CHAPTER 5
Nina
“It’s coming along. Just a few more chapters, I think, and maybe a round or two of edits?
” I cross my fingers as I speak into the phone and look out my bedroom window at the scene of my recent mortification.
No honking huge fireman to save and arouse me today.
Nope, just the promise that if I leave my tiny home to shop for something useful, like food, I’m certain to meet with someone who will have seen… something.
I’m so not in the mood for infamy, at least, not more than I usually garner.
I’m already notorious for writing dark vampire romance.
But the truth is, I may be everyone’s conversation over a cup of coffee today, not only for getting stuck in the tree and mooning half of Mossburg, but also for the way the town’s favorite fireman fingered me into orgasm.
Did anyone other than Mari see and understand what was going on?
I hope not, but it’s a small town. People always seem to know everything. Somehow.
“Look, Nina, I can set you up with a writing therapist I know. You’ll have to go to Charlotte, but Casey is great with writer’s block. Uses hypnosis, you know?”
I turn from the window and throw myself back into the conversation I’m having with my agent. I resume pacing back and forth over my pink flowered rug that complements, but doesn’t match, the one in the living room.
Always complement, my mother used to tell me. Matching is for trailers.
It’s the only advice I ever took from her.
Not that it matters. Since I’m single, I get to decorate any way I want.
If I want princess and girlie, that’s what I get.
Besides, it’s not like any guy has seen the inside of my upstairs in over a year, unless I count nine-year-old Nicholas.
He spends a lot of time in my guest room, where I write, playing weird video games in which he builds cities out of squares.
Mr. Mittens enjoys sitting with him on the bed while he plays, which is a win for me, since otherwise the cat would be crouched on my laptop, preventing me from typing reasonable sentences.
“I don’t have writer’s block,” I deny, swinging back into the conversation.
Not a lie. I don’t have writer’s block. I have writer’s Berlin Wall.
I’ve been on the first page of my current manuscript for three weeks, and I still have no idea how to get Darius to fall for Clove before the battle of Dunleaven wipes out the village in upstate New York where my series is set.
The Dunleaven Vampires wrote themselves for the first six books.
Number seven, though… I just can’t bring myself to care.
That’s the problem. I don’t care. About anything, really. And I don’t know how I got to this place at twenty-seven, but I doubt a few therapy sessions are going to set me in the right direction. I need… something more. I just don’t know what.
Maybe you should live your own life for a while and stop writing about other people’s.
Stupid interior voice. What does it know?
By the time I’ve hung up on Gloria, my agent, and won The Nobel Prize for Excellence in Lying, I’m ready for a nap.
The problem is, I don’t have time to shut down.
I promised to babysit Nicholas, and that means I need pineapple ice cream, his favorite treat.
The specialty store in town sells it by the pint, but since it’s there and I’m here, I’ll have to get my ass out the door.
Which seems a little too much to demand of me, given the day I had yesterday, not to mention the call I just had with my agent. I look at the blank pieces of paper on my printer. No printed first chapter waits for my examination.
This is bad. Pineapple ice cream delivery bad.
“What do you think, Mr. Mittens? Should we order from Chase?”
Mr. Mittens is voluble in his indifferent silence, though he’ll change his mind once I add a tablespoon of the treat to his dish. Then, he’ll be full of opinions.
Fine. It might be an unnecessary expense when I could just walk to the market, but I deserve a treat for…
well, for something. Without further hesitation, I ring up Chase’s Fetch and Flurry, our town’s local version of restaurant delivery service, and get Chase’s mom.
“Hey, Minnie, it’s Nina. Can you ask Chase to get me three pints of pineapple ice cream from Dickerson’s?
Oh, and a bottle of unsweet?” What the heck.
I’ve got to pay the flat five-dollar delivery charge no matter what I order.
Might as well make it worth my while. Sure, I could brew unsweetened tea myself and stick it in the fridge, but why bother when Chase is already delivering?
“Sure thing, doll. Give him ten minutes. Chase! Get your butt in here. Delivery to Miss Adams.” Minnie is yelling even before she hangs up the phone, which is the best thing about Chase’s Fetch and Flurry—they don’t keep you waiting like some other services I could name.
After rifling through my wallet, I extract an approximate sum (which is pretty close, since I know the prices by heart down at Dickerson’s) with a hefty tip.
I tuck the money under the front mat before I scoot across the tiny postage stamp lawn to the equally small postage stamp lawn next door.
Knocking twice and calling out as I enter, I find Nicholas excitedly trying to catch his mother’s attention in the back kitchen.
Mari, meanwhile, is putting on mascara, taking a lasagna out of the freezer, setting it on the stove to defrost, and clearing up dishes from lunch. All. At. Once. And gracefully, too.
A despondent feeling settles into my heart.
I’m never going to be able to do what she does.
Even if there’s some magical, mystical event that allows me to get married and have a child, I’m never going to be able to multitask and look effortless while doing so.
I can barely sit at my computer, type a linear story, and drink coffee.
“What’s up, Nina? Why so glum? Don’t tell me you can’t take Nicholas?” An edge of panic rounds Mari’s tone as she turns to me, plates still in hand, mascara wand to eyelashes.
“Easy,” I say, rushing over to take the plates so she won’t poke out her eye by mistake when she drops them. “No, I can take him. Of course I can. I know this job is important to you.”
“Ever since Mike left, things have been hard. Even in this town with all the support, you know? But this job could change all that.” She’s interviewing for the secretary’s position at the Board of Education.
Getting it would mean she could work without worrying about weird hours or who’ll babysit Nicholas, which I can do sometimes, but not every day.
“Listen, don’t worry about it. I’ve got him.”
It’s only as her chest sags with relief that I realize Nicholas is still trying to get her attention. He’s waving wildly and talking about a zillion miles an hour.
“What?” we both demand at the same time.
Nicholas huffs. “It’s Sampson Dean. He’s at the hospital because he tackled a tree and hugged it too hard!”
“Where did you hear that?” Mari asks.
“Mr. Biedermeier told me while he was walking Poopsie past the front steps, where I was drawing airplanes with chalk. He said it’s the talk of the town.”
Mari and I exchange glances. I don’t know if my eyes are as wide as hers, but probably. Mr. Biedermeier is a lawyer. He always knows what’s going on.
“Go to your interview. I’ll take Nicholas to the hospital. That’s what you’re yelling for, right, Nicholas? You want to go see him and make sure that he’s okay?”
Nicholas nods. “Finally.”
Ten minutes later, after I’ve put on shoes and placed the ice cream in the freezer, Nicholas and I walk to the hospital, hand in hand.
I was born in the Piedmont, the flat, populated area of North Carolina.
I never would have taken a child to the local hospitals there, but our Mossburg center of healing is a different kind of place.
First, all the infectious diseases are lodged in their own wing, separated by a double set of double doors that are regularly sprayed with disinfectant.
We take our health seriously here. Second…
well, see first. Kids are generally encouraged to volunteer in the children’s ward as playmates to those who are suffering, so long as it’s not in the infectious wing.
It builds compassion in healthy kids and brings joy to the ones who are suffering.
For that reason, I don’t hesitate to take Nicholas, especially since Mari brings him to volunteer all the time.
We slip into line once we cross the lobby doors.
Looks like the whole town is here to see about Sampson and his condition.
We’re halfway to the counter when Pete Nerodu sidles up beside me.
“Hey, Nina. Nicholas. Nina, look, would it be a problem if we postponed dinner tonight? I know it’s late notice, but…”
“Yes, of course.” I interrupt him, trying to hold in my sigh of relief. “You’ve got your hands full here. How is he, anyway?”
“Sammy’s a fighter. Always has been. He’ll be okay.
” But Pete doesn’t sound certain. “Darla’s beside herself, of course.
She worries about him in general, as do all the wives.
He’s such a great guy. He really deserves to be with someone special.
There are only so many care packages the women can send him, you know?
They want to see him married, with someone to comfort him full-time.
” He shrugs. “Guess it’s a maternal thing. ”
“Mmm.” The best way to patently ignore his broad hints is to make a non-committal response.
But before I can question him more fully on Sampson’s condition, a doctor comes out from behind the sealed doors. Instantly, he’s mobbed by concerned citizens. Pete touches my arm before moving off with the mob.