“Why do you keep your writing a secret?”
Bart had to think about that one. He took a drink and stared out over the lake. Molly was fascinated. He was a writer. She had to admit it made sense. His mother was an English teacher.His degree was in English. He obviously liked to read and write. Writers tended to be reclusive, often living off the grid. He read his Kindle at the diner. Had a solar powered charging station for his laptop. Had to come out monthly for the business of writing, then back to the wild. Wrote a thousand words every day in his hideaway cabin.
“Writing is very personal. Even if you’re writing fiction, you’re writing about yourself. You’re exposing your dreams and fantasies. I’ve always been on the introverted side. My experience in the war, the PTSD, Megan’s accident, going off the grid, has pushed me even further that direction. I’m okay to share what I’m thinking. I just prefer doing it under a pen name so it doesn’t trace back to me.”
“Can I read something you wrote?”
He thought for a minute. “Can I think about that?”
She smiled. “Sure.” A full minute of silence. Then, “I really appreciate your telling me about this. I think I understand why you’d want it to remain private. It does seem very personal.”
“Thanks for understanding.”
She refreshed the glasses. She wasn’t ready to deal with dinner. A silence settled in. Molly felt good. He’d opened up about his business. She liked knowing, but more than that, he indirectly answered her question about whether this was a fling or a relationship. He trusted her and was treating this as a relationship. She liked that he was willing to share a private part of himself, a part that he shared with no one else, not even his family or closest friends. Did he have close friends? Most likely a few soldiers he served with. Then he really surprised her.
“When do you want to go to my cabin?”
Molly looked at him with a crooked smile. Ok, then. Major progress. He was inviting her to his place.
She said quietly, “Thank you.” Maybe she didn’t really need to see his place. Maybe it was enough that he was willing to take her there. “I guess I’ll be tied up with the pups for a while.”
“What’s the process?”
“First we deal with the birth. Then we feed and nurture so they thrive and grow. Once they show strength, we begin marketing. I’ll rent space on a website that markets German Shepherds. It’s quite an established process. You show the papers, document the births, show photos of each pup, describe characteristics, establish prices, like that. While the marketing is going on, you start basic training, respond to inquiries, start showing the pups, and hopefully selling. But the pups stay with the mother for three months even after a sale. Hopefully at twelve weeks, all the pups are released to happy owners.”
“Are you keeping any?”
“Not planning to.”
“So it sounds like you’re twelve weeks away from an off the grid trip.”
“Realistically. Does that work for you?”
“Maybe October. The last trip before winter. The mountains will be beautiful.”
“Really. You’re inviting me to your place?”
“I thought that’s what you wanted.”
“It is. I didn’t think it would happen that easily.”
A lovely silence. The glasses were empty. The sun was falling in the western sky. The colors were starting to reflect off the mountains and the lake. The fishing boats were winding up a lazy afternoon on the water and making their way back to shore. Molly was hungry. Time to get dinner going.
She looked at Bart before getting up just as he was speaking softly to her.
“Maybe I’m telling you I don’t consider this a fling.”
Dinner was sixteen ounce rib-eyes, giant baked potatoes with all the fixings, and sautéed mushrooms. Bart opened a bottle of Walla Walla cabernet and was in charge of preparing the meat and barbeque. Molly worked on the fixings and mushrooms. She was cooking, but there was a part of her that wanted to take him right there in the kitchen. It was the same part that made her take him in the shower, the same part that wanted to take him in the Adirondacks at happy hour, and the same part that was going to take him the minute they hit the bed later that night. God, she had it bad.
She loved watching him work with the meat. He coated it lightly with olive oil, then rubbed in salt and pepper, working both sides and the edges. Something about his hands coated in olive oil gently caressing a big piece of meat was erotic.
Geez, girl, get a grip.
Molly couldn’t finish her steak or potatoes, but she enjoyed watching Bart eat everything on his plate. She refilled his glass with cabernet.
“Do you have a name for your retreat in the mountains?”
“Dark Hollow.”
