He turned in a slow circle, observing the rest of the kitchen as he searched for a place the foil could have concealed itself. There were still several boxes stacked in one corner marked Kitchen that he hadn’t gotten unpacked yet; although, for only officially moving in the day before, he felt quite happy with the progress.
The prior two weeks had been a whirlwind of activity. From making an offer to the seller—who had immediately accepted it despite it being well below market value for a property on Superior—to assuring Andy that everything would work out for the best to finally closing and the subsequent unpacking of the necessities. Lance felt as if his body and mind had been stretched, taken apart, and re-formed without all the pieces. He mentally made a note to himself never to move again, no matter how terrible the writer’s block.
A corner of the blue-and-silver tinfoil box peeked from behind a gallon of milk on the floor as Lance bent to retrieve a bag of potatoes.
“Gotcha, ya bastard,” Lance said as he grabbed the end of the box and pulled it from its hiding space. The sun had begun to set behind the trees on the west side of the house, and the red light threw long shadows across the floor of the kitchen.
Lance prepared a celebratory dinner of fresh grilled salmon, baby red potatoes, and asparagus. A bottle of wine sat open on the counter, from which he poured and refilled several glasses as his dinner came together. He began to hum a song he had heard earlier under his breath as he cooked. By the time he took his food onto the patio overlooking the lake, his head was pleasantly light from the Merlot. He watched as the light suffused onto the calm water within the bay and stained it a shimmering red. The rocks that poked from the surface of the water were ringed in shadow, and a large ship moved without sound toward a port, half a mile out from shore. Lance searched his memories for another view that rivaled this moment and could find none.
As the sun finally relinquished its hold on the day and slipped fully below the horizon, the bay became a charcoal painting of what it looked like only minutes before. Lance sat back from the table and his now-empty plate to sip the last vestiges of his wine. He considered for a moment opening the other bottle he had bought in town, but dismissed it almost immediately. He couldn’t be hung-over tomorrow. Tomorrow he would begin to write. He already had a small table positioned in the glass alcove, his computer screen set up on top and the tower below on the floor. In the morning he would rise, eat a quick breakfast, and sit down to begin carving out the idea that still hovered at the back of his mind.
Over the past two weeks the story had come and gone as he traveled back and forth between Stony Bay and Ardent Hills. At some moments he felt as if he could sit down and punch out the entire outline, while at others he struggled to remember the basic plot. At those times the ideas that sprang into his head seemed childish and unrefined, so unlike his regular work. As much as he hated to admit it, he could only link the story’s appearance with one thing: the house. He had even tested the unsaid theory without truly acknowledging what he was doing. As he drove away from the house one afternoon after meeting Carrie there for one last walk-through, he had tried to keep the story at the foremost of his thoughts. But slowly, as the miles stretched out behind him it dulled. Then it dimmed until it was an insubstantial idea without a purpose, like an empty plastic bag carried by a rogue wind.
Well, we find out tomorrow if this place is really my muse, or not, Lance thought, as the last of his wine disappeared from his glass and a loon gave a melancholy cry that echoed like a question across the bay.