“What’s the other world? Creative inspiration?”
“I can’t remember exactly. Some of her flashes were memories. Some of them were more mysterious.”
Jack made a noise of vague dissatisfaction. “The problem is, and this is getting back to the proposal I’m supposed to be writing, it seems like they’re gone, these images. If my process is to sit aroundand wait for woo-woo images to arrive, what do I do when they don’t?”
“Ah. I see the problem.”
“It took me years to writeIn Time. And two to write the second book, and that only happened because you basically dragged it out of me.”
“Maybe you don’t have any more books in you. Or maybe you can’t write to a schedule.”
“But then I’m back to my old problem of I need money.”
“Gosh, maybe you should consider alternate sources of income. Have you thought about selling out to Hollywood?” Blair was gambling that even though Jack was being uncharacteristically open, it was best to proceed as she normally would, with a mix of earnestness and humor.
“Yeah, yeah.”
“And I shall refrain from pointing out that you told Esme at Thanksgiving that you didn’t think of narratives visually.”
“I guess that is a contradiction.” He looked a little stricken. He didn’t like thinking of himself as inconsistent.
“I was just teasing. Can you have a writer friend help? Ashwin Bajwa?” she suggested, thinking back to that article inThe New Yorker.
“No. I never show my works in progress to anyone.” He paused. “Except you, I guess, that one time.”
She was a bit taken aback. “You never show your stuff to other writers? Didn’t you do an MFA?”
“Yes, and I did enough of that for a lifetime during that degree. Any kind of situation where you sit in a circle and talk about your feelings and/or the feelings of people you made up is not for me.”
She cracked up, though of course he was serious. She was flattered anew that he’d shown her the first two chapters of his second novel. But she’d basically forced his hand there.
“I feel compelled to add that I’ve always had these images,” he said. “Since I was a kid. I used to make up stories in my head. As an adult I wonder if this is how kids end up with imaginary friends.In Timeis just the first time I took one and stretched it out into a book.
“So having them dry up is disconcerting beyond the potential threat to my livelihood, is my point.”
He was fascinating. Hefascinatedher.
“But whatishappening suddenly,” he went on, “is that I’m remembering all this stuff from childhood. Being at Allie’s cabin after so many years, and seeing her, unlocked it all.
“So the point of all this rambling—finally—is that I’m thinking maybe I ought to stay a few more days and see what surfaces.”
“Ah,” Blair said. “So what I hear you telling me is that indulging my desire to stick around for a while would actually be doing you a huge favor.”
He chuckled. “Yes.”
“Done.”
He nodded curtly, and it felt like he was redonning his usual circumspect persona, but he did pick up their plates and swap them so Blair could have the rest of the pan-fried walleye, and somehow it was the most romantic thing that had ever happened to her.
Blair had to revise that thought a few hours later when, on the drive back to the cabin, Jack rested his right hand on her thigh in between shifting his car—Mr. Manly Writer Man drove a manual transmission, of course.
She had no idea what had possessed him, or why he was so casual about it.Shewas not feeling casual whatsoever. Every time he took his hand off her to shift, she wanted to protest. Every time it came back, heavy and warm, it sent a ripple of pleasure through her.
He downshifted as they came to a stop sign. Experimentally, sheinched herself a tiny bit toward him, so that the next time his hand came down, it was on her inner thigh.
He glanced over at her and quickly away. “Let’s light a fire when we get back. There’s a firepit on one corner of the property right next to the lake.”
“Um… OK?”
