So everything was on the upswing.
On the surface.
But at the same time, she was heartbroken.
Because she hadn’t just given Jack her regard, friendship, and trust, she’d given him her heart.
He’d wormed his way in the back door, as he’d said, getting to know her with a speed and depth that had no precedent.
She understood where those crows were coming from.
She sat with a thud at her desk and told herself to stop thinking about it. There was no use fixating on something she couldn’t change. What would Mimi have said?That dog won’t hunt.
She took solace in the fact that she was heartbroken, but notbroken-broken. The hurricane shutters were holding.
And if she didn’t have this heartbreak, if she hadn’t had her time with Jack, she wouldn’t have writtenGreen Light.
So it was a good day.
She was closing down her computer when Tiffany stuck her head in. “This came for you.” She was holding a thick manila envelope.
“Leave it on Skye’s desk. She’ll deal with it tomorrow.” Skye was Blair’s assistant, and one of her many talents was diverting mail addressed to Blair and making it other people’s problem.
“Skye’s the one who gave it to me. She asked me what she should do with it.”
“OK.” Blair held out her hand. If Tiffany thought she needed to see whatever that was, she probably did.
“Bye!” Tiff called, departing with a vehemence that made it seem an awful lot like fleeing. “Call me if you need me!”
Blair threw the envelope on the corner of her desk. She’d open it tomorrow, when she—
Wait.
Snatching it back up, she blinked a few times before confirming that the return address was in fact what she’d thought it was.
Jack.
She stared at it as her heart started thudding. She didn’t evenpretend like she wasn’t going to tear it open—she just needed a moment to get her fingers to cooperate.
It was a manuscript.
The title page read “American Crow: A Novel by Jack Branksome.”
She flipped the page.
“For Blair, who got above her raising. Some of us take longer than others, but we get there eventually.”
Chapter 30
Human Contact
One day later
It was almost eight p.m. and Jack hadn’t picked up his mail, which was not like him. It was because he was writing. He wasn’t going to say it was going well. He was superstitious and didn’t want to curse himself.
But it wasgoing. It was going sufficiently that he hadn’t been doing his usual clock-watching all day. Which meant he hadn’t even thought about getting the mail, his preferred form of procrastination. He was headed to Maud’s for dinner, having told himself that he needed food and human contact, and that his almost-finished proposal would still be there when he got back. He would check the mail on his return trip; that way he wouldn’t have to carry it to the restaurant.
Jack hadn’t been checking his mail, but hewaschecking his phone. On the way to Maud’s. At Maud’s. On the way home from Maud’s. So much for human contact. At least he’d achieved the “food” part of his agenda.
