“What’s wrong?”
Scott. “I just cracked my knee against the drawer, I’ve lost page 325, and I think I’m seeing double I’ve been reading so long,” she replied, pulling the binder back toward her and forcing it closed. It went back on the shelf.
“Ouch. Put ice on the bruise, try closing your eyes for a while, and can you reprint the page?”
Jennifer laughed. “The printer is somewhere under a stack of books,” Jennifer replied wryly, “but I’m working in that direction. Where are you?”
“Still at the office. Have you eaten yet?”
“No, and I’m starved. I forgot lunch. I was on a roll until page 325 decided to disappear.”
“Could I interest you in some Chinese food? We deliver.”
“I would love some,” Jennifer replied, touched by the offer.
“Good. I’ll see you in about half an hour.”
Jennifer cleared off the printer and reprinted the missing page, hesitated, knowing she should pick up at least some of the clutter since Scott was coming over, but didn’t want to lose the time, either. She finally decided the book was more important. She was deeply involved in a chase scene when the doorbell rang. She marked in red where she was at and went to answer the door. “Where would you like this?” Scott asked with a smile. She smiled back, glad to see him.
“The round table in the office,” she replied, pointing the way.
“It’s getting cold out there,” Scott remarked as he entered the office. He set down the two sacks on the table and looked around the room with interest. It was a large room. The walls were lined with bookshelves, the desk had a recent-model computer, and there were work tables at the end of the room spread with documents, newspapers, magazines and file folders. It was a comfortable room, a plush long couch and deep recliner, an open view of the large backyard. The binders on the shelf by her desk were three inches thick, and he recognized the handwritten names of each of her books across the spines, and there were even a few titles he didn’t recognize. Future books?
Jennifer picked up her empty glass. “What can I get you to drink, Scott? I’ve got coffee made, or there is soda.”
“Anything diet is fine.”
Jennifer went through the house to the kitchen, refilled her glass from the open two liter of diet soda, found a glass for Scott.
“Where can I find forks, spoons and plates?” Scott asked, joining her.
“The top drawer by the stove is silverware. Directly above that is plates.”
Jennifer carried both drinks, leading the way back to the office. “What did you bring?”
He began pulling containers out of the bags. “Sweet and sour pork. Fried rice. Hunan beef. Cashew chicken. You can take your pick or sample them all.”
“Everything sounds wonderful.” She carefully opened the container of rice. Scott handed her one of the spoons. “Thanks.” They both filled their plates. “I didn’t realize how hungry I was,” Jennifer commented, sampling the Hunan beef.
“I had a meeting over lunch, ended up talking so much I didn’t get a chance to eat,” Scott admitted.
Jennifer pushed the soft sided package toward him. “Try a wonton. They are delicious.”
When the edge of her hunger had been blunted, Jennifer leaned back in her chair. “I could get very used to this.”
Scott smiled. “It sure beats eating alone.”
“What kept you at work tonight?”
“Shipment problems. Anything that brings down a production line, Peter usually brings me in to settle. Logic Partners has been a good customer for several years. They plan well, let us know far in advance if they are considering a large order. It’s a big deal with them if they ever get into a position they have to ask for a fast turnaround of a part. The order we got today asked for a lead time to be reduced by ten weeks. And we had no notion that it was coming. Somebody didn’t do their job. Peter thinks the sales manager for the account didn’t follow up on some calls as he should have. It’s going to be a mess to sort out.”
“Not a good day.”
He leaned back in the chair. “Today was a sinker, low and away, thrown in from left field.”
Jennifer chuckled. “Find some music and take the couch, Scott. Relax.” She picked up her drink, then moved back to the recliner.
“Sounds wonderful.” He got up to turn on the stereo.
“If you search, you might find the Chicago Bulls game on. They are playing the Pistons tonight,” Jennifer offered.
“And you are not listening to it?” Scott teased.
Jennifer held up her hand. “I’m football only. I can follow a baseball game on the radio, but basketball has forever eluded me.”
Scott chuckled. He found her preset station playing jazz.
“Nice,” Jennifer commented, already back at work.
Scott went to refill his soda. When he returned, he moved the four books from the couch to the floor and stretched out. “I needed this.”
Jennifer smiled. “Are you implying you are tired?”
Scott already had his eyes closed. “Exhausted describes it better.”
Jennifer smiled as she marked out another word. She was listening to the book as she read, fine-tuning the words, just as a master violinist would fine-tune the pitch of his instrument. She worked in silence for forty minutes, adding page after page to the edited pile. She chewed absentmindedly on the plastic cap of her pen as she reached a difficult section. “Scott, is the book on tropical islands over there?” She knew he was still awake, he had just shifted the two throw pillows.
He looked through the stack of books by the sofa. “Here it is.” He slid it across the carpet to her.
“Thanks,” she answered, her attention never totally shifting from the story. She found the page in the reference book she had paper clipped earlier that day. She frowned. She had got another fact wrong. Jennifer changed the description in the story. How many mistakes in this book had she missed? It was not a pleasant thought.
“What’s the matter?”
“I’m rereading the chapters I’ve written so far. I’ve got some serious discrepancies. I need to take a class in geography,” Jennifer replied abruptly, having just caught another error. Groaning, she got to her feet and crossed to her desk. She pulled up the entire manuscript and did a search for the word island. Thirty references. She rubbed the back of her neck where a tenseness was beginning to form. “This I did not need.” With a sigh, she printed the list of pages she would have to check.
“Can I help?”
“Yes.” Jennifer did not question the offer. She took the list, retrieved the three-ring binder and quickly pulled out the specific pages. “Find where I describe the island and make sure I got the basic geography right. Mount Montgomery has now been both north and south of the capital city. Here,” she handed him her red pen, “you are going to need this.”
Scott nodded. He watched her pace back to the chair, retrieve her glass. “I’ll be right back.”
She was annoyed with herself. Scott nearly chuckled as he watched her leave the room, but caught himself in time. It would seem all artists had that temperamental streak; his hardware designers acted the same way.
Jennifer returned in a few minutes to plop back in the easy chair. She picked up the binder, but thinking better of it, dropped it back on the floor. She was getting thoroughly fed up with this book. Too keyed up to sit, Jennifer got up, picked up the books beside her chair and started placing them back on the shelves with the rest of the reference books she had used during the day.
“Only three places need changing,” Scott said several minutes later.
“That’s all?” She turned to look at him, clearly relieved.
He smiled. “The top three pages.”
Jennifer took the pile. She slipped paper clips on the pages, then opened the binder to file them.
“I like what I read, Jennifer.” Scott didn’t know what kind of comment would be acceptable. Jennifer and her writing was a diff
icult combination to figure out.
She dropped the binder in his lap. “A book doesn’t mean much unless you start on page one.”
Scott looked at the binder, back at Jennifer. Was she serious? He knew instinctively that not many people had this privilege.
She shrugged. “I’m beat. That means I’m through for the night. But if you read it, it’s on the condition that no comments are allowed,” she warned.
He smiled. “Even if I like it?”
“Not even if you like it. I might cut your favorite scene tomorrow because I don’t like it,” she replied with a smile.
“Okay.” Scott settled back on the couch and opened the binder. Jennifer disappeared into the living room to return with her sewing basket. She was making a rose square quilt for Rachel’s Christmas present.
Jennifer watched Scott slowly turn the pages of the book, trying to read from his expression what he was thinking. It was impossible. She concentrated on her embroidery.
Half an hour passed. Jennifer tied off the rose-colored embroidery thread. She stuck the fine needle into the pin cushion attached to the top of the sewing basket and sorted through the basket for the light forest green embroidery thread. The end of the thread was frayed. Jennifer licked it, then rolled it between her thumb and first finger to ensure the fibers were tightly coupled together. Retrieving the needle, Jennifer turned the needle carefully until she found the small thread hole. With a very steady hand, she threaded the needle on the first try.
She could hear pages turning.
She began making the stitches that would define the leaves.
Jennifer finished the current quilt square, carefully releasing it from the wooden hoop. She watched Scott for several minutes. She had never seen him look so serious before. His expression made her nervous. She reached down into the basket, retrieved a new square to work on and carefully framed the white square so that the rose pattern was centered in the hoop. She forced herself to concentrate on her work, not Scott.
The ten o’clock news came on the radio. Scott put his finger on the page to mark his place, then looked up briefly. “Am I keeping you up?”
“I’m a night owl, Scott, 1:00 a.m. is a normal night.”
He nodded. He went back to reading.
As the evening wore on and Scott continued to read, Jennifer began to feel very guilty. She should not have given him the book so late in the evening. He was already tired. He would be very late getting home. He was reading it all because it was the polite thing to do. Guilt grew as the minutes passed.
“Scott, it’s midnight.”
He didn’t look up. “I know.”
What if he didn’t like the book? The thought made her feel physically sick. He did look…grim. The book was very different from the other books in the series, and it was still rough even after the editing. He was almost done with the book. Jennifer dropped any pretext about not wanting to know what he thought. She wanted to know his reaction desperately. Setting down her embroidery, she got up and crossed the room. She sat down on the couch beside him.
He turned the last page she had written, closed the book slowly. He didn’t look at her, didn’t say anything.
Scott felt like his heart had just been wrenched out. There was a bit of the writer in every book. In this yet-untitled book, there was more Jennifer than Scott knew how to handle. The plot was basic. A murder. The widow hired Thomas Bradford to find out who killed her husband and why. The mystery was intriguing, well written, believable, even humorous in places.
The widow in the story haunted him. She was a minor character. She introduced the mystery, providing Thomas Bradford a logical person with whom he could discuss the case. Her grief, her loneliness, her sense of drifting eloquently spoke for Jennifer herself. The critical need for the widow to understand why her husband had died wove like a tapestry thread through the entire book.
The story was so vivid in Scott’s mind that emotionally he felt he had lived through the scenes personally.
“Scott? Was it that bad?” Jennifer finally whispered, afraid to know, but more afraid of not knowing.
Scott turned toward her. Jennifer didn’t understand the emotions she saw.
“The story is the best you have ever written,” he reassured softly.
“Really?”
“Yes.” He reached for her hands. “Come here.” He gently pulled her over to him, brought her to rest against his chest. Her hands settled of their own accord against his powerful upper arms.
“I was afraid you didn’t like it.”
“I like it.” Jennifer, her head resting against his chest, felt the words. It felt so good to be held. Scott was quiet for some time. Jennifer slowly got comfortable with being held by him, began to relax.
“I’m sorry I didn’t understand how badly you miss Jerry.”
Jennifer stiffened.
Scott’s hands moved up from her waist to gently rub her back. “It’s all there, Jennifer. The anger, the grief, the sense of drifting. The loneliness.”
She didn’t look up at him. “It’s fiction.”
“No it’s not.”
Jennifer finally decided not to hide from him. “No it’s not,” she softly admitted. She sighed. “If anything, I toned down the emotions.”
His hands gently slid up to shoulders that were in tense knots. “Tell me about the day Jerry died.”
“Peter, what are you doing back so early?” Jennifer glanced around briefly when she heard footsteps, then turned back to the oven. “Couldn’t you get a court?” She set down the cookie tray she had pulled from the oven, reaching for the spatula. “Is Jerry putting the car away? I promised him the first batch of cookies.”
“Jennifer.” At the broken tone in her brother’s voice, Jennifer looked up. She set down the spatula. “What’s wrong, Peter?” she asked, fear gripping her heart.
“It’s Jerry.”
She leaned against the counter for support, burning her finger when it pressed against the cookie sheet.
“He had a heart attack, Jennifer.”
The past tense didn’t make any sense.
“He’s dead, Jennifer.” The blank whiteness on her brother’s face told her of his own shock.
He couldn’t be talking about her Jerry. They had tickets to a concert tonight. “Which hospital are they taking him to? I’ve got to get there.” Jennifer pulled over her purse. “Memorial? Lake Forest? Condell? Where are my car keys? I need my car keys.”
Her brother gripped her shoulders. “Jennifer, there were two doctors there when he collapsed. There was nothing that could be done. Jerry collapsed as we were walking down the hall to the locker rooms to get ready for our racquetball game. He suffered a massive heart attack. He died instantly.”
His words began to sink in. A sob ripped through her. “Don’t say that. Which hospital is he at?”
Peter shook her slightly, his own fear making his eyes almost black. “Heather is on her way. So is Pastor Kline. Don’t go to pieces on me, Jennifer. Think about Colleen.”
“God, you can’t do this!” The cry came from the back of her throat.
Peter held her tightly. “Jerry loved you. Don’t forget that honey.”
“Then how can he just leave?” Jennifer practically screamed. “If he loves me, he wouldn’t leave. He didn’t say goodbye, Peter.” Her voice dropped to a whimper. “He didn’t say goodbye.”
The tears began to flow unchecked. “Peter, he won’t get to see Colleen. What is my little girl going to do without a father?” The agony inside brought sobs to tear at her heart. “She won’t get to grow up around her father. More than anything in the world, Jerry wanted to rock his baby girl to sleep in that rocking chair he bought.”
Peter’s tears silently matched hers. “I know, Jennifer. I know.”
Jennifer told Scott some of the story. What she could put into words without breaking into tears.
Tell him about Colleen. The desire was there, but not the courage. She would not be able to co
ntrol the tears, and she did not want to cry in front of this man, not tonight.
“I felt…numb I guess is the best word. There were lots of people here that night. My brother and his wife. Friends from the church Jerry and I attended. Beth and her husband Les arrived late that night. I was tired by the time that evening came, it didn’t really sink in that Jerry was not coming home.”
Jennifer watched her finger trace along Scott’s arm following the pattern in his shirt. “Peter took care of the arrangements for me. He had gone through the details only the year before when our parents were killed.”
Scott carefully brushed away the hair from her face. “When did it begin to hit you, Jennifer, that Jerry was not coming back?”
“When I saw him in that casket.” Her voice broke. “We went early to have a private visitation before people began to come. It was the first time I had seen him since the morning when he left.” Jennifer wasn’t brave enough to tell him the rest. The last thing he said to me was “Take care of Colleen.” And he kissed me. Then he left with Peter.
She drew in a deep breath. “The funeral was rough. By that time I was exhausted, going through the motions. But not much of it really touched me. I don’t remember what the funeral service itself was like. I do remember the carnations and mums. I hate the smell of those flowers now,” she said intensely. And I was sick. The stress making my morning sickness return so strong I couldn’t keep anything down. The doctors wanted to admit me to the hospital, but I wouldn’t let them.
“The first night after everyone finally left, when the house was silent, I remember standing by the window. After an hour I realized what I was doing was waiting for Jerry to come home. I went to bed alone, and I lay watching the ceiling until it was time to get up again.” She gave a grim smile. “I didn’t think it was possible to cry for a month. I found out I was wrong.”
Scott’s arms tightened around her waist. Jennifer forced the story ahead a year, determined not to talk about the rest of it. “Once that first year was past, it got easier to come home to an empty house.”