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“Making up stories?”
“And then illustrating them.”
“For storybooks. Like picture books.”
“Yes. Just like that.”
He was intrigued. “How does that work, exactly?”
“Well, I stare into space and daydream a lot. When something good—what I thinkcouldbe good—comes to mind, I write it down. The next day when I reread it, I either keep it, edit it, or toss it and try again.”
“What are your stories about?”
“I’m working on the second book of what I hope will become a series. It’s about a community of clouds.”
“Clouds.”
She nodded. “They live in a wide area of the sky. Conflicts arise when they become separated, either by a natural happenstance like a storm or by a trouble-making cloud. They must create ways to reconnect and stick together for everyone’s betterment.”
“Ah. There’s a subtext.”
She smiled, looking pleased that he’d derived that. “There is, but the stories are written to engage and entertain young children—preschool, basically—who have notoriously short attention spans. The moral of the story is subtly woven into the antics of the clouds.”
“I’m impressed. That’s very creative.”
“Thank you.” Her soft smile became wistful. “Although I haven’t been creative lately. Even after two months, I can’t seem to pick back up, get into any kind of rhythm.”
“I know that feeling too well.”
The bartender brought over steaming mugs of freshly brewed coffee. “Smells delicious,” Elle said. Then, as she stirred milk into hers, she asked, “What do you do?”
“My job? Consulting.” She gave him the expected expectant look and he said, “It’s boring. Nothing nearly as interesting as writing kids’ books.”
She must’ve caught the hint that his occupation wasn’t something he wanted to talk about, because she didn’t pursue it. She lifted the mug of coffee to her mouth and blew into it.
He was certain she hadn’t intended for it to be provocative, but his belly quickened, and he was so distracted by what her lips were doing, he drank from his mug without blowing on it first and scalded his tongue.
After taking a more careful sip, he asked her if she’d heard from Compton or Perkins.
“Not a word.”
“Me either,” he said. “I’ve called, but they’re always unavailable and haven’t called me back. I take that to mean that the investigation has stalled, big-time.”
“Had you come into the meeting yet when the group talked about that?”
“No. What was said?”
She gave him a brief recap. “The man seated next to you was the first to speak out, but I believe he expressed what most everyone was thinking.”
“What were you thinking?”
She wrapped both hands around her coffee mug and stared into it thoughtfully. “I’m desperate for my child’s murderer to be caught and punished. But a part of me just wants it all to go away, to be over and done with.” Back at him, she said, “Does that sound crazy?”
“Not to me. I understand the contradiction. I’d like to see the bastard drawn and quartered. But going through a trial, and everything that it would entail—motions, rulings, postponements, appeals. It could drag out for years, and we—anyone who was involved—will be dragged along with it.”
“It’s a dismal thought, isn’t it?”
“Yes, but not as dismal as the thought of him getting away with it.” He propped his forearms on the edge of the table and leaned toward her. “I have dreams about it.”
