I groan and stretch out, pressing my feet against the opposite armrest.
It was another night on the couch, but if I’m being honest, it may have been the best night of sleep I’ve had in this house.
Of course, the image of Nicole had been disturbing, but I think my body decided that I was getting sleep, no matter what.
I feel good. Not great, but better than I’ve felt in a while and I keep playing last night over in my mind, conveniently leaving out the part about going to bed upstairs.
I get up and make myself a full English breakfast and brew a strong cup of coffee. For our honeymoon, Nicole and I took a trip through the UK and stayed at nothing but B&Bs and now, I love an English breakfast. I sit at the alcove and enjoy my breakfast while I stare out the window at the lake.
For the first time, I feel at peace here. The house holds no menace or sense of dread, like before. It’s just a house. My house.
After breakfast, I go upstairs, strip down, and jump in the shower. I even catch myself whistling, which is weird for me. My thoughts turn to the novel. I can’t wait to hole myself up in the Writing Room and get to work.
But first things first.
I towel off, pull on a pair of jeans and a sweater, and head over to Mildred’s.
*
I tramp across the dew-covered grass towards her house, step onto the porch, and knock on the door.
A breeze kicks up off the lake. I turn my head.
Nicole is standing there near the water. The concern in her face, the worry …
“Good morning, Mr. Author.”
Mildred has opened the door, wearing a wide grin.
I glance back to the lake. Nicole is gone.
“Hi, Mildred.”
“Come on in.”
“How’d it go?” I ask, stepping into the kitchen.
“It was great. We played games. We watched a movie.”
“Which one?” I ask, gathering Caitlyn’s things from the floor by the table.
“The Wizard of Oz. We both knew the words to every song.”
“That’s my girl.”
“So,” she says, casually taking a sip of coffee. “What did you get up to last night?”
“Nothing. I just had a quiet night at the house.”
Her eyes widen and she points an accusatory finger. “Liar!”
“What?”
“Liar! Liar, liar, liar! The lights were off at your house almost all night. You went out!”
“No, I … Look … It wasn’t … It was nothing.”
My stammering causes her eyes to widen further.
“Something happened.”
“No. Nothing happened,” I reply.
“It did! Something had to have happened. Why else would you lie about being home?”
My face is burning. “Look, Mildred. I had a great night and I don’t want to—”
Her hand flies to her mouth. “Oh my God … Oh my God! You had sex!”
“Mildred!”
“You did! You got laid!”
“No, Mildred. I did not have sex.”
“Then you at least had a date.”
“It wasn’t a date.”
“Ohhhh. I see … but you were with a woman.”
“Okay. Yes, Sherlock. I had dinner with a woman.”
“And it went well?” she asks like a prosecutor cornering a witness.
“Yes. We had an amazing dinner,” I concede, hoping it will shut her up.
I’m so wrong.
“You. Had. A. Date!” she cries out triumphantly. She puts her coffee cup on the counter, and proceeds to do an aged victory dance.
“Mildred, please stop.”
She goes to the cabinet and pulls out another mug. “Put those down,” she says, pointing at Caitlyn’s things. She fills the mug with coffee, carries it to the kitchen table, sits in a chair, and pats the seat next to her. “Sit down and tell me everything.”
“Mildred, I don’t think—”
She pats the chair, again, and repeats with a little more insistence, “Everything.”
There’s no escape.
“Fine.” I sit in the chair and take the coffee. “But you have to promise not to tell Caitlyn because it could cause a lot of problems at her school.”
She blinks. “Caitlyn? Why would I tell Caitlyn? What does this have to do with her school? What problems?”
Oh, Goddamnit.
I try to hide my face by looking at the table. “Well … you know, I don’t know how she would react if she knew I had dinner with … umm … another woman.”
She’s not buying a word of it. “Daniel?”
I reluctantly raise my eyes to meet her stare.
“What does this have to do with Caitlyn?”
I sigh. “It was her teacher.”
I’m worried Mildred’s jaw is going to crash through the table.
“But, Mildred, please. I’m serious. It wasn’t a date. It was a very pleasant dinner and Caitlyn can never know, because it could get her teacher in a lot of trouble at school.”
She ditches the teasing. “You don’t have to tell me everything. Just what you want to.”
I recount the evening, except the part about my lunatic detour into the supernatural. I tell her how we connected and about Denise’s son, which I know there’s no danger she’ll repeat to anyone.
Once I’m done, Mildred sits back with her coffee.
“You going to see her, again?”
“I hope so. I wouldn’t mind us having dinner from time to time.”
“Think it might grow into something more serious?”
“No. Just friends.”
“You sure? You don’t think it might grow into something a little more ‘naked’?”
“Mildred!”
“I’m kidding! I’m kidding!” She laughs.
I sip my coffee and wait for her to settle down.
She wipes her eyes and catches her breath. “Daniel, I’m so glad. I can’t tell you how much better you look.”
“I feel a lot better.”
“Good.” She shrugs. “And I’m just saying that if nudity should happen—”
“Mildred, stop.”
She smiles.
*
I’ve been at it for hours and I’m cranking out page after page in the Writing Room. After a few more jokes at my expense over at Mildred’s, I came home and set to work in my notebook. It took me about an hour to hit my stride, but now, I’m on fire. The characters are emerging out of the fog of my mind and coming to life. The dialogue is cracking. I’m turning some nice phrases in my descriptions. I haven’t felt like this since the accident. I’m completely immersed in a world of my own creation.
Jake Solomon is prowling the streets of Washington D.C., late at night, on the trail of the hitman who nearly killed him. Only a jump from a rooftop spared him from the assassin’s bullet. Now, with the help of an intrepid reporter who Jake doesn’t entirely trust, he has the hitman cornered, but he thinks the reporter might be working with him to get Jake to—
Thunk.
I’m so caught up in my writing, it takes a repetition of the noise to register.
… thunk.
There it is, again, in the bookcase.
I’m tempted to let the rat or whatever critter is living in there to have its day. I don’t want to leave my characters in the lurch.
… thunk.
With an exasperated sigh, I drop my pen, swivel my chair, get up, step around the desk, and over to the bookcase.
I stay absolutely still.
One minute passes … then two …
Come on, Mickey. If we’re going to do this, let’s do—
… thunk.
There. At least, I think it was there, on the side of the bookcase.
I carefully crouch down and hold my ear to the cold wood. There’s that ‘ocean’ sound you always hear when you press your ear against something; a low, distorted rumble.
Another minute goes by … then another.
There are no sounds of scratching or scurrying from inside.
Waiting … waiting …
Then, I hear something—not scratching or scurrying from inside the bookcase, but a voice. A whisper right next to my ear.
“Rebecca’s here …”
I fall backwards, away from the bookcase.
My heart is pounding. My chest is heaving. I stare at the spot.
On the desk, my phone begins to ring.
I pick myself off the floor and work my way to the desk, keeping my eyes on the bookcase.
I check the caller ID and hit ‘answer’.
“Denise?” I ask.
“Mr. Price?”
I’m still focused on the bookcase.
“Mr. Price, are you there?”
There’s an edge to her tone and apparently, we’re on a last name basis, again.
“Yes,” I answer, eyes still on the bookcase. “Is everything all right?”
“Everything is fine, but there’s been an incident with Caitlyn.”
I instantly forget the bookcase. “Is she okay?”
“She’s fine, but could you come to the school, please?”