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Taylor stopped patting Tucker. “What’s the problem?”
Finding her voice, she said, “I—I’m surprised you’re having one. Your facial expression last week, when I had a beer, led me to believe you disapproved of drinking.”
He followed her into the kitchen. “I don’t know where you got that idea. Any face I made was because I wanted one but decided it would leave me too groggy in the morning, so I declined. My frown was disappointment, not disapproval.” She opened her refrigerator and pulled out two Sam Adams Lagers.
The pizza arrived, and the remainder of their evening transpired in conversation. Roberta filled him in on her education, growing up in Massachusetts among a family that had fallen apart at every seam by the time she hit college. Having never been to college, Taylor was interested to hear of her exploits at Northeastern University in Boston. They spent an hour talking and laughing, Roberta’s earlier hurt forgotten. She was pleased he was so relaxed, yet he didn’t divulge much of his own life. From what little she knew of his work, he rarely had an opportunity to relax.
“So, why do you temp? Couldn’t you do what you do full time somewhere as a regular employee?” This was leading to the question Roberta was hoping he wouldn’t ask. The answer, she was afraid, would put a wedge between the friendship they had just carved.
“I temp because my housing and benefits are covered by the agency, and it pays twice what a normal job would pay. Plus, it allows me to work only when I want,” Roberta said, not wanting to delve deeper into an explanation.
“What do you do when you’re not working?”
Roberta’s mouth went dry.Shit, there it is. She took a long swig of beer and set the bottle down. “I’ve been working in this field for over seven years. I like what I do. It helps people. I may be giving them the worst diagnosis they’ll ever have to face in their lives, but without that diagnosis, the doctors don’t know which treatments to try—treatments that might put them in remission or, better yet, cure them completely. That’s the power of my testing. But this job is not my first love. It pays the bills, keeps me on health insurance, pension, and dental insurance. The other times, when I’m not working in a lab ...” She looked into his eyes before making her confession. “I’m a writer.”
Taylor’s body stiffened as if he had activated an armor shield around himself at the moment his pupils constricted in fear.
Exactly as you expected, girlfriend.Roberta’s heart faltered a beat. “I write non-fiction, scientific articles for professional journals. I also write novels. Fiction. I have written a few romances and a few screenplays.”
Saying nothing, he continued to look at her from his frozen position, arms crossed sternly over his chest.
Ignoring the tremor in her body, she continued, “I’ve known I wanted to be a writer since I was twelve. That ambition got lost somewhere in high school and college. But after I graduated from college, when I finally moved all my personal things out of my parents’ house, I found boxes of my writing and remembered my dream. I started writing again that day. A couple hours each day on whatever story or project I’m working on at the moment. When I have enough money saved up from working my temp job, I stop taking assignments and write full time for three to four months at a pop. Usually over the winter months.”
The air between them stilled. Roberta heard the flutter of bats as they dove for moths in the dusk. The buzz of beetles hitting the window screens cut the silence into bites.
“I see,” Taylor said dully before rising to his feet. He began pacing the length of the deck, fists opening and closing in sync with his steps.
Clearly, he didn’t see. The frosty tone of his voice revealed fear of exposure. At the rail, he turned and asked, “Have you sold anything?”
“Books? No. I sell mostly science articles. The books don’t seem to sell. I’ve tried a few times. Frankly, I don’t try very hard to sell them. I guess they’re mainly for my own gratification. Like now, I’m working on a tragic romance.”
Taylor stalked toward her, stopping a foot away, invading her personal space.
“Can I read it?” he asked, too swiftly.
“No. Nobody reads it until it’s finished. It’s a very rough first draft. I usually write the first drafts while I’m out on assignments. I give the manuscripts my undivided attention in between the temp jobs, completely revising them and editing.” Roberta watched as he spun on his heels and resumed pacing.
Once again, at the farthest point, he stopped. He looked out over the backyard, his back to her. “All that work, and you don’t sell it?” he asked, a note of suspicion in his voice.
Before answering, Roberta downed the last of her beer. “I may send out a query, may enter it in a writer’s contest. Otherwise, I print it out, bind it and stick it on my office shelf beside the others.” The light thud of her empty beer bottle on the table was the only sound besides the last calls of birds and the early chirp of crickets.
Taylor returned to stand beside her.
He stared her down. “I would really like to look at what you’re writing every night.”
Breath stilled in her chest; she knew retaining his trust might require proving her current work had nothing to do with him. But Roberta had not put him in the one she was writing, nor would she ever. Few real people ever showed up in her pages. Still, she had no intention of showing him her manuscript, not now, not ever, not after what Pete did.
Anger flared in her gut. She was going to have to defend her baby. She stood tall and matched his glare measure for measure. “Too bad. It has nothing to do with you. Not everything involves or revolves around you. You’re going to have to trust me.”
He glared back for one ... two ... three seconds before heading down the deck stairs toward his house.
“Thanks for the pizza,” Roberta said, trying desperately to keep her tone light and friendly.
“Good night.” He tossed the words over his shoulder without looking back. The evening breezes whipped up, scattering his words so quickly Roberta wasn’t sure he’d actually said them.
Her eyes followed him as he crossed the yard and entered his house without a wave. Picking up her beer bottle, she took another swig. But the bottle was empty, just as her chest felt. With a growl, she slammed the bottle down on the table.
Steam from the cup of tea swirled up into the shaft of sunlight streaming through Roberta’s kitchen window and across the table. Sara stirred the amber liquid, blowing across the surface to cool it. “I don’t see your point. He’s worried you’re writing about him. Why not let him have a look and be done with it?” she asked before gingerly tasting the brew.
