19. Jessica
August, Present Day
Maple Ridge
The dayafter my visit with Anne, I leave the office for lunch and go for a bike ride. Soon, I’m on the outskirts of town…and before I know it, I arrive at Garrett’s house.
I didn’t intend to come here, but ever since last night, when I decided to write a novel, I haven’t been able to think of much else.
“Sit,” I instruct Bailey. She parks her butt on Garrett’s front stoop, and I reward her with a treat. The metal loop on the back of her Service Dog in Training vest, where the leash is attached, glints in the sunlight.
The house is nothing like I would expect for a multiple New York Times bestselling author. It’s smaller than I imagined, but the bungalow is also larger than my home and more spread out.
And secluded…but that’s mostly due to the size of his property. There’s a considerable amount of space between his house and the neighbor’s. The tall hedges and trees, the shrubbery and blossoming rock gardens, the brick path leading to the backyard, all of it fills the sizable front yard and adds to the secluded ambience.
I have no idea if Garrett is home. I’m hoping he is. I biked all this way and he doesn’t exactly live close to the main part of Maple Ridge. As it is, I won’t have much time before Bailey and I have to return to work.
I probably should have phoned first.
I press Garrett’s doorbell and wait for him to answer, but there’s no sound from inside.
I really should have phoned first.
Troy and Zara have mentioned that Garrett is a morning person. He gets up at five thirty so he can get in a heavy word count before lunch. If that’s true, he’s been writing for over five hours.
The front door is flung open, and a series of emotions flickers in Garrett’s expression, ending with a smile that unfurls across his face. “Hey, Jess. Bailey.” He looks behind me. “What are you doing here? Where’s Troy?”
“At a worksite. I’m on my lunch break and wanted to talk to you about what books you recommend for writing a novel.” I figure that shouldn’t take too long.
I could have waited a few more days to ask him, but I’m dying to start work on the novel.
“You biked here?” The widening of Garrett’s eyes tells me he recognizes that wasn’t easy for me, especially in the growing heat of the day. But if this were San Diego, it would be a helluva lot hotter than this. Of course, the terrain would have been flatter, so there’s always that.
“I did.”
He opens the door wider. “C’mon in. Does Troy know you’re here?”
“No. Not that it’s a secret,” I rush out, even though in a way it is. I told Troy last night—while we were lying in bed, happily sated after several orgasms—that I had decided to resume writing my novel. He was supportive of the idea, which came as no surprise. But what I’m planning to write is a secret—even from Garrett.
He leads me through his house—that screams bachelor with its masculine interior—and onto the back porch.
“Wow, you did all of this?” I wave my hand at the lush garden. There’s not much by the way of a lawn. Brick pathways meander around various flowerbeds, bushes, and trees. The place makes me think of the enchanted woods in a fairy tale.
“Yup. This garden has gotten me through many a rough time while writing.”
God, if my garden looked like this, I would never leave it.
An image flickers in my head of Amelia playing hide-and-seek here and giggling while trying to stay hidden from me.
I push the image away. First things first. I still need to convince Grace and Craig to let me be part of her life once again.
“Have a seat.” Garrett points to the small wrought-iron table and chairs on his patio. A laptop sits on the glass tabletop. “I’ll be right back.”
He closes the laptop and takes it into the house. When he returns, he’s carrying a tray with drinks and two bowls of kuku paka and rice.
I grin, biting on my lip to keep from laughing. “You bought your lunch from Picnic and Treats?” I recognize the delicious food and the equally delicious smell.
“Yup. I haven’t convinced Zara yet to make some for me on a regular basis to stash in the freezer. Apparently, our friendship only goes so far.” He lifts his shoulders in a What-can-you-do? shrug.
I snort a laugh, which then shifts to a giggle.
Garrett hands me a bowl and a large glass of water. “I’ll give you a ride to work after lunch. Troy can pick up your bike and trailer once he’s finished at the worksite.”
I gulp some of the much-needed water. “You don’t have to do that.” I don’t want to be a bother; he has work to do.
Garrett sits on the other seat. “Don’t worry about it, Jess. I’m happy to give you and Bailey a ride. So, you’re back to writing your thriller? How’s the plotting going?”
“Um, good. Except…I haven’t actually started to write or plot anything. I only said I was writing a thriller because it seemed like a good explanation for why I moved to Maple Ridge when Delores asked me.”
“And now you’re writing one for real?”
“Yeah.” Close enough. Both the historical novels and Garrett’s political thrillers I’ve read have several things in common—the main one being the page-turning suspense. And both require research. Lots and lots of glorious research. Some of which I began with my sudden interest in World War II nonfiction books.
“Which thriller subgenre are you looking at writing?”
“I’m not sure what ones there are. I guess that’s the first thing I’ll need to do…read more in the subgenre I plan to write in.” I’ve been mostly reading historical fiction since I was released from Beckley, so I’m doing well with that requirement.
“Well, with subgenres, you have psychological, legal, and medical thrillers.” Garrett lists a bunch more. “And there’s romantic thrillers and romantic suspense.”
I dig my fork into the rice. “What’s the difference between a romantic thriller and romantic suspense?” I ask, genuinely curious.
“In romantic suspense, the danger or intrigue involves the protagonist or other central characters. With romantic thrillers, the danger or intrigue deals with something on a larger scope. Like stopping a serial killer who marries unsuspecting women and kills them.”
I huff out a laugh. “That sounds romantic. How do you even know that?”
“Writer conferences. And I know a few authors in those subgenres.”
If Garrett had mentioned these two subgenres five months ago, I would have laughed him off. Romance of any sort was not in my future. But Troy has changed that. And given that I’m writing about Iris’s time in occupied France, I need to get past my previous hang-up over reading romances. What Johann did for Iris has to be one of the most romantic things I’ve ever heard of. Talk about a grand gesture.
I mentally add Read a few forbidden romances to my to-do list. Can’t get more forbidden than what happened between Angelique and Johann. “What other subgenres are there?”
“Spy thrillers, which can also fall under the category of romantic thrillers. And there are also historical thrillers. Like Titanic.”
That gets my attention. What happened between Rose and Jack was definitely a wrong-side-of-the-tracks forbidden romance. “I might write historical. I’ll have to think about it. I have no interest in writing a romantic thriller, but there will be a romantic subplot.” I pop a forkful of chicken in my mouth and chew on it. “Do you usually write outside?” I ask, referring to his laptop being on the patio table when I arrived.
“It depends. When it’s nice out, I’ll write outside, but not necessarily here. I’ve been known to hike to one of my favorite spots and write there for a few hours.”
Oh, that sounds nice. Between Troy overextending himself with the festival, the Warriors weekends, and his day job, he hasn’t been able to take me hiking for the past few months. But if I were to try what Garrett does, by the time I made it to the top of the mountain, I’d be too tired to write. Plus, my healing ribs might be a little bitchy if I tried hiking right now.
“What about in public places like Picnic and Treats? I know some authors enjoy hanging out in coffee shops to write.”
Garrett picks up his water. “The only time I’ve done that was when I was there to people-watch for character ideas and mannerisms. I don’t do that now because people tend to recognize me and want to talk about whatever book I’m writing.”
“Or give you feedback on one of your novels,” I say, remembering what he told me when I first met him.
“Exactly. Nothing is more satisfying to a political thriller author than having someone come up and complain there’re not enough steamy scenes in your books.” Garrett rolls his eyes, and I laugh.
“Yes, I can imagine that would be annoying,” I reply, still chuckling. “Your books aren’t exactly known for the steamy parts.” Understatement of the year.
After we finish eating lunch, Garrett takes me into his office, which overlooks the backyard. The room makes me think of a gentlemen’s club from the turn of last century. The walls are hunter green and covered with dark-wood bookshelves with a few antique globes scattered throughout.
“This place looks like something from an old movie.” I run my fingers along the leather wingback chair near the window.
“Zara loves to make fun of it being my man cave. I don’t usually let women in.”
I flash him a grin. “I’m honored to be an exception to the rule.” I walk to the bookshelves. He has hardback copies of his books, but there are also plenty of hardback editions from other authors whose names I vaguely recognize.
On one shelf is a framed photo of Garrett, Zara, and another woman, whose skin is a shade darker than Zara’s copper-brown skin. The photo looks like it was taken over ten years ago, and all three of them are smiling at the camera. Zara’s hair is pulled up with a scarf. The other woman’s hair is a medium length Afro. She’s gorgeous.
“Who’s that?” I point to the photo.
“You mean Kenda? She was my college girlfriend and one of Zara’s close friends.”
“Does she live in Maple Ridge?”
“No. I don’t actually know where she is now. I haven’t heard from her in a few years. She has a journalism degree and had planned to make her mark on the world with it. And to travel.”
“Is that why you broke up?” Zara has never mentioned her.
I’m assuming they broke up. Maybe she died. Crap. Hopefully I didn’t just pour vinegar on an old wound.
“Partly. She had ambitions that didn’t involve settling down any time soon. And I was going into the Marines. So it made sense to end things.” He begins pulling books from a different shelf. I get the feeling there’s more to the story, but I don’t push for additional details. It’s not my place to ask. Besides, I’m writing about Angelique and Johann’s love life, not Garrett’s.
“With your journalism background, your prose and ability to do research is already strong.” He slips another book off the shelf. “But as you’ll soon find out, writing a novel is very different from writing an article for a newspaper.”
Two more books are extracted and added to the growing pile in Garrett’s arms. With each book he pulls out, more panic sets in.
Will this be like what happened with the wedding photography? Something that sounded like a good idea at the time but in the end didn’t put me any closer to figuring out who I am than when I was released from Beckley?
It didn’t put me any closer to getting Amelia back in my life.
And it didn’t put me any closer to untangling my feelings for Troy.