It’s been a minute! Thanks for checking in, and I’m sorry for not responding sooner. Reception in Alaska has been spotty, but the lack of distraction has been great for writing.
I pause reading as a guilty flush creeps up my neck. My time in Alaska hasn’t been completely distraction-free, but there’s no need to mention that to Anjali.
Below you’ll find the first (very rough) half of my new manuscript, which I’m callingIced Over. I’d love to know your first impressions and whether you think this could be our answer to HNA-Gate.
Thanks again for sticking with me on this tiny, slowly sinking life raft,
Margot
I hover my cursor over the send button, scrunch my eyes shut, and click it before I chicken out. I exhale along with the mail program’s little whooshing sound, registering that I haven’t been this nervous to send pages since the early days. Before I left for Alaska, Anjali approved my strategy to write in a totally new genre and has been busily building her contacts with murder-mystery editors. And while I still consider my new manuscript a murder mystery, in the almost week since I read Savannah’s last letter, my stringent anti-romance stance has gone a little soft around the edges. My characters are toeing the line of something less than professional, and I can’t help but feel that my manuscript is stronger for it.
“You look like you’re plotting something.”
I look up to see Trapper coming toward me in his chair, withScout leading the way. He smiles, but it looks more like a wince. “See what I did there?”
I smile at his corny joke and pet Scout. “I’m always plotting something.”
“And how’s this one coming?” he says, rolling up to my desk.
“Well, I guess we’ll see. I just sent the first half off to my agent.”
“Firsthalf?” he repeats, raising his eyebrows. “You don’t waste any time, do you?”
I shrug. “I’ve always been a fast drafter. Revising is what takes forever.”
He shifts in his chair uncomfortably, and I notice that his usual slight lean to the left is more pronounced. I ask, “How about you? You didn’t take Scout on his morning walk. Feeling okay?”
“Woke up, so I guess that’s something,” he grumbles. Scout makes a sound that I swear sounds worried.
It’s the first time Trapper has shown any frustration about his condition to me, and when I don’t respond right away, he glances up. “Sorry. I don’t mean to be a cranky toad. It’s just my damn shoulder,” he says, grasping it with his good right hand. “Most of the time, the pain patch or nerve block Forrest gives me numbs it out, but some days…”
He sighs again and shifts to the left. I’m reminded of Savannah’s own untouchable discomfort, and my mind immediately goes into pain-management mode. Countless hours spent researching every avenue of relief outside of opioids have given me an arsenal of techniques to use on my sister. At home, I have special oils, natural tinctures, and even a playlist of low-frequency sounds designed to help with chronic pain. But my most effective tools are my hands, and as I watch Trapper try to mask the pain he’s in, an offer to help is out of my mouth before I can think twice.
“Would you mind if I tried something?” I ask. “My sistersuffers from chronic pain, and I’ve learned a lot about acupressure over the years.”
“Acupressure?” Trapper asks doubtfully. “You’re not going to stick me with a bunch of needles, are you?”
I smile. “That’s acupuncture. Acupressure is just done with touch.”
He chuckles hoarsely. “I guess that beats being a pincushion. Where do you need me, dear?”
I direct him to where I have access to his left arm. Gently lifting it to lie on the desk, he winces as his shoulder moves. I begin with his hand, pressing and holding points that sometimes give Savannah relief.
“Can you feel this?” I ask after several minutes of working on different points.
Trapper’s eyes drift shut. “It’s funny,” he says slowly. “I can’t feel much of anything in this arm, but I… I almostsensesomething.”
I nod. I don’t consider myself a hippie, but after years of seeing Savannah’s pain improve with energy work, I’m a believer. I move farther up his arm to a point on the bicep. I watch as muscles in the left side of his neck visibly relax and his shoulder lowers slightly. He lets out a small exhalation of relief, and I continue working up his arm. I’m so focused that I don’t notice anyone approaching the desk until I hear Forrest clear his throat.
Startled, I let go, and Trapper opens his eyes to smile up at Forrest. “Sorry, son, but it looks like you’re out of a job. Turns out you’re not the only healer at North Star Lodge.”
“Did it help?” I ask hopefully, trying to focus on Trapper instead of Forrest’s looming presence.
“Help?” Trapper repeats, still smiling. “That was unbelievable. My pain was at an eight, and now it’s a six. You’ve got healer’s hands, Margot.”
I sit back in my chair and avoid Forrest’s gaze as pride glowsin my chest. After feeling so useless on our wilderness excursions, having Forrest see that I’m good atsomethingdoesn’t suck.
“I’m glad I could help a little,” I say, glancing up to see Forrest still staring at me. I look away, my cheeks heating.
