Part 20 (1/2)
”Um, no.”
”Because I heard he was looking for one.”
She set the foil-wrapped offering on the counter. Big blue eyes skimmed over the stainless-steel appliances and the well-appointed family room. An avaricious gleam lit them.
”Do you have any idea how long he's going to be on the phone?”
”No.”
The blonde looked down at her Rolex and pouted prettily; a look Brooke suspected she used to good effect and as often as possible. Brooke was tempted to warn her that if she kept it up she'd need those collagen injections more frequently.
The woman sighed in disappointment. ”Tell him that Monica stopped by,” she instructed in a tone that indicated that although Brooke might not be the housekeeper, she had 'employee' written all over her. ”And that I'll try him again later.” Without waiting for a response, she turned with a swirl of her tennis skirt and showed herself out.
Brooke, used to being summarily dismissed, jotted a few more notes on her pad and was debating whether to simply leave a note and go when Bruce appeared.
”Sorry,” he said. His hair stood up on end as if he'd been running his hand through it. His smile was a bit crooked. ”I just closed on a commercial building in Smyrna and there were a few details that needed to be clarified.”
”No problem.” Her eyes met his. There was something endearing about his rumpledness. ”Oh, Monica came by to see you. She left a ca.s.serole.” She watched him closely interested to see his reaction.
”Ah,” he said, giving nothing away. ”We didn't know many of our neighbors before Chloe got sick. But the neighborhood caring committee set up food delivery in those last months. Some of them still bring food.” He opened the freezer. Rows of disposable ca.s.seroles like the one Monica had delivered were packed tightly inside. ”I haven't had the heart to tell them that I've always been the primary cook in the family. They seem so eager to feed us.”
That wasn't the only thing Monica was eager about.
”Truthfully, neither of us have been able to face a ca.s.serole since Chloe died. I'm afraid to throw them out in case someone sees them in the garbage.” There was the smile again. ”I'd be happy to send some home with you if you think the girls would like them.”
”Oh.” Brooke could just imagine Monica's reaction if she ever found out that the ”help” had gone home with the cheeseburger ca.s.serole meant to win over the handsome widower. ”Actually, that would be great. I'm a pretty utilitarian cook-you know, an a.s.sembler of ingredients-it would be nice to have a meal ready to pop in the oven. And a man who can cook? I think that belongs in the fantasy category for most women.”
”Well, a little fantasy never hurt anyone.” He smiled. ”In fact, why don't you let me cook you a meal one night?” He must have seen her confusion because he added, ”I was thinking something elegant. You know, adult. Just for the two of us.”
”Oh.” Surprise and pleasure sent heat rus.h.i.+ng to her cheeks. She practically felt them turning scarlet, which was not a good look for any redhead. ”I don't know. I haven't really been . . .” She stopped, horrified that she'd been about to tell him that she hadn't had a date-or even a real conversation with a man-since Zachary walked out on them.
”If you'd rather, we can make it a family dinner,” he said. ”Maybe next Sat.u.r.day?”
”Oh.” Relief and disappointment coursed through her. ”Sure. That would be great. Maybe I can bring a poster board and some magazines and Marissa and Ava can work on their room collages.” She flushed, afraid that he'd think she was planning to bill him. Should she tell him that wasn't what she'd meant? But how exactly would she do that?
”That sounds perfect,” he said wiping out her worry with the warmth of his smile. ”Shall we plan on six o'clock?”
She stammered her agreement and let him walk her to the door. It was only after she'd settled the two ca.s.seroles he'd insisted she take on the floor of the Volvo and backed out of his driveway that she realized that Bruce Dalton-the man who could have, and possibly had had the perfect Monica-had offered to cook for her.
CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR.
THE PROBLEM WITH WRITING-OR IN CLAIRE'S CASE not writing-on a full-time basis was that the work never went away. Even on a beautiful Sat.u.r.day like this one, it sat there waiting for you, haunting you, far too insistent to ignore. She knew writers who, like Nora, met a page count each writing day and then mentally clocked out until the next. Perhaps if she were being at all productive, she, too, might learn to do that. At the moment no matter what she was doing or where she went, she was hyperaware that she had not yet produced pages that she could send to her agent. But no matter how insistently her computer's blank screen haunted her or how much of the dining room table she littered with scribbled thoughts and notes, she couldn't fool herself into believing she was actually doing something. You could force a writer's b.u.t.t into a chair, but you couldn't make her think.
Claire stared out the French doors of her apartment trying to understand how her greatest escape had become the thing she most wanted to escape from. The balcony beckoned, but she'd already spent close to an hour out there this morning catching up her journal and it was easy to get distracted outside. For the next twenty minutes she debated whether to carry her laptop out onto the balcony before finally deciding against it. But though she managed to keep her b.u.t.t in the chair, she couldn't resist calling Hailey.
”Hi, Mom. How's it going?” The sound of Hailey's voice was like a gift from the G.o.ds. And if she strung out the conversation long enough, she could have a break from pretending to work.
”Great. It's really going great.”
”How many pages did you write today?” Hailey asked.
Claire hesitated. The few times she'd lied to her daughter it had been to protect or spare Hailey, not to make herself look better.
”That bad, huh?” her daughter asked. ”Maybe you need to go out and take a walk to clear your head?”
”That's a good idea, Hailey,” she said. Unfortunately, she'd already done that first thing in the morning when she'd been certain she'd come back energized and ready to get down to work. It was such a glorious day-all bright blue sky and pulled white clouds-that she'd barely been able to force herself back inside. ”But what I really want to do is hear about you.”
As she'd hoped, Hailey was diverted and chatted happily for at least fifteen minutes about her cla.s.ses, her job in the library, which was apparently still a bit ”lame,” and the boy she'd met in her creative writing cla.s.s, who wasn't. Claire hung on each word, asking a new question anytime she sensed Hailey bringing the conversation to a close.
”Sorry, Mom,” Hailey finally said. ”I know I'm cutting into your writing time. I'll let you get back to work.”
Claire barely resisted begging her daughter not to hang up. ”Okay, Hailey. Take care of yourself.”
”I will, Mom.”
”And keep me posted.”
”Good luck with the proposal. I know it'll be great.” Hailey hung up.
Claire looked at the blinking cursor. All alone in the top left corner of the great big blank screen. Her brow furrowed. Was that an SOS it was blinking out?
She pulled up Facebook mostly just to fill the screen, posted something cheerily vague to her author page, then clicked through her personal page.
Standing, she paced the apartment first in one direction and then the other. She stood for a few minutes with her nose pressed against the gla.s.s of the French door. But she was very careful not to step outside.
She was trying to force herself back to the computer when she saw a message arrive.
Are you working? Karen's message asked.
Yes! she typed back, exclamation point and all.
Don't lie to me. I can tell. Karen had been writing two books a year for the last four years, each one better than the last. As her body of work grew, so did her readers.h.i.+p. Claire was really excited about her longtime critique partner's success, but her productivity level left Claire feeling like a slug in comparison.
Not lying, Claire lied. Writing up a storm. My fingers are practically falling off.
Then why are you answering messages?
Only yours, Claire replied. I seem to remember a blood oath never to ignore communication from my critique partners.
Karen ignored this. c.r.a.p can be fixed, blank page can't. Get to work.
Okay, Claire typed. Will vomit heart and soul onto many pages ASAP.
Too messy, Karen typed back. Use fingers. Easier to read.