Chapter 2 #3
not even when she slept, claiming menopause had turned her into the Heat Miser, plus it was Saturday. Having to give up her
Saturday morning cartoons because her mother made the kids clean the house from top to bottom during her childhood had traumatized
her.
“It was a burden placed on many of the children during that time.” She was always overly dramatic about it. “What was the purpose of having special cartoons on Saturday mornings if you couldn’t watch them?”
So Beck cleaned on Mondays, which didn’t always include dusting. Disrupting her cleaning schedule with a feather duster could
mean only one thing—someone was coming to visit. “When did they say you could check into the cabin?”
“I haven’t had a conversation with ‘they.’” I clicked off the writer’s block article. I wasn’t looking at her, but I could
feel Beck’s eyebrows hike.
“When are you going to find out?”
I asked a bothered “Why?”
“Because I thought you’d be more excited about it.”
“You’re acting like I’ve never been anywhere. I’m not even sure I’m going.”
Beck stomped her foot, and I respectfully gave her my attention. “Alexandra, how many times have you talked about getting
away to write like the big-shot authors do?”
I didn’t have anything but the stank face for all this drama. “Apparently more than I should have since you’re bringing it
up.”
“Why wouldn’t you take advantage of this? It’s free. Even the big authors pay for retreats.”
Rolling my eyes, I said, “It’s not a retreat.”
Beck clutched the handle of the feather duster to her chest. “Is it because you almost choked?”
“I had a mint stuck in my throat. I did not choke.”
“Ya kind of did.” Beck turned her back and swept the duster across the top of a bookcase, adding, “You would have if it wasn’t
for Walter.”
I cocked an eyebrow but said nothing.
Beck sang, “Your rescuuuer.”
“You’re on a first-name basis with him?”
I willed her to look at me, and she complied, teleporting herself in front of my desk. “He’s nice, and I was grateful.” Beck’s
shoulders dropped and her face contorted. “Are you scared?”
Mothers knew everything. At least mine did. Still, I didn’t want to give her the satisfaction of being right. “No. I’m lazy.
I don’t want to pack.” I told stories, but lying never worked for me. Everything I was feeling rounded my shoulders. “What
if . . .” I paused on the thought, the real reason I’d been hesitating. “What if changing my location doesn’t work?”
She fisted a hand on her hip. “It’ll work. Lots of writers get away and take sabbaticals.”
Beck continued to hover. She wanted to win. She usually did win, but I was grown. I didn’t have to let her. This was my work.
My choice. My home. She continued, “They go for inspiration, right?”
I’d never been on a writer retreat thingy, so I had no idea, but still I protested. “Mostly in movies.”
“There’s the peace and quiet,” Beck added.
“When you’re not standing over me, it’s plenty peaceful and quiet here.”
“It’s usually quiet, but . . .” Beck inserted a long pause. “Leah is coming for a visit.”
I raised my head. The dusting made sense. I asked my first question, “Why?” and followed with the most important one, “When?”
Beck waved the feather duster and then continued to move it over items she’d already touched. “Because she wants to. I thought
you were leaving. She bought one of those fancy vans you can live in. She’ll be here on Wednesday.”
“Of next week?” I hoped the lift in my question hid my disappointment.
Beck nodded.
My aunt Leah was one of my favorite people in the world when I didn’t have anything important to do. Leah was like Beck on
steroids. Fun, lively, a great cook, and the best storyteller. But that all meant she was also as hyper as a toddler, intrusive,
and loud.
I looked down at my unproductive scribbles in the composition book I used for plotting my stories. Without reading them, I
was aware that there wasn’t anything exciting on the pages. I’d written down a story idea for a novel that I’d written five
years ago—actually used the same name for the hero and everything. My writer muscle memory was strong—stronger than the genes
that fueled the creativity Beck swore I inherited from her.
“And . . .” Beck inserted another alarming pause. “She’s bringing Henry, of course.”
I cut my eyes at her back. She’d added that little tidbit to drive the stake in my heart. Henry was Leah’s hopelessly spoiled,
barky Yorkie. If a dog could be narcissistic, Henry had the unofficial diagnosis.
“Well,” I said, acquiescing, “cozy little cabin, here I come.”
Beck squealed like I’d announced I was going to Ghana. “This is good, Alex. You know I don’t believe in coincidences. You’re
meant to be at that center. Something wonderful is going to begin there.”
Based on how my life had been going, I was hoping Beck was right. I picked up the phone and called the contact number to get
the details about my stay. As adorable as Henry was, I was not going to listen to him bark for a week.
With Beck standing over my shoulder, I made a reservation to check in on Monday.