Chapter 7 Mistakes Were Made #2
“So this”—he pointed at the house they were about to enter—“is the pool house, and that”—he pointed at its little sibling—“which contains pool-related infrastructure, is the shed.”
“Yes.” She looked at him with an expression so deadpan that it must have been meant in jest, but since he wasn’t 100 percent sure, he didn’t laugh or even smile. He wasn’t a smiler anyway.
“No code here,” she said, as she pushed open the pool house’s heavy wooden door. “At the moment, I mean. There is an alarm, but it isn’t armed. I don’t really keep anything valuable out here. But we can set it up for you. Don’t want anyone leaking any more pages.”
The very idea made him shudder.
She must have noticed. “I was just kidding.” She patted his arm. Her palm hit below his rolled-up sleeve, and her skin was cool, which should have been impossible because it was so warm here.
The pool house was nice inside, he had to admit.
They were standing in a tiled entryway that contained a bench and a bin filled with flip-flops and sunscreen and beach towels, and he could see the whole interior from this vantage point.
The kitchen had warm wooden countertops, a backsplash made of multicolored tiles, small stainless steel appliances, and a two-person bistro table.
The bed, which was covered with way too many pillows and a duvet that looked like it would be cozy in Minnesota in winter but suffocating here, looked to be a queen, but it would have to be mounted from the foot as it was tucked into an alcove that just accommodated it.
The main living space consisted of two small sofas facing each other on opposite sides of a wooden coffee table that looked kind of beat up, but he couldn’t tell if it was actually beat up or if it was merely made to look that way.
The cream floor tiles from the entryway continued through the whole space, but the living area was arranged atop the largest Persian rug he’d ever seen, which looked threadbare in a way that, again, might have been genuine or might have been artful.
There were blankets everywhere, slung over the backs of the sofas and folded on the foot of the bed.
The whole effect was very cozy. No minimalist expanses of white marble, which was what his mind filled in when he thought of LA interior design.
“I put a little desk over here,” she said as she opened a wall of curtains that hung over sliding glass doors that led to the pool, which glowed outside like a turquoise stone set in a sea of charcoal.
Centered on the doors—but leaving enough clearance to come and go through them—was a small rectangular worktable and an office chair that looked as fancy as his at home but would probably do nothing for his back.
There was even a small side table with a printer on it, which was above and beyond the call of duty.
He was pretty sure he’d mentioned once during their texting that he sometimes printed out chapters and read them.
But she hadn’t needed to subsidize his printing habit.
He reminded himself that she wasn’t. He was leaving tomorrow.
“I didn’t know if you’d want to look out at the pool,” Blair said. “If you don’t, there’s room for the desk on that wall”—she pointed—“if we scooch the sofas over a little. Are you the kind of person who likes to gaze at nature while writing or the kind of person who likes to write in a cocoon?”
“The desk is fine where it is.” Because, again, he wouldn’t be using it. And because he hoped agreement would yield an end to the guided tour.
“So you are the kind of person who likes to gaze out at something inspiring when you write.”
“That’s not…” He’d been going to tell her writing didn’t work like that, but the word cocoon was giving him pause.
He’d written his first novel in his old apartment, which hadn’t had much natural light.
Sometimes he had even put earplugs in. But was that actually a preference, or had he merely been leaning into his circumstances?
That building had been poorly soundproofed, and his immediate neighbors had had young kids whose main interests seemed to be shrieking and watching cartoons at top volume.
He had been replicating the cocoon with this second book, albeit not consciously, working almost exclusively in the small, dark interior den in his condo—and that had been going so well.
And the chunk of the summer he’d spent holed up in the remote woods of northern Minnesota had yielded very little of use.
Maybe he was a cocooner. But maybe he shouldn’t be, not only because it apparently wasn’t working this time around, but also because what in the hell was up with that flash, the vision of himself next to a pool?
“What?” she prompted, making him realize he’d trailed off awkwardly in his attempt to answer her question about his preferences for writing settings.
“I don’t actually know what I prefer.”
That answer seemed to cheer her. She crossed to the kitchen and gestured at the fridge.
“I stocked you up with a few essentials. We can make a grocery run tomorrow if you want different stuff. Or there’s a farmers market I sometimes hit on Saturdays.
Or I used to.” She paused. “I’m not sure if I’m the kind of person who likes going to farmers markets or the kind of person who finds them overly performative and would rather get her veggies delivered from the same store she gets her ultraprocessed protein bars that are really just candy bars with better marketing. ”
He barked a laugh—against his will. He didn’t want to be the kind of person who laughed so easily, but Blair could be funny. Strident but funny. It was an odd combination. And hey, apparently he could sympathize with not knowing what kind of person you were.
“There’s coffee here.” She gestured at a drip machine. “I probably should have gotten one of those single-brew machines with the pods. I hate the waste, though.” She made a silly face. “Said the woman who flew a private jet to DC three times last year.”
It was interesting how self-aware Blair was. Rich but self-aware. Strident but funny. She was a mass of qualities that should have contradicted each other.
“I’m not picky about coffee.” That was a lie. He definitely had his preferences. In his mind, there was a category called Coffee, and there was a category called Warm Caffeinated Liquid. He would settle for the latter. He just had to go into it not expecting Coffee.
“When it comes to coffee, maybe you’re not picky, but you’re gonna hate this.
” She opened a cupboard with an exaggerated flourish and extracted a giant lime-green mug with white polka dots.
She set it down on the counter and waved her arms game show hostess–style in front of the shelf from which she’d taken the mug.
It was home to several other porcelain monstrosities in different neon colors.
“Those are the worst of the worst,” Jack said, “because not only is the overall volume too great, they’re wide and shallow instead of just larger versions of normal mugs.”
“And that exposes more of the coffee to air, thus cooling it faster.”
He wasn’t sure if she was asking a question, but he said, “Yes.”
So tomorrow morning would feature Warm Caffeinated Liquid in the world’s worst-engineered mug. Fine. It was only one cup. LAX would have something decent.
“I’ll get out of your hair,” Blair said. “I can show you the main house tomorrow.” She paused halfway to the door. “Unless you want to come over for a drink?”
He did not want to go over for a drink. He wanted her to leave so he could figure out how to tell her he was bailing tomorrow. Or maybe he wouldn’t tell her. Ghosting was immature but efficient, and he had an established track record of being a dick to Blair, so he would only be playing to type.
“Thanks,” he said, “but I think I’ll wind down for the day.
I’m on central time, so I’m tired.” That was a lie.
Jack was a night owl. But he needed to be done with this conversation.
And he needed to put out feelers to find a place to stay when he got back to Minnesota, unless he wanted to try to oust his subletter.
“Right, right.” She hustled the rest of the way to the door as if she were in a race but then came to a full stop with her back to him and her palm on the handle.
She stood there long enough that he wondered if he was meant to say something.
Before he could figure it out, she turned, wearing an expression he could not parse.
It was almost but not quite one of bemusement.
A shade too knowing to be quizzical. He was still trying to puzzle through it when she said, “I’m glad you’re here, Jack Branksome. I hope you can find what you need.”
And then she was gone.
Which was what he’d wanted.
So why did he feel so unmoored?
I hope you can find what you need ? What did that mean? Why hadn’t she just said she hoped he could finish his book?
He shook his head. It was not his job to decode Blair Kellermoon.
He opened the Delta app on his phone and bought a flight.
He almost made it out the next morning.
“Jack!”
Damn it.
Could he do anything right? It was one thing to not be able to write his book, but apparently he couldn’t even ghost someone properly.
He shut his computer. At least he didn’t have his suitcase with him out here. He had decided to take his coffee outside and work in the sunshine until he had to leave for the airport. One hour of summer, he’d told himself, until he had to order an Uber.
One hour of living inside his vision. Of bucking the cocoon theory of novel writing.
Except, as per usual, he wasn’t actually writing.
Blair, accompanied by a beagle on a leash, was dressed like it was March in Minnesota, in a puffer vest over a tight-fitting, long-sleeved athletic-type shirt and yoga pants. Jack was wearing shorts and a T-shirt—part of his one-hour dose of summer.
The dog barked.