Chapter 5
Chapter Five
Snow is a rare and beautiful phenomenon.
Socializing is my middle name.
Don’t forget the pepper spray.
Lew Elliot’s cottage was tucked into the north shore along the lake at Devil’s State Park, about an hour’s drive from Madison.
Otis bellowed alongside Cher, drumming his fingers on the steering wheel.
His devotion to the artist, according to him, had absolutely nothing to do with his massive crush on a drag performer known for doing the Shoop Shoop Song in a mermaid tail.
“Isn’t this amazing? It’s like the universe is finally listening to us. You’ll win the competition and become a billionaire, and I’ll play Frank-N-Furter and sleep with the entire cast of Rocky Horror. You are coming to the first rehearsal, right?”
“First of all, you have a wild misconception of how much writers make,” I said, eyes trained on the road. “Second, you in a corset? I wouldn’t miss it for the world.”
“Good,” he sighed dramatically. “Because you have to run lines with me.”
When Otis broke into Sweet Transvestite during auditions, I may have cried.
Okay. I did cry. It shocked no one when he got the role—he showed up in full face and sounded like a horny angel, sultry and soaring.
One of the other actors threw a tantrum after being offered Transylvanian #4.
I sat in the third row in an Otis T-shirt and a ridiculous clapping hat—burned later on his request after we celebrated at Garland’s.
My best friend was going places. I knew it in my bones.
But right then, I could’ve used a dose of his poise and self-confidence.
“Just promise me you’ll be nice to people,” he said.
I tore my gaze from the shifting scenery as urban grey gave way to thick forest.
“Hey! I am nice.”
Otis snorted. “You’re nice to me. And probably only because I share my wardrobe with you.”
Snow began to fall—fat flakes hitting the windshield like drops of white paint. It was definitely colder up here. Winter had taken over.
“I share my wardrobe with you,” I countered. “Remember my Bowie shirt that now fits me like a nightgown?”
Otis flipped an imaginary lock of hair over his shoulder. “Well, it got me laid. Sometimes you have to pay a little to live a little.”
We drove up a narrow mountain road. I cracked the window open, breathing in the crisp air. I loved snow. In the city it never stuck— just turned into roadside slush.
“My nips are turning into raisins. Would you mind?”
I sighed and rolled the window back up. A few flakes had landed on my leopard coat. I smushed one with my fingertip, turning it into a cold little puddle.
“You’re the only person worth being nice to,” I said softly.
He didn’t answer, but I caught the edge of a smile. I glanced at the navigation—the blue line almost reaching the red dot. I opened the itinerary on my phone again.
Social events.
I grimaced and scrolled fast to the bottom. No way was I wasting this trip on philosophical debates over wine and cheese.
“Don’t you dare have fun without me,” Otis warned.
“That would be against all laws of nature.” I closed the agenda and shifted in my seat, panic bubbling in my chest.
Otis laid a hand on my jittering knee. “You got this. No one knows more about Lew Elliot than you do.” He leaned back, refocusing on the road. “Everyone else actually has a life.”
“Otis, you’re awful,” I snorted, but it broke the tension. “I think we’re here.”
Up ahead, a slanted shingled roof peeked out from behind tall pines. The house sat at the end of a narrow drive, up moss-covered stone steps.
Otis parked and reached for his seatbelt, but I put a hand on his.
“I got it from here, tiger.”
He sighed. “Good. I was faking it anyway. Don’t fancy getting my boots all mucky with forest-yuck.”
“You literally put mud on your face,” I said, grabbing my thrifted leather duffel from the back seat.
Otis scrunched up his nose. “That was Australian pink clay, thank you very much.”
“You take good care of Skye’s.”
“Always do.”
I opened the door and he shoved something into my hand. Pepper spray.
“Just in case this is all a scam to murder you and harvest your organs. Cheerio,” he chirped, and drove off.
I gathered what was left of my courage and climbed the slick stone steps. Snow blanketed the mossy forest floor like powdered sugar.
The wooden house had two stories and a wraparound terrace beneath a low-hanging roof. Deck chairs huddled in a semicircle beneath the overhang. A damp fireplace was covered with branches. There was movement inside. I dropped my duffel at the front door and double-checked the address.
Judging by the cars outside, I wasn’t the last to arrive. I craned my neck toward the massive window that formed the center of the house—it stretched all the way up to the peak of the roof. Honestly? It looked kind of fancy. Was that… a hot tub?
Rolling my neck and cracking my knuckles, I inhaled the crisp, loamy air to brace myself.
Which was a mistake.
These lungs were not made for mountain air. And my occasional nicotine habit wasn’t helping.
A coughing fit later, the door opened.
A blonde woman—early twenties, maybe—with long, wavy hair and a sweeping hourglass figure smiled at me.
At first. Then the corners of her mouth dropped as she took me in.
I shoved my chipped nails into my pockets, suddenly self-conscious about the rips in my black jeans and the scuff marks on my Docs.
Her smile returned just as quickly, though a little less brightly this time.
“Hello, I’m Elaine,” she said, her voice wrapped in a sultry French-Canadian accent. “You must be number four.”
“Yes. Yeah.” I shuffled awkwardly. “I’m Nora. Writer number four. Four of the five. In the competition. Together. Yay, us.”
Word vomit. It was painfully obvious I didn’t get out much.
Elaine studied me with an odd expression, like she was trying to figure out if someone had made a mistake inviting me.
“We’re just getting settled,” she said, gesturing me inside with a graceful flick of her hand.
The cottage’s interior was… something.
My boots left a wet trail on the polished oak floors.
Everything glowed a rich, earthy brown. Warm light spilled from a rustic chandelier swinging overhead.
A deep red carpet looked ready to swallow me whole, promising a very cozy death.
An ornate staircase curled up to the second floor.
Past a reading nook with cognac leather chairs, the slanted roof framed floor-to-ceiling windows.
Outside, a sudden drop revealed rolling hills blanketed in snow-dusted pines.
I felt catapulted into a goddamn Bob Ross painting. Elaine waved towards the room. “May and Jeremy, this is Nora.”
I gave an awkward little wave—very Bella Swan.
Jeremy stood from one of the leather chairs and offered his hand. Oddly formal, considering he looked a few years younger than me. Or maybe it was the checkered suit and bowtie combo, which made his age completely unguessable.
“Nice to meet you, Nora. Isn’t this just the most exciting thing?”
His accent was British—somewhere near Oxford, I’d guess. The dropped vowels, the soft p’s… charming.
His smile was infectious. Mine answered before I could stop it. Which was wild, because usually only Otis got that kind of response from me.
A woman in her late forties stood next. Short purple hair, a single dangly earring, and a hand-knit scarf that looked like it could warm a whole pack of middle-aged women. Friendly crow’s feet crinkled at the corners of her eyes as she gave me a nod.
“Exciting, yes,” I said, trying to sound like a normal person.
“Oh good, you found it,” came a voice behind me.
I turned.
“Now we’re just waiting for one more.”
The women had red curls which stuck out in every direction, a mustard-yellow sweater, and gray slacks. Round glasses framed her face.
She introduced herself as Charlene—the editor I’d spoken to on the phone. “I’ll be your coach and guide over the next few days.” She glanced at her phone. “Feel free to settle in upstairs. Rooms are first come, first serve.”
I started toward the grand-but-small staircase when my eyes caught a stack of folders on a coffee table.
My pulse kicked when I glimpsed my name was on one of the spines.
The revision notes.
“This will be so much fun.”
I think it was Jeremy who said that, but I was too busy spiraling over what those notes might say.
Could I really do everything I needed to in just five days?
I reached for the folder. “I’ll just head upstairs then—”
“Not so fast,” Charlene said, laying a hand on my arm. “We’ll start with a little introductory round. Maybe some dinner too?” She glanced around the room.
“That’d be lovely,” Jeremy said, smiling.
“I could eat,” May nodded, tucking away her knitting needles and yarn.
“The kitchen is fully stocked,” Charlene went on. “We’ll get to know each other tonight and start our first group session tomorrow.”
“Group session?” I winced. “Those aren’t mandatory, right?”
“No, they’re voluntary,” Charlene said, leaning against the banister. “But writing can be lonely.”
“I know. That’s why I like it,” I muttered, trying to land a joke. But Charlene wasn’t as fun as I expected.
“I think one social session won’t kill you,” she replied, in a tone that made it clear I didn’t have much of a choice.
So.
Revise a novel under pressure and socialize with the competition.
Fantastic.
“Who are we waiting for?” I asked, trying to catch a glimpse of the fifth name on the angled folder.
Elaine twirled a strand of hair and gave a slow, pretty smile. “Oh, right. You don’t know yet.”
“Know what?” I glanced at Jeremy, who just wiggled his eyebrows.
Then the front door opened.
And John freaking Kater walked in.