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“Your agent told Arnott that you have real potential.”
He waved that off. “All agents say that about their clients.”
“She must believe it or she wouldn’t be representing you.”
“He.”
“Sorry?”
“My agent is a he.”
“Oh. My mistake.”
My ass, Drex thought. That had been a test.
“Are you writing full-time?”
“Lately I have been.”
“How do you support yourself?”
“Frugally.” Jasper gave the expected laugh. Drex said, “My dad died a couple of years ago and left me a small inheritance. Nothing to boast about, but it’s keeping a roof over my head while I work on the book.”
“Fiction or non?”
“Fiction. Civil War novel.”
Jasper raised his eyebrows, encouraging him to continue.
“I don’t want to bore you,” Drex said.
“I’m not bored.”
“Well,” Drex said, taking a deep breath, “the protagonist takes a sort of Forrest Gump journey through the conflict, from Bull Run to Appomattox. He grapples with divided loyalties, his moral compass, mortal fear during battle. That kind of thing.”
“Sounds interesting.”
Drex smiled as though he realized that was a platitude, but appreciated it all the same. “My agent likes the story, and said my research was factually sound. But he felt the narrative lacked color. It needed more heart, he said. Soul.”
“So you came down here to get color, heart, and soul.”
“I hope to soak up some while working on the second draft. And,” he said, stretching out both his legs and the word, “I needed to get away from the distractions of the everyday grind.”
“Like a wife?”
“Not anymore.”
“Divorced?”
“Thank God.”
“You sound bitter. What happened?”
“She accused me of cheating.”
“Did you?”
Drex looked at him and cocked an eyebrow, but didn’t answer. Instead he sipped his bourbon. It was a smooth, expensive one. “The divorce cost me dear and taught me a hard lesson.”
