Chapter 25
Mitch woke early. So early it was still dark outside. He didn’t mind, because he’d actually slept. In the bed. For once, he felt human. He still wanted coffee. Still needed some. But he didn’t feel like it was going to take an entire pot to bring him to full consciousness.
He got out of bed, stretched, and dressed for a run. He’d have coffee and breakfast when he got back.
The house was dark, except for the soft light under the stove hood. He must have left it on when he’d made the hot milk and honey. He carried that cup to the kitchen sink but left the light on. Joyce would turn it off if she didn’t need it.
Earbuds in, podcast queued up, he left the house and walked down the driveway to the street, where he did a few stretches then broke into a gentle run. It was good to move his body. Good to breathe fresh air. He’d spent too much time on the couch lately. He needed this.
The sun rose as he ran, tinting everything with a soft pink light. Even the seagulls flying by looked pink. Jeanie would have loved such a morning.
As always, his heart ached with thoughts of her. He knew that nothing would ever take away that feeling. He would miss her until the day he died.
He also knew he wasn’t dealing with his grief in a very healthy way. He ought to care about that, but he didn’t.
What was the worst that could happen? He might shorten his own life? Didn’t seem like such a downside.
Maybe if Kyle was back in his life, things would be different, but he wasn’t, and they weren’t. Mitch had given up hope his son would respond to his most recent text. Or any text. He wasn’t a fool. He knew what the continuing silence meant. Kyle didn’t want his father in his life anymore.
He held Mitch responsible for his mother’s death.
Wasn’t true. But that didn’t matter. Kyle saw Mitch as part of what had happened to his mother and just like Mitch couldn’t get over Jeanie’s death, Kyle couldn’t stop blaming his father.
Life was hard and unfair and trying to pretend it was anything else was an idiot’s game.
He shook his head at the very idea. And while he loved Arlington and valued their friendship, the whole idea that someone else could help him was…a fairy tale.
Maybe in the made-up world of Hollywood, but not in real life. Not in Mitch’s life. No one could understand another person’s grief. It was too individual. Too personal. For someone to understand Mitch’s grief, they would have to understand his relationship with Jeanie.
And that defied description. Even for a man like him whose skillset was all about words. It would take years of writing, reams of paper, and vats of ink to scratch the surface of what she’d meant to him.
He rounded the bend and headed for home, resolving to listen to the podcast playing in his ears for the last half of his run.
And he did, until he slowed down to walk the length of his driveway. Lights were on in the house and the sky was bright with sun. The quiet stillness of predawn was gone. Several houses behind him, he could hear the churning of the trash truck coming to empty the bins neighbors had set out the night before.
Joyce had taken care of theirs. He should have done it. Trash was a man’s job. That was always his deal with Jeanie. He did whatever she needed him to do inside the house, but when it came to outside stuff, he handled it.
Trash, power-washing, mowing, minor repairs. In the early days of their marriage, he’d done it all and more. As he’d gotten more successful, he’d hired people to take care of a lot of those chores.
But taking out the trash was always his job.
He went inside. Joyce was in the dining nook right off the kitchen, using the table in there to fold clothes. “Morning.”
She had one of his T-shirts in her hands. She glanced over. “Good morning. Nice run?”
He nodded. “Fine, yes. Listen, about the trash—”
“I put it out last night.”
“I know you did. And thank you.”
Her brows went up as she went back to folding the shirt.
“But I should be doing that. It’s not your job.”
“Someone has to take it out.”
“They do. And that’s going to be me from now on.”
She pursed her lips. “You know what days pickup are?”
“Wednesday and Friday?”
“Tuesday and Friday for trash, Wednesday for recycling.”
“I can remember that.” He’d write it down as soon as he got into his office. In fact, he’d put it on the calendar, so he didn’t forget.
She finished folding the shirt and put it on top of his pile. “What’s brought this on?”
He shrugged, frowning. “Nothing. I’m just outside more than you anyway. Might as well do it.”
She nodded slowly. He knew that nod. It meant she didn’t believe him, but she was letting it go. “What would you like for breakfast then?”
“I need to shower first, but eggs would be fine. And coffee.” He checked the pot on the counter. It was full. He went over to pour himself a cup and take it in with him.
“Toast? Bacon?” She looked at him again. “I’ve got a little goat’s cheese I could scramble with the eggs and for the toast, there’s some of that good strawberry jam from the farmers market.”
He nodded, cup in hand. “Whatever you feel like making. I’m going to shower.”
That ended the conversation. He went into the bedroom, grabbed a change of clothing for the day, just his usual uniform of jeans and a T-shirt, and went into the bathroom.
He was quick today, even though the hot water felt good. He wanted to get to work. See if he could come up with an opening for the new book. He felt oddly optimistic. No, not exactly optimistic. But less pessimistic than usual. It felt like something he needed to act on.
When he returned to the kitchen with his empty cup, hair still damp, feet bare, Joyce was just slipping an omelet onto a plate next to two slices of bacon. The deep yellow omelet was flecked with bits of green. Chives or parsley, he wasn’t sure.
Bread popped up from the toaster. She set the plate down and got his toast, putting it on a second, smaller plate and buttering it. Then she carried both to the table, which had been cleared of laundry. A placemat sat waiting, accessorized by a napkin, fork, and knife. A pot of strawberry jam wearing a homemade label sat nearby, along with salt and pepper.
She returned to get the coffee. “Refill?”
He nodded, unsure what he’d done to deserve the spread or the extra service. It couldn’t just be offering to take out the trash. Could it? He stood there, slightly frozen by the change.
She refilled his cup, then returned the carafe to the warmer. “Sit. Eat. Before it gets cold. I’m off to the market soon. I’ll check the post office box, too. Need anything?”
He hadn’t moved from where he was standing. He snapped out of his disbelief and shook his head. “Nothing I can think of.”
“Fish for dinner tonight. Not sure what kind. Need to see what’s fresh.”
“Okay.” He moved to the table and sat, putting his cup down. The view from the kitchen table was one of Jeanie’s favorites. Blue above and below with touches of green. “Thank you,” he called out as Joyce headed down the steps.
“You’re welcome,” she called back. There was a smile in her voice.
He frowned. She was up to something. That’s what all of this was about. He didn’t know what she was planning, but he wanted none of it. She’d schemed a few times before. Once trying to get him to go to a grief-share meeting at her church. Another time, she’d invited a woman over, also from her church.
A woman about his age, single, and new to the area.
Like he was even remotely interested.
He spread jam on the toast before cutting into the omelet with his fork. Between the layers of perfectly cooked egg was a thin smear of goat cheese and a sprinkle of spring onion. It was one of his favorite omelets and she hadn’t made it in ages. Not that he’d asked.
She was definitely up to something.
He ate, devouring the meal and downing his second cup of coffee. He cleaned up, putting the dishes in the dishwasher and wiping off the table. The less she had to do for him, the better. He refilled his cup and retreated to his office, closing the door so she’d know not to disturb him.
Today was the day he broke the seal on the new book. Didn’t matter if the opening was subpar, he was writing something. Even crap was better than a blank page. It had to be. This was getting ridiculous.
Setting his coffee down, he opened his laptop and logged in. He checked his email first, as always.
Not surprisingly, there was a message from Lucinda, asking when he was going to sign the Netflix contract.
He sighed. What was he waiting for? He knew the answer to that. He wanted to be sure he actually had another book in him before he signed it, but did that matter? Netflix was doing their own thing with the books anyway, so what if the new book wasn’t any good? His publisher could always hire a ghost to fix it.
He swallowed. No, they couldn’t. That would not be okay with him. Not just because it would be a blow to his ego and damaging to his career, but because it would mean his career was over.
Had he really reached that point?
He scratched the back of his neck. He wasn’t ready to concede things had gotten that bad. Besides, today would be different. Today he would dig his way past this block and get real work done.
He had to.
He typed out a short response to her. End of the week. Promise.
He hesitated, deleted the word “promise,” then hit Send.
With that done, he returned to the blank page that had been tormenting him for longer than he cared to think about. He had his legal pad of notes and ideas next to him. Maybe he should read through those again and see if anything jumpstarted the creative process.
Or was that procrastinating?
He shook his head. He was already overthinking all of this. He started writing, reminding himself it didn’t matter if it was lackluster. It was words on the page and those could be fixed, but he had to start with something.
Readers expected a big opening. Something interesting and impactful. Something that grabbed them and told them something exciting was going to happen.
He had none of that, so he did the next best thing. He lied and hoped he could figure it out later.
Charlie Nightingale drew the dagger from her boot and crouched, ready to strike at whoever was knocking at her door. Visitors were fine. But not when the stench of death arrived ahead of them.
He sat back and read what he’d written. He had no idea where this was going but it was at least interesting. That was good. That was really good. He nodded at the screen, his fingers poised to type the next sentence. He thought for a moment. He really had no idea what happened next. Might as well wing it and find out.
Sinister tendrils of black smoke curled under the door, reaching for Charlie. She inched back and bumped into—
The doorbell rang. He frowned and growled out a sigh as his train of thought derailed. “You have got to be kidding me.” Maybe Joyce had forgotten something? No, that wasn’t like her. She wouldn’t ring the doorbell. Had to be a delivery. And of course, this was the exact moment it had to show up.
He shoved his chair back and stomped downstairs to see what was so important that his brief moment of creativity had been interrupted.
He opened the door and found his next-door neighbor, smiling at him and holding a small, empty glass container. The very woman Arlington thought could help Mitch. Talk about proving Arlington wrong. “I’m writing. What do you want? It had better be important.”
Her smile faltered. “I was dropping this off. I was hoping to talk to Joyce.”
He took the container from her outstretched hands. “She’s not here. I’ll tell her you came by.” He started to close the door.
“Wait. Please.”
With a sigh, he opened the door. “What?”
“I’m sorry for disturbing you. I thought coming over early would be better than in the middle of the day. Obviously, I was wrong. I apologize. I’m sorry, too, that we got off on the wrong foot for whatever reason. I know you don’t like me. Can I ask what I did to make you feel that way?”
He stared at her, caught off guard by her calm apology and straightforward question. He took a breath and tried to think. “I don’t like anyone.”
She nodded. “I can understand that. People aren’t always great, are they?”
“No,” he was forced to admit.
“Well, I don’t want to bother you. I just really wanted to say that I’d be happy to start over. No need for things to be uncomfortable between us, seeing as how we’re neighbors, at least temporarily.” She smiled again. “I’m not going to fangirl all over you or ask you to sign a book or anything like that, but I do enjoy your work, so thanks for that. It’s given me many hours of enjoyment.”
He nodded and mumbled, “You’re welcome.” Then he reminded himself this was the woman who’d talked Arlington into doing the show. Harper something. He could at least be civil. “Would you, uh, like to come in? Joyce should be back soon.”
Actually, he had no idea when Joyce would be back. Or why he’d just invited in a reason not to go back to his book.