“You learn to write the same way you learn to play golf . . . You do it, and keep doing it until you get it right. A lot of people think something mystical happens to you, that maybe the muse kisses you on the ear. But writing isn’t divinely inspired—it’s hard work.”
—TOM CLANCY
On her way to Austen cottage, Emma pauses to admire the night sky scattered with sparkling stars. She revels in the crisp air, inhaling the myriad of night scents before continuing. She hears the soft lap of water against the shore in the far distance and the call of the brown Barred Owl overhead. “Who cooks for you? Who cooks for you?” it seems to ask. When she arrives at her cottage, she rolls up the ramp, pushes the door-activation button, and smiles when it opens on a whisper.
After changing into her nightgown, Emma sets her toothbrush, toothpaste, and floss on the counter and prepares for her evening challenge—practicing standing and leaning against the sink long enough to brush and floss her teeth. Even though her legs shake from the effort, Emma smiles at herself in the mirror because she knows that means her muscles are hard at work. A little cocky now, she leans away from the counter, but grabs it again when she begins to tip.
That’s okay, she thinks, sitting back down. I’m further today than I was yesterday, and I’ll be further tomorrow than I am today. On that positive note, she pulls her hair up into a ponytail, and washes her face.
Emma wheels herself to the bed, pulls back the downy covers, transfers herself into the crisp linens and folds her wheelchair, slipping it next to the nightstand. With an air of contentment, she picks up the book she’d placed there earlier, leans back into the plush pillows, and begins to read.
“Niall, Hemingway and I’ll take out the trash and make the rounds tonight. I need to clear the cobwebs in my head, and this big galoot could use the exercise.” Mick teases the tall, lean dog, tousling the wiry hair on his head. “If he wants, I’ll let him stay the night at my place. He makes pretty good company.”
Hemingway shows his agreement with a near table-clearing wag of his tail.
“All right already, I’m coming.” Mick laughs. With a bag of trash in either hand, he and his excited, four-legged companion leave through the mudroom. At this late hour, the temperature has dropped, the cooler causing a mist that swallows Hemingway’s tall frame in the distance.
After depositing the trash in the raccoon-proof bin, Mick follows the pathway north to check on Dickens cottage. No light, not even a glimmer, pierces the tall curtain of Bigleaf Maples. Fran must already be asleep.
Little does he know that she’s lying in bed, determined to ask Cynthia to go clothes shopping with her. After the palm-reading session and their whispered conversation on the drive from the airport, Fran knows this three-week retreat is going to be about more than writing a book. It’s going to be a turning point in her life.
Where the heck is that dog? He’s usually right by my side. The luminous mist slides ghostlike past the walkway lights as Mick continues. With a soft whistle and a pat on his thigh, he calls “Here boy, come on.” He stops to listen and hears a woman’s laugh. Faster now, he moves along the pathway and sees light streaming from the windows and open doorway of Austen cottage—Emma’s cottage. “Oh no.” He murmurs. “Hemingway’s let himself in.”
At the front door, Mick stops short. Through the open bedroom doorway, he sees Emma. Propped up in bed with her hair pulled up in a high ponytail, big moss-colored eyes, and the smattering of freckles across the bridge of her nose, Emma looks about twelve years old except he sees the enticing curves of her body. He’d have to be dead to miss those.
Hemingway knows Mick’s there, but Emma—face now buried in his long, well-arched neck asking him how he got in—hasn’t seen him. She’s beautiful.
“Ahem.” Mick coughs into his hand, not wanting to startle her.
Emma’s head comes bolt upright. “Oh my goodness, you scared me!” She places a hand on her palpitating heart.
“I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to. I’m also sorry that Hemingway barged in on you.”
Hemingway’s thick tail thumps like an overactive metronome at their exchange.
“We were just discussing that,” Emma says, stroking the lanky dog’s wiry coat. She turns to Hemingway. “I haven’t figured out how you got in here, mister.” Her impish grin tears Mick’s insides, making something crack open.
Mick slips off his shoes and socks and steps inside the cottage. A cool snake of evening air wraps around his ankles. As he walks toward her, he nods toward Emma’s wheelchair folded next to the nightstand. “May I sit down?”
“Sure,” she says, smiling with appreciation as she watches him open the chair with expertise.
The vision that meets his eyes is breathtaking. Propped by a mountain of pillows in the sage-colored bedding, auburn hair shimmering in the lamplight that casts its glow across the now-forgotten book she’d been reading, Emma returns his look with inquisitive eyes.
Hemingway, satisfied they’re going to stay a while, lays on the floor next to the bed and rests his bearded chin on top of his massive front paws.
“I lived in this cottage while recuperating from an accident,” Mick says. “From puppyhood, as soon as he was tall enough, Niall taught Hemingway how to operate the door-activation button with his nose. He came and went as he pleased. It’s obvious he’s smitten with you.” He’s not the only one.
“Please tell me about your accident. What happened?” Emma asks.
Mick turns his pained expression toward the sliding glass doors and rubs the back of his neck as if reliving the fatal impact. Minutes pass lost in contemplation.
Emma waits in companionable silence while he gathers his thoughts.
“Five years ago, I was on the police force. Sam, my partner and I, were in a high-speed chase. We’d just radioed for backup when our windshield shattered. Sam lost control of the squad car, and we smashed head-on into a bridge embankment.
“When I came out of a coma a few weeks later, the first thing I learned was that Sam had been shot between the eyes by a sniper from the bridge. We’d been partners for over five years. He left behind a wife and two small children. The second thing I learned was that I was paralyzed, but they couldn’t know the extent of the damage until I was conscious and could go through a battery of tests.”
“Oh, my God,” Emma whispers, pressing a hand against her throat. “Did they ever find the person who shot Sam? Did they ever find out why he was shot? I can’t begin to imagine the heartbreak for Sam’s wife and family, and then what you went through. But you’re out of a wheelchair now, how did that happen?”
“The accident initiated a widespread response from law enforcement agencies and an exhaustive manhunt. A special crime unit followed hundreds of tips that failed to produce solid leads. As time wore on, the search scaled down and dwindled to nothing. Sam’s assassin was never found.
“As it turns out, it wasn’t Sam—specifically—that the elusive sniper was after. He could have shot any police officer. The high-speed car chase was a diversionary tactic to draw a squad car to the bridge so that a police officer could be killed. The sniper took out the driver, Sam. I was the collateral damage.”
“The title of your book,” Emma whispers in understanding as her moss-green eyes melt with emotion.
Mick nods and continues. “When backup arrived on the scene, they called in ‘Officer down!’ drawing just about every law enforcement officer on duty and within radio range. Not only police officers on patrol, but also deputy sheriffs, showing a united front and turning up even though the location is out of their jurisdiction.
“With an almost-empty stationhouse, a huge cache of heroin that had been seized from an expansive crime-ring bust was stolen out of lockup. The street value was well over ten million dollars.
“That seven-month investigation culminated in the arrest of eleven people, including one of two ringleaders. Fraternal twins. Since then, three of the eleven have died in jail. One was killed in the yard, another in the cafeteria, and a third, one of the twins, was found hanging in his cell. From the bruising and other marks on his body, it doesn’t appear to be suicide.
“The brothers’ rap sheets are a mile long. The charges include murder, aggravated assault, and conspiracy to transport, sell, and dispose of firearms. Added to that there’s failure to appear, witness tampering, conspiracy to possess and distribute a variety of drugs including heroin and cocaine, and conspiracy to organize, finance, and manage a narcotics trafficking network.
“What makes this even more difficult is that the remaining twin is unknown. Their birth records were destroyed, and there are no fingerprints or DNA for him on file.
“The undercover operation determined that no one on the outside could have orchestrated this by themselves. They had to have help from the inside—a dirty cop. Unfortunately, the case has gone cold.”
To lighten the mood, Mick pretends to look around, then slides Emma a sideways glance. In mock warning, he whispers, “I know you think that Libby and Niall are sweet, loving, kind, and thoughtful people. But let me tell you, they moved heaven, earth, and a little bit of hell, to get me well again. Sometimes their methods were downright vicious.”
His voice returns to normal. “But as Libby will tell you, it’s because I deserved it. They told me that I not only wallowed in my sorrow, but I also wasn’t as cooperative as I could have been.” He gives Emma a sheepish grin.
“Libby assures me that working and living here in the ‘Zen-like energy,’” he says, making air quotes with his hands, “of Pines & Quill is therapeutic. Don’t tell her, or I’ll never hear the end of it, but it’s breathed life back into my soul. Now it’s your turn. Tell me your story.”
Emma looks into Mick’s eyes, a darker shade now, forest green. They’d changed with the low light of the evening. “I’m a potter. Last year I showed my work at a two-day, outdoor event. Because pottery is so heavy, my best friend, Sally, helped me pack all of the materials in and back out of the venue. My dad and brothers were on their annual fishing trip in Canada, or they would have done it. After the event, Sally and I lugged the boxes back into my studio, ate Chinese takeout, and then we crashed. When I woke up in the morning, I was paralyzed.
“After many tests, the doctors discovered that I have Transverse myelitis, a neurologic symptom caused by inflammation of the spinal cord.”
Mick leans forward. “What is your prognosis? Will you ever walk again?”
“Every case is different. The doctors say that recovery may be absent, partial, or complete. At thirty-five, I’m still considered young. And aside from this,” she says, patting the tops of her thighs, “I’m healthy and have a positive outlook.” She smiles.
I want to touch that beautiful mouth so I can feel her smile.
“So far, I’ve regained some feeling in my limbs, and I’m able stand long enough to transfer myself into a car, chair, or bed without collapsing. My current goal is to be able to stand and lean against the sink long enough to brush my teeth. After that, I’ll move on to a walker.” She fist-punches the air for emphasis.
“Then I hope you’ll come to tai chi in the morning,” Mick says. “It was, and continues to be, a great part of my recovery. Libby’s a terrific teacher. She has the patience of a saint. She has to deal with me.” He smiles to encourage her.
“Isn’t tai chi a whole-body exercise?” Emma asks.
“Yes, though when I started, I was in a wheelchair, like you are, and could only do the arm portion of each form. After I got that part down, it made it all the easier when I could add the leg movements,” Mick says, in earnest, trying to convince her.
The eyelet trim around the scooped neckline of her white cotton nightie is like a magnet, drawing Mick’s eyes first to the soft swell of her breasts under the sheer fabric, then to the delicate, pin-tucked bodice that seems to point to what lies hidden beneath the covers. He looks at her beautiful hands with their long, slender fingers now at rest on the thick sage-colored comforter.
Unbidden, the erotic potter’s wheel scene with Demi Moore and Patrick Swayze in Ghost bursts in technicolor on the forefront of his mind, causing the fabric of his Levi 501’s to pull taut against a burgeoning bulge in his pelvic region. Oh, God! He picks up her book from the bedside table, opens it in his lap, and asks, “What are you reading?” feigning great interest in the now-open pages.
“Dinner with Anna Karenina. It’s about a group of six diverse women in a book club who are bonded by their love of literature. Do you like to read?” she asks.
“I do. In fact, this big lummox and I should go so I can get some in this evening.” He nudges the sleeping dog with his toe. “I want to apologize again for Hemingway barging in on you, and now me disturbing your reading time as well.”
“I enjoyed visiting with both of you,” Emma says, looking first at Hemingway, now sitting up by the side of the bed, tail pounding the floor with glee at the mention of his name. Then she looks at his tall, handsome companion.
Mick bows from the waist, pretends to tip a nonexistent cap, and with a thick Irish brogue, says, “Promise me that once we leave, you’ll throw the deadbolt on the door. Pines & Quill is safe, but once a cop always a cop, lass.”
“So McPherson and MacCullough are Irish then?” Emma asks, laughing.
Her laugh is like sunshine.
“Well,” he muses with a playful grin. “It’s clear Libby’s gone over to the other side. The general rule of thumb is that Mc’s are Irish, and Mac’s are Scottish. But there’s always an exception to the rule. Remember that,” he says, waggling his dark eyebrows as he backs toward the door.
When Emma reaches down to pet Hemingway’s enormous head, she looks into his deep brown eyes. “I’m sorry, big guy, but you have to go now.”
Hemingway looks at her for a second, stands up, and pads toward Mick. He stops and looks over his shoulder.
“It’s okay,” she says. “Go on home, now.”
“See you at tai chi in the morning,” Mick calls out before pulling the door shut. Then he and Hemingway step into the ink-black night.
Limp notwithstanding, Mick has a decided bounce in his step as he walks, dark hair ruffled by the cool breeze, to his log cabin on the southeast side of the property.
A pale moon illuminates the now-heavy mist, softening the silhouette of his cabin. “You deserve a treat, Hemingway.”
The big dog barks his agreement and starts frisking beside Mick’s leg in anticipation. Neither of them hears the quick crackling of dry branches snapping under solid weight.
Mick opens his cabin door. Its interior is welcoming with soft, worn leather furnishings, and natural, unrefined elements. His smile is slow, deliberate, and delightful. “If I had a tail,” he says to Hemingway, “I’d wag it!”