She refused to cry. She needed Lewes’ support and he wasn't giving it. “Tim, do you think I could ever become a writer?"
Tim laughed. “You?"
“Yes, me, damn it."
It finally dawned on him that she was pissed. “Hey, I'm sorry. I think of writers as dried up recluses who spend years learning to spell and punctuate, years researching a bee's knee, and then years writing a book nobody will ever read."
“I'm talking about writing novels, or maybe short stories, or maybe just book reports."
“Dudette, I know you love books. I thought your idea of working in a bookstore was a good one."
She did not reply. She knew that if she tried to say more she would start crying, and she was determined not to let him know how deeply he had disappointed her.
“Dudette, Bobby and I are going into town this morning to get building permits and stuff his brother says we need. I'll probably be gone all day."
“Have a great day,” she replied sarcastically. She carried the dishes to the kitchen to wash. “Bastard,” she said when she knew he had gone to his study, and then she allowed the tears to flow.
* * * *
Bobby and Tim returned from Charlotte about three o'clock. As they began to unload Tim's purchases, he noticed Sandra at the lake, fishing. He waved.
Sandra spent the morning reading Middlemarch and then took the book with her to the pond. Fishing was fun and her spirits lightened as the hours passed. She heard Bobby's truck and watched the two men emerge from the cab. She returned Tim's wave, pointed to the bucket and gave him a thumb's up signal. He returned the gesture.
She rebaited her hooks, carefully wiped her hands on a washcloth she had brought with her, having learned of its need during yesterday's first fishing experience, settled in the lawn chair and began reading chapter twenty.
Bobby and Tim stayed in the house a couple of hours. Out of her peripheral vision, she saw Bobby leave. The fish weren't biting very well. She decided it was time to throw the fish back, put everything away, shower and prepare supper. She knew she needed to go grocery shopping soon, but there was enough hamburger left to make meatloaf.
Before going upstairs to shower and change, she went to the library to put up the precious book. As she entered the door, she was overwhelmed. There, between the two rocking chairs, was a brand new computer desk, complete with a computer and printer just like Tim's and a stack of magazines she had never seen before.
The soft voice came from behind her. “A writer's got to have the tools of the trade,” he said. She crushed him in her arms, unashamed of her tears of joy. He thought he must have misunderstood what she said through the tears, but did not question it. It sounded like she said, “Thank you, Lewes."
* * * *
Matt Dilson hurried to his office as fast as his full bladder would allow. He had been in a very boring meeting all afternoon about the insurance problem. He threw open the door to his private bathroom and stood transfixed. Cathy was at the sink, naked to the waist, washing her right breast.
Her breasts are gorgeous, large as softballs and great uplift, he thought. God, how I would love to taste those beauties.
She turned to him. “Matt, I'm sorry. I spilled coffee.” Only then did she think to cover her magnificent mammary glands with her arms.
He grinned sheepishly and backed out of the door.
“Sorry,” she said again when she came out of the little room.
After urinating, he removed his pants and boxer shorts, cleaned himself with a wet paper towel, put the pants back on, and rolled the shorts in paper towels. He had never before ejaculated without even touching the woman.
Chapter Ten
The remainder of the week proved to be an exciting blur of activity for Sandra. She was accustomed to having her mind filled with uninvited thoughts and daydreams during idle moments, but idle moments were now rare.
On Sunday after lunch, Tim and Bobby went to Charlotte on their third trip to inspect rental houses. This time they took Carl with them. Sandra sat on the front porch, feeling, but not recognizing, the need for reflection, and uncomfortable with the moment of leisure.
She glanced at the large pond. She did not want to spend the afternoon fishing, but the warm October sunlight reflecting on the clear water beckoned to her. She slowly walked to the waters’ edge, enjoying every step without realizing it fully, then to the other side of the pond, and finally she followed a rabbit path that led to a distant grove of pine trees.
At first, the random thoughts with which she was familiar ricocheted around her conscious mind, but then she resolved to reflect on the numerous changes that were a part of her recent history.
Her mental inventory began at the point when she discovered the computer Tim bought for her, and the magazines on writing he had gone to the trouble to find. With only a little help from Tim, she had learned the basics of using Microsoft Office. After you learn to use Word, she thought, the other programs are fairly easy since they use the same commands. She smiled as she remembered how often she still had to click the “help” icon. Learning to use the keyboard was another matter. Tim offered to teach her correct typing procedure, but he said it would take several months to become proficient. She wanted to write, not learn to type, so she opted to use the “hunt and peck” method. It was slow going, especially at first, but her speed was picking up. As soon as possible she had begun to write her first novel. It was to be a romance, with pretty lady and handsome gentleman, married, but not to each other, thrown together by some disaster—a hurricane or bank robbery perhaps. They would fall madly in love, maybe have torrid sex a time or two, and then go back to their respective mates. Years would pass. They would meet again and rediscover their love. One's spouse would have died and the other's marriage would have ended in divorce. They would marry and live happily ever after. She reread the first two pages she had written and exited the word processor program, intentionally not saving the file to hard disk. She recalled that at the time she thought that even she would not want to read that drivel.
Undaunted, the next day she tried again. This time she would have a tractor trailer driver involved in a major wreck. The heroine, an attorney, would be on the road at the same time and witness the wreck, fall in love with the badly injured driver, stick with him through his hospitalization and recovery from severe injury, and through a long trial in which he is charged with negligent homicide. Just as it looked like he would be convicted and sent to prison, she would discover evidence proving that the accident and resulting death was not his fault, and they would live happily ever after. She trashed that effort after writing two pages also.
Discouraged, she had begun to read the magazines Tim provided. Quickly she began to accumulate tips she could use. She followed Tim's advice and filed these tips on the computer, using the Microsoft Access program. She thought she would not be capable of writing a database program, but discovered Microsoft provided an inventory database sample that would suffice with just a few simple modifications.
In one respect, the magazines were discouraging. One article informed her that no publisher was likely to buy her work unless submitted by an agent. The same article said most agents were reluctant to accept as clients unpublished writers.
There were encouraging articles too. Stories of manuscripts, turned down by dozens of publishers, that were finally published and immediately hit the bestseller charts. There were articles on form and style. There was an important article, she thought, on how to write a query letter. One article urged readers to write from their own experience, while another said that the only way to write a successful novel was to carefully define the characters and then let the characters tell their own stories. Yeah sure, she thought at the time; but because the article provided a character profile template, she tried following its advice. As her heroine, she used herself. The hero was Tim. There ought to he a bad guy in there someplace, she thought, so I'll use Hank.
Sandra kicked a rock on the rabbit t
rail, watched it bounce a few feet in front of her, and kicked it again, harder this time. It flew up like a football kickoff, and sliced to the right into the field beside the path. A covey of quail startled her when they suddenly erupted from the tall grass when the rock landed.
There had been a change in Tim the last few days. One day he asked her to sit with him at the big conference table in his study. He presented her with reports he had prepared specifically for her, listing his full assets and the goals he had thus far established. Together, they decided the responsibilities for Sandra to look after. It was determined that what was left of the $50,000, which was most of it, Sandra should deposit in a checking account of her own, to use for household necessities as well as for her personal needs. Tim would replenish funds as needed. Two things deeply impressed her. Tim had decided to trust her completely, and he now seemed to be the one desperately searching for purpose.
There was no sex during these days. She stroked him often and he stroked her. Perhaps they had been too busy. Perhaps she didn't need sexual activity as often, now that she had purpose and structure in her life. No, she thought and smiled. That's not it. She thought of Tim and suddenly wanted him badly. How would I describe him in my novel? she wondered. He has no outstanding physical characteristics. He's not ugly, but he's not handsome either. I'd say he's about six feet tall, maybe weights 175 or 180, has brown hair that was cut short when I met him, but is badly in need of trimming now. She laughed when the only color she could think of to describe his skin was orange. His eyes are brown I think, and he has almost no body hair. He shaves every morning, but I sometimes wonder why? Physically he's nothing special, but I love him anyway.
“Say what?” she exclaimed aloud. She shook her head. I'm not ready to go down that road yet, she thought.
She paused and looked back towards the house. Sun reflecting off the surface of the lake warmed her heart. She held her breath as two mallards descended, spread their wings and glided to a skipping halt on the blue water.
She decided to think about her new responsibilities. There was very little to do at the house, with Bobby looking after the cleaning and laundry, but she made a checklist to be sure everything was done in a timely manner. She devoted many hours to the remodeling of Bobby's house. Brother Carl is doing a good job, she thought. Already a new roof is on the structure as well as siding. Monday, Carl plans to replace the old windows with the new double-paned variety. Tim was impressed with Carl's knowledge as well as his work, and decided to set Carl up as a general contractor. She smiled. Tim, of course, is looking ahead. There are twenty-five rental houses that need major repairs.
It pleased Sandra that Tim had talked with her about the rental houses. Those inspected so far were in bad condition. He chewed out the rental agency for letting them get into such a state, but the agency blamed it on Uncle Pete's reluctance to spend money on the income producing units. The agency recommended that Tim try to sell the houses. They said he would never recover the cost of repairs because the renters would tear up the houses about as quickly as he repaired them. However, it was Bobby's advice Tim and Sandra decided to follow. Hey, she thought, Tim did let me help make that decision. Bobby's suggestion was that Tim not only make repairs, but also remodel the houses, making them as attractive as possible. He advised a little landscaping and gardening too, but the most radical suggestion was to lower the rent while adding a requirement that the renter must help keep the house in good condition.
Sandra had forgotten that she agreed to contact Silas Coan about drawing up such a rental agreement. She pulled a pad and ballpoint pen from the hip pocket of her blue jeans and made a note.
The temperature of the October afternoon had risen considerably and she welcomed the shade of the pine grove. She intended to rest a few minutes before retracing her steps, but she became curious as to where the continuing path might lead. The tree line began at the top of a hill. She soon found herself descending on the opposite side, listening to the chorus of birds chirping and unseen wildlife scurrying through the brush on either side of the trail. Suddenly she emerged into a small grassy clearing.
Although she had never before seen a spring, she recognized the water bubbling out of the ground, pooling in a natural basin about the size of a wash tub, and spilling over at the opposite end, forming the mouth of a tiny stream headed eventually to the ocean. She rinsed her hands in the small stream, cupped them together, dipped them into the basin and cautiously sampled the spring water. It was the sweetest, most delicious water she had ever tasted. She drank greedily, spilling as much on her flannel shirt as she actually drank. That felt good too.
As she made her way back out of the wooded area, Sandra wondered if it would be possible to pipe this delicious water to the house. She resolved to return soon and fill containers to keep in the refrigerator for future use. Their well water had a hint of iron taste. The spring water would be a welcome change.
Emerging from the trees Sandra found that as suddenly as the afternoon heated up, the temperature was now beginning to drop, making the return trip very pleasant. Her thoughts returned to writing.
I wonder if George Eliot ever started a novel and tore it up before finishing the first chapter? What would she have done? Sandra tried to recall a mental image of the encyclopedia article. Her face brightened when she remembered that Eliot wrote book reviews. I could do that, she thought, but who would want to publish them? Her spirits dampened when she thought of the polished reviews she read in the copy of Publisher's Weekly that Tim bought her and also those in the Sunday edition of the Charlotte Observer. Then she remembered the Dot Courier. Hadn't the editor, Diane Something-or-other, said they printed all the news they could find? She must have meant that there was so little going on in Dot it was hard to find enough material to fill each weekly edition. The Courier would jump at the chance to publish her book reviews. Sandra's mind instantly leaped to the logical next step. I'll write a review of Silas Marner, she resolved.
* * * *
“Hey, Sandy, you in there?"
“Yeah, in the Whirl Pool, Dude."
“Want company?"
“Depends on who the company is."
On her return, Sandra positioned herself in the Whirl Pool so that one of the strong jets of water pumped pleasurable sensations into that most private area of her anatomy. She did not bother to close her legs when Tim joined her. He slid into the opposite cradle and let the big toe of his right foot replace the action of the jet. She reciprocated.
“Did you finish?” she asked.
“Yeah,” he replied. “I'm going to let Carl handle the whole thing. He's a sharp kid, Sandy."
“I think so too. I hope he will stay off the booze."
“Carl is going to make a list of everything that we plan to do with each house. I'll write that up in some kind of report to give to the county inspector. That should buy us some time."
“I thought I was the writer in the family."
“Would you do that for me, Sandy?"
“No, but I'll do it for us."
He smiled at her. Okay, damn it, I love her, he thought. Maybe I should tell her. Instead, he said, “How'd the writing go?"
“I didn't try writing today. I took a long walk instead.” She told him about the spring and its sweet water and her decision to try writing a book review.
“Who the hell do you think will want to read about a book that was written 200 years ago?” he asked.
Bastard! she thought. “Less than 100 years ago,” she corrected, pleased that she remembered.
“Same thing. Book reviews feature titles recently published. If you want to write book reviews, buy a new novel and review that.” He stroked her vaginal lips with his big toe.
She moved her toes from his scrotum to his firmly erect penis. “Kiss my ass."
“Turn over and I will."
She did, and he did.
Doggy style is okay, but he can't reach my boobs, she thought. “Lewes would have supported me,” she
said.
“Who the hell is Lewes?” He adjusted her legs to get the right angle.
“Wouldn't you like to know?"
He was no longer listening.
* * * *
“Hamburger's good,” he said, trying to break the ice.
For unknown reasons, Tim always wanted hamburgers on Sunday night. She fixed him two burgers and one for herself, buns heavily smeared with hot mustard and sweet onion slices the way he liked. She even made french-fries.
“How many people who read the Dot Courier do you think have ever even heard of Silas Marner?” she asked.
“You have a point,” he conceded. Peace at any price, he thought. Anxious to change the subject he asked, “What did you think of Mack?"
“Who?"
“Mack McGee, the preacher."
“I still can't believe you talked me into going to church this morning."
“Well, what did you think of him?"
She didn't want to admit she had slept through most of the sermon. She searched her mind for anything she could remember and said, “I was surprised to hear him say he was divorced. I would think he'd prefer to keep that part of his life private. I thought preachers got unreverended or something if they were divorced.” She smiled, wondering if “unreverended” was a word.
“That's what I like about him. He's unconventional. I told you that last week he said he had been a con artist and pool shark."
“He's different all right,” she agreed.
“Who is Lewes?"
She laughed, “My secret lover."
He didn't laugh. Given her history and the brief time he had known her, he didn't find it amusing.
His voice was very low when he replied, “Sandy, if you want to go on fucking anything that wears pants, that's your choice, but..."
She reached across the table and grabbed his hand. “I was kidding, Tim. Lewes was George Eliot's husband. Well, at least she thought of him as her husband like I think of you."
Sintown Chronicles I: Behind Closed Doors Page 13
