“Wow, this is amazing, Dale.”
“I don’t know why you won’t give me the recipe,” said Rosie, after taking a bite of hers.
“Sorry, darling, you know I promised my mother on her deathbed to keep it secret. Anything else you are welcome to.”
“I got my gooseberry pie recipe from Dale,” she explained.
“Really? I’m impressed!”
“Oh stop it,” Dale said, but he looked immensely pleased.
A few weeks later, Graham and Dale left on their trip, and I settled into the house. I was grateful to be out of the motel, and Apple was great company. When the weather was good, I took her for walks around the lake where we fed the ducks leftover bread and chatted with the locals. I often came across a lady with a German shepherd who recommended a good coffee shop just minutes away.
Spending time with the antiques turned out to be an unexpected joy. There was an assortment of furniture in the shed—tables, chairs, side cabinets, and writing desks that were old and tired, covered in dirt and dust. Dale and Graham had shown me how to bring them to life again using stiff brushes, old rags, and oil. The transformation was astonishing, and every new piece of furniture I worked on gave me a sense of pride and satisfaction.
Some days I stayed in working on my book of short stories, stopping every so often to admire the view. On the mantelpiece above the fire, I had put the snow globe Rad gave me that night at Blues Point Park. I often wished I could call him up and tell him I had made it to my little mountain town, that outside my window I could see mountains capped in snow, and that I was writing the book I had always wanted to write.
The isolation made me miss home, but I kept in regular contact with Lucy, who was anxious to know every detail about my new life. I never asked her about Rad, even though I wanted to, and she was careful to avoid the topic.
One morning, I logged onto my e-mail and saw Angie’s name in my inbox. Since graduation, we had written to each other every now and then, but it had been ages since I last heard from him. I clicked it open.
Hello old friend!
It’s been a while. New York is fab, as you know. I’m in my element here.
Couple months back I officially became a junior agent at Annie Otto. Turns out my cousin Cecelia married a publishing magnate and he recommended me when a position opened up in their NY office. So here I am!
Anyway, I was chatting to one of my colleagues, and you know, novellas are coming back into fashion. So are short stories, and would you believe it (gasp) poetry. Apparently the kids today are into speed reading. I blame Twitter.
I thought of you right away, and an idea came to me. Sam tells me you’re in Colorado working on a book. Would you consider having me rep you? I’d love to peddle a book of your short stories. The one about the bookcase still haunts my dreams at night. I think you would be a real hit.
Thoughts?
Lots of love, Angie. xx
I grinned. I was thrilled for Angie. Annie Otto was one of the best literary agents in the world. I wrote back and accepted his offer.
The next day I got to work. I sat down with my pen and notepad and spent the morning brainstorming ideas. After lunch, I began tapping away on my laptop. Hours later, I looked up at the clock and was surprised to see it was well past dinner. It had been a dreary day, so I barely noticed how dark it had gotten. I stretched my arms and got up, my legs numb from sitting for so long, then went to fix myself a quick dinner. I was pleased with the work I had done, and I fell asleep that night with a feeling of satisfaction. I wondered if it was like this for Rad when he was writing his book. I found myself wishing I could share my experience with him.
I jumped out of bed the next morning, eager to get back to my writing. I made myself a cup of coffee before going over all the work I’d done the previous day. It was awful. The writing was all over the place. The ideas were good, but I couldn’t seem to bring them to life. I let out a groan of disappointment. What the hell was wrong with me? Why couldn’t I get the stories down when I could see them so vividly in my head? But I couldn’t give up now, not when I had a real shot at getting my work published. With a sigh, I shut the lid of my laptop and went back to the drawing board.
Days later, I was at Rosie’s with a mug of coffee and a caramel slice. I had my laptop open in front of me, and I was staring sullenly at the screen.
“Everything okay, sweetheart?” Rosie asked, stopping by my booth.
I looked up at her and sighed. “I don’t know, Rosie. Ever since Angie wrote to me, I can’t seem to get myself together. I think the possibility of getting published has spooked me. Whenever I write anything, I think it’s amazing—brilliant. Then the next day when I go over my work, I hate it. With a passion.”
“The one you wrote about the bookshelf is pure genius.”
“I know, but this is Annie Otto, after all. Every story I write has to be as good as that one, if not better. Angie says I’ll need seven to eight pieces. So far, I’ve written only a couple I’m happy with.”
She smiled at me. “Just give it some time, Audrey. I’m sure you’ll work it out.”
One day, the weather was exceptionally good. The sky was a dreamy blue, and I didn’t feel like staying in. I called Rosie, who had the day off, and she agreed to meet at the Creamery Arts Center, where the locals held a market every third Sunday.
I arrived there a little earlier than planned, so I strolled through the busy park where a number of stalls were set up in white tents. A cold wind hit me from nowhere, and I shivered, zipping up my anorak and pulling my wine-colored beanie snugly over my ears. I was kicking myself for not putting on my gloves before I left that morning. My hands were freezing, and I stuck them in my pockets.
I stopped to admire the bronze statue of dancing elephants when I heard Rosie call out my name.
“Hi, you!” I said, giving her a quick hug.
“Hey! I’m early.”
“So am I!”
We laughed.
“How about these elephants, huh?” I said.
“Aren’t they beautiful?” Rosie remarked.
I nodded. “They look almost alive. Who’s the artist?”
“Jim Agius. His sculptures are just wonderful.”
We began our leisurely stroll around the markets, stopping every now and then to admire the wares put out by the locals. Several of the stalls sold handmade jewelry and assorted metalwork. From candelabras to photo frames to pickaxes—it was a mixed bag. There were also cakes, pies, and other baked goods. The aroma that drifted from those stalls made me feel suddenly hungry, and I decided I would take something back with me on the way home.
Up ahead, I spotted an old-fashioned cart selling chestnuts.
“Hey, it’s been ages since I’ve had chestnuts,” I said to Rosie. “I love them.”
“Oh, looks like Gabe’s manning the stall today. You see that tall, gorgeous black dude standing behind the cart?”
I followed her gaze to where a man in his early twenties was handing an elderly couple a bag of chestnuts.
“Why don’t you grab us a bag?” she suggested. “I’ll pick us up some coffees, and we’ll have ourselves a little picnic.”
“Sure. I’ll meet you by the dancing elephants?”
“Perfect. Make sure you tell Gabe I said hi.”
As I approached the cart, Gabe looked up, his eyes locking on to mine.
“Hi,” he said with a warm smile. His eyes were iridescent—like the changing of seasons, a myriad of brown hues married with golden flecks of light. He had angular cheekbones, a shadow of a beard, and a dark blue beanie pulled over his closely cropped hair.
“Hi,” I replied.
“Would you like some chestnuts? It’s five dollars a bag.”