least this time it was to actual music, and not only what was playing in her head. Mitch took her elbow and guided her up the narrow steps.

  “I’ve got it, geesh,” she said and swatted his hand away.

  Halfway up the staircase, the toe of Katharine’s high heel shoe caught on the lip of the step. She’d have gone face first had Mitch not grabbed her around her waist and held her steady. When she turned to push off him, she listed too far, almost taking them both for a tumble down the stairs, yet she still managed to save her drink. Thanks to his many years in construction—which included balancing on scaffolds while holding planks of wood, siding or roofing—Mitch was lean and muscular and had quick reflexes. He countered their off-kilter tilt and pulled her against him as he fell against the wall.

  “Oh,” sighed Katharine against his neck.

  “Are you alright, Katharine?” She smells like honey and citrus. How nice.

  His lips were against the crown of her head, breathing in her scent. Her hand was splayed over his heart, and he was afraid she could feel it racing. She pulled back enough to look up into his concerned face. He watched her eyes fall to his mouth and wondered what it would feel like to kiss her. He leaned in. She tilted her chin up.

  “Hey! Everything alright up there?”

  The spell was broken. Mitch set Katharine straight, keeping a firm hand on her elbow, and called behind him to the anxious bouncer.

  “All good, thank you!”

  SIX

  WELL THAT DIDN’T GO AS PLANNED

  The near-kiss had sobered Katharine, but not nearly enough. Everything was sharp and blurry at the same time. Everything except for Mitch Ford. He stood out against the dark night in his faded blue denim and crisp white button-down shirt. His light blue eyes studied her with wariness and…something else.

  “Let’s get you sitting down, shall we?”

  Abashed and still unsteady, she accepted his help into a well-weathered resin chair. He pulled a matching chair opposite hers and sat beside her. For a while, they said nothing and looked up at the stars and listened to the band. The sound was different up there on the roof, it rolled like waves over the side of the building and bounced off the bricks, but it was still nice. Katharine tilted her head back to see the sky better, but when she did, everything began to spin wildly, and her stomach roiled. She sat up straight, a panicked look on her face.

  There is no way I am throwing up in front of this guy.

  Mitch leaned forward, half standing and ready to assist her.

  “Katharine, take a few deep breaths. Don’t close your eyes, though. That’ll make it worse. That a girl. Slow. Inhale. Exhale.”

  Katharine did as she was told, and soon the feeling passed.

  “I’m so embarrassed. I don’t—I’m not a drinker. I—this isn’t, like, a thing I do.”

  “I figured as much. Care to share what made this night…special?”

  “Oh, I don’t know. Just…”

  Katharine threw her hands up and shrugged. Thankfully, Mitch’s sympathetic smile told her he seemed to understand.

  “It’s okay, Katharine. No need to explain. Everyone needs to … go on a bender once in a while.”

  She smiled shyly at him, he grinned back. Something exciting was happening there on the rooftop of Angelico’s Lakehouse. But where would it lead? Where could it lead? Mitch Ford traveled the country. Katharine Evans was a homebody, practically a recluse. What could they ever have in common? They each took turns watching the other’s profile under the glow of twinkling lights strung over the balcony railing. Mitch reached for her hand, and she let him enfold hers in its warm grip.

  I hope nothing breaks this spell, they both thought.

  “Mitch! Mitch! You up there? Hey, there you are- oh! Hey, uh, Mrs. Um, Miss, uh…”

  It was Sam.

  “Evans. Katharine Evans.”

  “Right, from next door to the build! Oh! I guess he asked you, then, right?”

  “Asked me what?” Katharine turned to Mitch, a question in her eyes. She caught him making a cutting motion across his neck.

  “Uh, oh,” heaved Sam.

  “Mitch? W
hat’s he talking about? Asked me what?”

  Mitch put his face in his hands and rubbed it briskly. Whatever he was about to say, Sam beat him to it.

  “The tape. Today’s footage? You know, from when you stormed over, all mad hatter-like and threw that soccer ball at Mitch, then he ripped you a new one, and then you took a header into the dirt… oh, man, it’s hysterical.”

  “You want to use the … footage of me? From—is that what this was all about? Oh, my God. I am so stupid. I thought you—wow, and to think I—. You were trying to butter me up. All so I’d agree to let you use an embarrassing video of me for ratings on your stupid show. I am an idiot! Screw you, Mitch Ford. And your show.”

  Katharine stood, kicking back the lightweight chair hard enough to topple it. Then, without thinking, she dumped the remains of her plastic cup on his head. She set it back on the table and brushed past the slack-jawed Sam. At the bottom of the stairs, she had to tap the bouncer's shoulder several times before he noticed her. Upon seeing her angry expression, he became a protective bear.

  “That guy do something to upset you?”

  “Yeah, he’s a big jerk!”

  Mitch’s heavy footsteps followed Katharine down the stairs. He called her name, with Sam echoing him from behind. The bouncer let Katharine through but blocked Mitch and Sam from leaving.

  “Katharine! Katharine, come on.”

  “Leave the lady alone, Mr. Big Shot.”

  “Oh, great, now she’s got you calling me that, too? Katharine, please listen to me,” he called over the big man’s shoulder.

  But Katharine had already made her way inside, irately pounding out a call to Uber, and exiting the front doors. She didn’t care if Mitch was left to pacify the stone-faced bouncer. See if an autographed hat will cut it this time around, jerk.

  SEVEN

  UNINTENDED PLANS

  The next morning greeted Katharine with a pounding headache and a dry mouth. The sunlight that had seemed so appealing yesterday, today was like shards of glass stabbing her eyes. She’d never bothered to change out of her clothes from last night. One crimson high heel was still wedged on her foot and tangled in her sheets. The other hung precariously from the curtain. She must’ve kicked it off with a bit too much vehemence.

  She rose slowly, taking gingerly steps towards the bathroom and dreading her reflection in the mirror. Even if she looked only half as bad as she felt, it was going to be unsightly. One glance told her she was right. She was a mess. And she still had to write. Coffee was about to be her best friend for the day. And bacon. Definitely bacon, too. She tried not to replay the events of the night before, but like a bad dream, the memories kept hitting her in waves. The shots, the music, Mitch Ford.

  Mitch Ford. That sneaky, underhanded, self-serving jerk.

  He didn’t like her, he was using her. Use her embarrassment for his show. Well, he had another thing coming. There was no way she’d agree to that kind of humiliation. Even as she fumed, she pictured the moment in the stairwell. Her lips so close to his throat, breathing in his clean, outdoors scent. It was a woodsy, fresh blend that drifted from his skin and intoxicated her even more than the alcohol had. Added to that, was the flecks of grey at his temples, and his gorgeous cerulean eyes. But then there was the way he deceived her. He’d conned her and made her feel like a fool, and…

  Stop it. Better yet, use it for writing. Use him as Chelsea’s antagonist. Perfect.

  It may not be the kind of revenge he’d ever see or know about, but Katharine would know. That would be good enough for her. Her coffee pot gurgled and thumped out the last drops of black gold into the carafe and Katharine took her steaming cup up to her sunny office. The first sip did wonders in clearing some of the cobwebs from her fuzzy brain. Before long, fresh plot ideas sprang to mind, and the familiar rush of excitement in knowing her characters were about to come to life again flowed through her.

  It never ceased to amaze her that a story originally written solely for her brother’s eyes, evolved into a publishing contract. All thanks to Nate, too. She’d had one book professionally printed and given it to him as a birthday gift on his thirtieth birthday. He’d taken that book everywhere with him, showing anyone who’d look at the inscription in the dedication. One of the people he pushed the book on happened to be Wes Thompson Taylor, the head of W. T. Taylor Publishing. He called her personally the very next day. Now, she was on her third book for him, more tentatively expected in the future.

  For as much as she’d not intended on writing young adult fiction, the series had been a catharsis for Katharine. Growing up with elderly parents and having a sibling with special needs had isolated her. It made her … different. Apart. Other. It wasn’t Katharine’s imagination, either. Adults treated her one of two ways. They either looked at her with cloying pity and poured saccharine sweet sympathy over her, or they never even noticed her existence. There was no in-between. Her peers were another story altogether. There were bullies of all varieties— pranksters, physical attackers, and loud-whisperers. Then there were the ones who didn’t know what to say or how to act, so they simply stayed away from the Evans kids. Back then, there weren’t the educational tools and awareness they have now. Katharine and Nate had to deal with it all on their own. The upside, she learned how to throw a mean right hook. The downside, she was a loner.

  From it all, Katharine had a wealth of stories. Except now she got to re-imagine them all and give them the outcomes she’d wished for. In Katharine’s protagonist— Chelsea Marin— she found the voice to say and do all the things she’d wished she’d said and done when she and Nate were growing up.

  Of course, it was only natural she gave Chelsea a sister with Downs-Syndrome, who she named Carli. Like Nate, she suffered bullying and unkindness from their peers. But unlike Katharine, Chelsea had the courage and power to protect Carli and others with special needs from the cruelties of the world.

  The underlying theme of Katharine’s books was always about perseverance, empowerment, compassion, and ultimately, educating young people about the positives of differences. Through Carli, Katharine was able to put out the message that ‘different is good.’ Her publicist called it an ‘easy hook,’ but for Katharine, it was so much deeper than that. It was her do-over.

  She shook away those ruminations and began developing a storyline for the Mitch-like character, jotting down quick notes on paper. Katharine imagined him as a newcomer to Chelsea’s small town of Palm Haven. She grudgingly gave him good looks and charm, but then became stuck on what his fatal flaw would be. Maybe he smelled bad? No, too basic. Katharine tapped her pen against her chin. Mitch was tall, with blue eyes. So, his character would be as well. Next, his name. Rich Lord? Too obvious. At last, she compromised and went with Maxwell Lord. Once that was settled, she listed his faults.

  Too… handsome. Too charming. Too tall. Too… no, stop that.

  Even after he’d humiliated and embarrassed her, all she could think of was his good qualities. How was she ever going to make him a bad guy if all she could do was swoon over him? Katharine realized the best way for her to develop her Mitch Ford/Maxwell Lord character was to just start writing and let it create itself. She set the pen down, pushed the paper aside and cracked her knuckles.

  The moment her fingertips touched the keyboard, a sound like a buzz saw roared through her windows. Only, it wasn’t like a buzz saw, it was a buzz saw.

  “No. No, no no! Not today! Not now.”

  Katharine dropped her head in her hands. This could not be happening. She stood and crossed the room in long, angry strides and threw the window sash up.

  “Shut UP!”

  Katharine couldn’t even hear herself over the din. She curled her fingers around the frame and slammed the window shut again. Then she yanked down the blinds and swept the curtain closed. All that managed to do was darken the room. It was no use. Next, she cued up her playlist. Pop music infused with rap, precisely right for writing teen drama. And making her headache return. No
thing was helping. Out the window closer to her desk, the one which overlooked the lake, Katharine spied the cherry red tip of her kayak poking out from the edge of the blooming hydrangea bushes. It had been waiting patiently for her since last week. She took one last glance at the laptop, then the far window facing Genoma’s backyard.

  “Kayaking it is.”

  Twenty minutes later, she was dragging the fiberglass kayak to the launch beside her rickety dock. Once in and shoved off the sandy shore, she paddled fast, intending to get as far from the noise of Mitch Ford and his crew as possible. For added measure, she plugged her headphones into her ears and let Claude Debussy’s Clair de Lune flood her brain.

  The lean muscles in her arms pumped rhythmically with each long pull, and before long she was following the curve of the shoreline. The tension knots in her shoulders eased, and her scowl became a blissful grin. The gentle plinks of the piano keys twinkled through her headphones. The morning sun sparkled and danced on the undulating surface. The air smelled of sunshine, water, and pine. As she passed Sears Park, the unmistakable whiff of suntan lotion drifted out on the breeze. When she glided past Angelico’s Lakehouse, she averted her eyes in embarrassment, and a surge of renewed anger pushed against her breast.

  The question was, who was Katharine most angry at? Mitch Ford for leading her to think he was interested in her? Or herself, for being misled? And for getting drunk. And embarrassing herself. Numerous times.

  Ugh. You’re a fool, Evans. This is why you don’t ‘do’ social.

  She’d begun paddling harder, grunting with the unnecessary exertion. A fine sheen of sweat coated her body, and though the workout exhilarated her, she lifted her paddle from the water and let it rest on the kayak. Breathe. Relax.

  Katharine focused on the music in her ears, the gentle bounce of the kayak above the water, the warm late summer sun cresting the tree line. Turning the small vessel around and squinting, she could barely make out her tiny dock. Home. Buying the once run-down, chocolate brown bungalow was the best thing she’d ever done. She loved her little life on that pretty lake, that quaint town. Sure, she didn’t know a single neighbor or belong to any community organizations. Yes, she only shopped at odd times, shunned small talk, and avoided eye contact whenever out. She didn’t mean any offense to anyone, she liked her solitude.