When the timer went off again, Izzy shut the notebook right away. She was terrified to be writing again, but she still liked this idea.
Beau started to close his laptop, but she stopped him. “Did you save it? Preferably in more than one location, so you have a backup?”
A panicked look washed over his face. “I…you’re going to think this is stupid, but…”
“I bet I won’t,” she said.
He tried to smile but didn’t quite make it. “I thought about that, saving it, but I didn’t know what name to give it. It felt—it feels—too, I don’t know, official, to call it a book, or even a chapter.” He looked down. “I’m sorry, I’m being ridiculous.”
She grinned at him. “How about this? Call it ‘Isabelle made me do this.’”
He laughed. “Now, why didn’t I think of that?” His hands flashed over the keys, and then he looked up at her. “Done.”
Izzy picked up the green juice to take the last sip, but it was all gone. She looked across the table at Beau, who had a very smug expression on his face.
“Admit it,” he said. “Admit the green juice is refreshing.”
Izzy set her lips in a firm line so she wouldn’t smile. “I will admit that it grew on me a little, in that same way mold does, but I admit nothing else.”
Beau laughed and stood up. “If I didn’t already know how stubborn you were, I would know for sure now.” He flipped his notebook closed and handed it to her, like he did whenever they left the library. “Same time tomorrow?”
She smiled on the way out of the library. “I prefer the word determined, thank you very much. But tomorrow is Saturday—I’m not going to make you work over the weekend.”
She expected to see relief on his face, but instead he looked disappointed for just a second, before that old angry look settled back on his face. “Oh. Okay. That makes sense.”
Did he want to keep going?
“If you want, we can meet over the weekend, too,” she said.
He shook his head, not looking at her. “I’m not going to make you work with me on the weekend, it’s your time off.”
She poked him with the notebook. He jumped and finally looked directly at her. “You’re not making me do anything. I’m offering. Beau, do you want to meet here tomorrow to work on your book?”
He looked down for a moment and then met her eyes. “Yeah. Okay. Thanks.”
She started to walk back to her room.
“Izzy.”
She stopped and turned around.
“I was wondering,” he said. “Maybe you’ve already watched some more episodes of This Provincial Life on your own, and if so, ignore me, it’s fine. But if not, tonight, do you want to have dinner and watch one or two?”
She did, as a matter of fact.
“That sounds great,” she said. “Meet you in the kitchen. What time?”
The tense look on his face relaxed. “How about seven? Kettle made lasagna. I’ll tell her I can handle putting it in the oven. I’ll grab us a bottle of wine.” He paused. “I don’t know if you want any, but…I don’t know if you noticed, this week was a little stressful for me.”
She burst out laughing. “You don’t know if I noticed? Do you think this week was stressful just for you?”
He laughed, too. “Okay, good point.”
When Izzy got down to the kitchen that night, Beau was already there, taking a big pan out of the oven.
“That smells amazing,” she said.
He turned and grinned at her. “You have no idea. Kettle’s lasagna is legendary. There’s salad and garlic bread, too, but this is the star.”
Beau dished out lasagna on two plates for them and set their plates on the tray, along with the garlic bread and bowls full of salad.
“Don’t worry,” he said. “I already brought the wine in there.”
She laughed. “You read my mind.”
Izzy followed him into the TV room and sat down on the couch.
“Is red okay?” he asked her as he picked up the corkscrew. “I thought it would go best with the lasagna, but if you’d rather have white, I can—”
She took their plates off the tray. “Red is perfect. I’m not picky, especially not tonight.”
He narrowed his eyes at her. “Are you trying to tell me that dealing with a stubborn, ungrateful, difficult student all week has made you really look forward to some wine?”
She glanced at him. He was smiling. She smiled back.
“Frankly, my work with my stubborn, ungrateful, difficult student has been the least stressful part of my week. It’s probably been the best part of my week.”
As soon as that was out of her mouth, Izzy felt embarrassed that she’d said it. It felt too honest, too earnest, to tell Beau how much she’d enjoyed working with him, to even hint at how strangely peaceful and happy she’d felt during their hours in the library together, how she’d started to look forward to it every morning when she woke up.
He pulled the cork out of the wine bottle and poured her a glass.
“Mine too,” he said, quietly.
She looked up at him, and their eyes met. This time, she looked away.
“If I was the least stressful part of your week,” he said, in a different voice, “your job is even harder than I thought. What else is stressing you out?” He sat down at the other end of the couch.
Izzy took a sip of her wine. She probably shouldn’t complain to Beau about her job. He was one of Marta’s authors, after all.
“You don’t have to tell me, if you don’t want to,” he said, after a few moments of silence. “But you don’t have to worry about me going back to your boss, or anything, about what you tell me.” He waved his hand in a circle in the air. “This room is sacrosanct. Nothing gets out of it.”
She smiled at him. “Oh, well, if that’s the case.” The smile dropped from her lips and she sighed. “Work hasn’t been the easiest, this week. I’ve had to deal with a handful of Marta’s most difficult authors—” Beau made a face when she said that, and she shook her head. “No, you’re nowhere even close to the top of that ranking, trust me. You just didn’t respond to emails, which, yes, was stressful, but all these people DO is email me. Three of them have books coming out in the fall, and it’s just about six months before their releases, which somehow set off some sort of timer in them to start panicking and email me every day before I even log on to complain about anything possible. Their covers—which were all finalized months ago—their copy editors, the number of advance copies they’ll get, why they’ve never gotten a New York Times review when their friend gets New York Times reviews for every book, even the number of pages their book is. That’s an actual email I got this week. The book apparently ends in an unlucky number for her, and she wants it changed.”
Izzy took another sip of wine. “And then”—she let out a sigh—“there’s this guy I work with—”
Beau whistled, and she laughed.
“No, it’s not like that at all. He used to have my job, and he got promoted. He’s given me lots of advice in the past, which at first I was grateful for, but lately…it’s been sort of getting on my nerves.”
Beau poured more wine in her glass. “That sounds frustrating,” he said.
She was glad he’d just listened, without interrupting her with questions, or offering her advice.
“It is frustrating,” she said. She tried to shake that off. “Anyway. I’m glad for Friday, and wine, and Michaela’s lasagna.”
He lifted his glass to her. “I’ll toast to all those things.”
Speaking of the lasagna, why was she talking so much when it was sitting here in front of her, smelling so good? She took a bite and sighed in contentment.
“Ready for this?”
Izzy jumped. Beau was looking at her, the remote in his hand. Right, the show.
“Oh. Yeah, definitely.”
They watched one episode, tucked into their opposite corners of the couch. When Izzy got toward the bottom of her wineglass, she picked up the bottle and raised an eyebrow at Beau.
“I can’t even believe you have to ask,” he said as he held out his glass.
“It was more of a rhetorical question,” she said.
When the episode was over, Beau stood up and picked up the tray. Was he tired of this already? She’d sort of assumed they’d be watching more than one episode.
“I’m getting more lasagna, want some?” he asked.
She smiled, relieved. “I hope that was a rhetorical question,” she said.
He picked up her plate. “Absolutely.”
After the next episode, they both stood up. Izzy picked up her plate and wineglass, but Beau was empty-handed.
“I’m exhausted,” she said. “I think I’m heading to bed.”
He turned off the TV. “Yeah, me too.”
But then why…She was clearly missing something.
“Why do you look so confused?” he asked as he walked toward the door.
She nodded toward his dishes, still on the coffee table. “Your dishes. Aren’t you going put to them in the dishwasher? Or does the furniture in this house come to life and magically wash the dishes every night?”