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She staredout the window of her office and tried to think about something other than him, when her phone buzzed on the desk.
Hitting “ignore” again wasn’t an option.
She already avoided several calls this morning, which was nothing compared to how many she ignored the past year.
But it was Leigh. Leigh, who had her best interests at heart. Leigh, who had guided her career to a level of success she might not have reached otherwise. Eleven best-selling novels, foreign rights all over the world, and a film deal that broughtMarket Dayto life.
Leigh, whose usual lively voice was subdued today. Quinn knew her—she was going to tiptoe toward the real reason for calling.
“Dinner the other night was lovely . . . Hope you got some rest.”
And then the predictable shift in tone.
It was impossible to focus on the thread of her words, which were breaking up even though the connection was fine. “Nely called again this morning . . . asked about the book. When can they expect to see the chapter outline . . . some pages? . . . I told her it’s been a rough road. This was a terrible month . . . the anniversary a few weeks ago . . . I’m supposed to check in with you . . . update on progress.”
Leigh paused. “I need to relaysomething, so I have to ask . . .”
Quinn sighed.
Leigh’s tiptoe voice again: “I know how hard it’s been.”
Do you? How do you know how hard it’s been?
She heard Jonathan’s deep voice echo in her mind.Not a single one of us here tonight knows how you feel.
He was right. Of all those people, including Leigh, he was the only one sensitive enough not to expect normalcy from her. Whatever normalcy meant now, she had no idea.
“You have to remember . . . purely a business deal for them . . . nothing personal . . . they gave us a deadline extension . . . important to keep momentum going . . . fans engaged . . . How can I help?”
“You can’t. I know what I have to do.”
It’s just that I can’t.
“. . . such a wonderful writer. If anyone can pull out of this, this funk, this block, it’s . . . Get the words down . . . check with you . . . couple of days.”
It used to come easy, the writing. Well, not easy, but it was the fire in her belly. Awake early, at her desk or walking on the beach at sunrise, dictating into her phone or sitting by the water with a pen and notepad.
She kept a pad by the bed, a notebook in her purse, a notebook in the glove box. The ideas would come, the scenes, character quirks, a line of dialogue, ideas for how to go deeper into a theme.
Oh, there would be snags with a plot or a character, exhausting book tours and repetitive talks, critical reviews she could not let go of no matter how many positive ones came before or after or how many copies sold.
But writing was her career, her creative outlet, her hobby, her love all rolled into one. The stories and words in her mind had flowed, and she often found herself in a place where time dissolved.
She would never forgive herself for letting that love take her away from Harris in his last days.
Leigh was right to prod. That was her job as her agent. Quinn should try harder. She should try to change her mindset, think about it as delivering a product rather than a piece of her soul.
But as a friend, well, maybe Leigh could aim for a bit more understanding and slightly less prodding.
Over the top of her laptop screen, out the window, the late-day sun seared its reflection on the water. When she at last let herself look away, flashbulbs burst at the back of her eyes, eclipsing the blank page.
Long after the spots faded, she closed the computer and got up to pee. Her lips still burned from last night, like the blinding angle of the sun, fierce and exquisite.
It was just once.
But the sting was impossible to stop thinking about.
