“A prepublication copy of a book an editor friend wants me to consider for Books with Blair.”
Why was she still sitting, letting him tower over her? She stood.
But now that she was up here, what should happen? Should they hug? That’s what she would do with most people in this situation.
“How is it?” He took a step back.
So they weren’t going to hug. The hugging window, if there had been one, had closed. Should they shake hands? No. That was stupid. This wasn’t a business meeting.
“Lots of angst,” she said about the book. “Set on a farm. Drought as metaphor for illness and/or loneliness. Very Alice Munro–esque.”
He barked a laugh, and she was pleased and even a little proudto have amused him until he said, “And here I’d have thought that would be exactly your thing.”
“Why would you think that?” The question came out sharp, but shefeltsharp. When he said nothing, she pressed him. “Because I’m a woman who tends to gravitate toward books written by women?”
He shrugged. “There is a whole category called women’s fiction.”
“Yes, books written by women about internal concerns. Families, emotions. Unlike books written by men about families and emotions. Unlikeyourbook about families and emotions.”
He held up a palm. “I get it. I’ve heard the argument before.”
She waited a beat for him to add that he sympathized with this argument he’d heard, but he said nothing.
“Farms are not really my thing. Farm landscapes as metaphor are especially not my thing.” She was aware she was coming off as brittle. She just didn’t know how to stop. “Shall we go?”
He still didn’t say anything. Probably because he didn’t knowwhatto say. She’d gotten herself all worked up, gone from zero to sixty over basically nothing. She nodded at his backpack. “You want me to carry anything?”
“I’m fine, thanks.”
She turned and set off toward parking, trusting he would follow. She couldfeelhim following, as if he were giving off heat, which maybe he was given that he’d shed his flannel shirt. Maybe his cold Minnesota blood wasn’t suited to Southern California. Maybe she should have listened to him when he tried to decline her invitation.
She clicked open the doors of her car, bracing for him to make a comment about how girlie and/or LA her vehicle was—and it was both.
He said nothing, just threw his stuff in the trunk and buckled himself into the passenger seat. The only words they spoke on the way out of the airport came when he tried to pay for the parking.She shut him down, and soon they were zooming up La Brea. Traffic was surprisingly not bad, but it was still going to take the better part of an hour to get home.
The silence that settled was oppressive.
She should have sent a car.
Chapter 7
Mistakes Were Made
Coming here had been a mistake.
What had Jack been thinking? As they wound their way up a hill peppered with palm trees in Blair’spinkcar, eventually pulling into a driveway, passing through a gate, and parking in front of a white stucco Spanish-style house, Jack had to admit that hehadn’tbeen thinking.
“Shall we go around back to the pool house first?” Blair asked.
“All right.”
What else could he say?
They got out of the car, and Blair muttered something under her breath. Before he could work out what it was, she called, “Hello, Mrs. Afonso!” and started waving like she was trying to flag down a passing semi.
Despite the obvious wealth of the neighborhood, Blair’s house was actually not far from the house next door. They both had gates protecting them from the street, but inside, the properties were separated by a hedge. Peeking over that hedge was a very old and seemingly very displeased woman.
“I brought your garbage can in this morning,” the woman said sourly. “Or at least as far as I could, given your fortress.”
