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With everyone fastened in, I hop onto the driveway and march toward my daddy, arms spread wide and tears stinging my eyes. “Goodbye, Daddy. I’ll call you all when I reach Tallahassee tonight. Take care of Mama for me.”
My father’s broad smile disappears as he wraps his arms around me, lifting me off the ground and rocking me back and forth like he did when I was a kid. “My darling girl, I’m so proud of you for chasing your dreams. I’ll pray for you every night and be on the first plane to Florida should you ever need me.”
I sniffle, fighting the flood of tears that will surely worsen as soon I see my parents in the rearview mirror. My mother inserts herself between my father and me, pulling me tightly into her embrace. “Sweet Pea! What will I do without my baby? Please watch your surroundings and take every precaution. It’s a big bad world out there, and people can be dangerous. I won’t survive your loss, darling.”
Mama cries. I weep. Daddy looks around nervously, wiping tears and ensuring the neighbors aren’t watching the two crazy women bawling in each other’s arms.
“I love you, Mama. I promise I’ll be careful.” Leaving is harder than I expected. I peel away from my mama’s arms, kiss her on the cheek and reach for my keys, hiccupping with grief as I round the front of the van and climb into the driver’s seat.
“I love you, Sweet Pea! Mama loves you forever and ever!” Mama and Daddy wave frantically, blowing kisses as I drive away.
I’m hopeful but wrecked. Anxious yet eager. Heartbroken but ecstatic to start my new life.
Candy Cane Key, here I come.
2
JUNE
Why do I do this to myself?
I stare semi-consciously at my computer screen, mocked by a blank page that my mind refuses to fill. For six months, I’ve written nonstop, page after page, building worlds, fleshing out characters, and editing as I go to keep obvious mistakes from dragging me down.
No one makes me write. I chose this profession based on a childhood dream I obviously didn’t think through. I should have been a doctor. No doubt they keep better hours than me.
Frustrated and mortified by my mediocrity, I push away from my desk, clutch my empty coffee mug and head into the kitchen. I should eat. It’s nearly noon, and I haven’t eaten all day. I don’t deserve to eat. Sustenance is a privilege for people who meet their word counts, not pathetic losers who spend two weeks writing and deleting their tenth chapter when they should be closing in on the fifteenth.
My antique clock ticks, and the sound reminds me I have an appointment with my agent at half past noon. I can’t believe I forgot all about it. He only makes this trip every other month, and I’ve been so self-absorbed with breaking this destructive cycle of procrastination that I never bothered to look at my online calendar.
Whose great idea was it to work offline? Mine. That’s who.
Strapped for time, I pull the dirty, coffee-stained t-shirt over my head, storm into the hallway and upstairs toward the bathroom. I need a shower, but there isn’t enough time to make it an event. In and out, the essentials were scrubbed and rinsed. My mother raised me better than to keep people waiting, and I’m sure Baxter wants to get off the island as soon as possible. He never understood why I moved from New York in the first place. His life became far more inconvenient, and the island vibe has yet to inspire me to work faster.
But that’s not what islands technically do. I’m supposed to relax, smell the flowers and marvel at the beauty of the Caribbean sunset. All that crap wore off two weeks after I arrived.
Thirty minutes later, and ten minutes before I’m due, I’m at Tranquili-tea, an English tea house that appeals to my lesser-known snobbish sensibilities. My books are meant to appeal to the average person. When you write stories about small-town people living small lives while dealing with challenges and adversities, you need to present yourself as a person capable of roughing it.
Unfortunately, I’m not that person. I grew up wealthy on the Upper East Side of Manhattan, the eldest son of parents who happily gave me the world. Once upon a time, I tried to write about that world. Reviews were good, but sales were low. When I changed things up, the money and awards came rolling in.
But I felt like a fraud. Coming to Candy Cane Key was more than an escape from busy New York life. Yes, I wanted solitude. But I also craved the street cred I’d never find if I continued to live in the lap of luxury.
Two years later and it’s finally started to grow on me. I miss the city, and I’m not particularly fond of Christmas, but this Key had the real estate I was looking for—a three-level home on the waterfront with four bedrooms, four bathrooms, a pool, and a landscaped garden. It was by far my favorite and guarantees me enough solitude that I don’t often get bombarded with the town’s twelve months of holiday spirit.
Candy Cane Key might be small, but I’m happy to report it has many of the conveniences of the mainland. For the sake of year-round tourism, people on the island go out of their way to offer every necessary amenity, and they typically do it with pizzazz.
If it was later in the day, I would have suggested Baxter and I share a drink at Temperance, a whiskey bar run by a local Hemingway enthusiast. As much as I love Ernest, I go for the quality drinks, not the décor. People think I came here to follow in his footsteps—a reclusive author on a private estate, writing in the Florida Keys, surrounded by polydactyl cats. The comparison is noteworthy, but I promise it’s purely coincidental.
“Thank goodness you’re on time. I’ve got a table. I hope you don’t mind, but I ordered for you. You’re a predictable guy. It’s always a cup of Earl Grey and a scone.” He means well, but I’m not crazy about being referred to as predictable. However, that’s precisely what I would have ordered.
Instead of ruining the first few minutes of our meeting with righteous indignation, I choose to be grateful. “Thank you. How’s Leslie? Are you still doing those IVF treatments?” I try to make conversation, hoping he doesn’t ask too many questions about my work in progress. It’s a dumb tactic. Interrogating me about my work is the sole reason he comes to visit. He’s probably had enough of trying to motivate me over video calls and had to resort to drastic measures.
“For fuck’s sake, Felix. Leslie is eight and a half months pregnant. You know this. I’ve mentioned it a hundred times. That’s why I need to return to New York as soon as possible. The big day is drawing close, and I promised her I wouldn’t be away more than a day.” His exasperated voice makes me cringe for having no recollection of it.
I sink into my chair, steeping my tea while I mutter apologies. “Sorry, man. This book is taking over my life. Anything that doesn’t involve getting it done just goes in one ear and out the other.”
He rolls his eyes and makes no attempt to hide it. “I hope that means you’ve passed the fifty percent mark. Last time we spoke, you were inching toward a third of the way. Please, tell me you’ve made gains.” He doesn’t mince words, but he doesn’t know how to string them together to form a marketable story that sells. I do. Baxter has never written anything longer than an email. He doesn’t understand how the process works.
But I understand his frustration. He's my agent and can’t sell something I won’t finish.
