Fiona peels the leathery rind from a mango and begins to slice it into chunks. She lets the mango fall from its seed into a glass bowl filled with pineapple, oranges, and other vibrant fruits. It’s become part of our morning tradition over the past few weeks. Fiona and I wake up early before Smith, Jasper, and Mo. We do our morning meditation and yoga on the beach, followed by tea on the balcony. Then we make a fruit salad with a spicy ginger-lemon dressing for breakfast before everyone wakes.
This little ritual of ours is my favorite part of the day. It’s the first time I’ve ever had a morning ritual that didn’t involve three alarms, rush hour traffic, and four hundred caffeine-deprived customers telling me how to make their perfect cup of coffee before six a.m. This—the routine, Dubai, and Fiona—all of it makes me feel alive. I’ve written more words in the past three weeks than I wrote all of last year, and I think I’ve finally figured out why.
“This fruit salad is magic,” I say between mouthfuls. “If I wasn’t the one making it, I’d swear you were lacing it with psychedelics or hallucinogenics. Is there a difference between the two?”
“In my experience, no.” Fiona grates a little lemon zest on her fruit salad. “Of course, Smith’s godfather, Willie, might have a different opinion. I can call him if you’d like.”
“That’s OK.”
“How’s the book coming? Have you figured out yet if your heroine ends up with the broody old flame or the newcomer that’s great in the sack? That reminds me, have you worked up your character’s birth charts yet?”
Fiona’s the first person I’ve ever shared my writing with, and there’s something exhilarating about being able to talk about my characters with someone who knows them. Not to mention the fact that Fiona is an incredible writer herself. Of course, songwriting isn’t the same as writing a novel, but Fiona’s a storyteller. She knows what it takes to pour your heart and soul onto a page and create something that will transport the listener or reader to another world. She’s the queen of details, hence the birth charts, and she’s an expert at sniffing out inauthenticity. That was my biggest problem when she first read my work.
Fiona could tell from the first chapter of my original draft that I was playing it safe. Last Christmas, we spent the holiday with them in Dubai. I’d been stuck for months in the worst writing slump and had convinced myself that I would never finish it. When Fiona asked to read my writing, I was scared shitless. Letting Fiona Mackenzie read your book is like letting Julia Child eat your microwave dinner. As scared as I was, I let her read it, and the advice she gave me completely changed the way I approach writing.
Your main character has no depth, she told me. You’ve made her so perfect, she’s boring. People don’t read books about perfect people. Perfection doesn’t speak to the soul. Perfection is the antithesis of soul. If you’re going to write, you must write fearlessly. You have to let yourself go. Be willing to be ugly and unfinished. Lay your soul naked and bare. Anything less is a waste of time.
Immediately, I tossed my old draft, gave up the idea of birthing the next great literary fiction piece, and decided to write what I wanted to read. Romance. Unabashedly sexy, sultry, and heartfelt romance. It’s the best decision I’ve ever made. Second best, actually. Eloping with Smith last month was the best.
“Nothing is set in stone for the heroine.” I sprinkle a little raw coconut on my fruit salad. “But I’m leaning toward the new guy who’s great in bed. He’s a Scorpio. The old flame is a Capricorn. Hence the moodiness.”
“I love a Scorpio in the bedroom.” Fiona carries her bowl to the table on the balcony. “Jasper is a Leo, but his Venus is in Scorpio, which gives the best of both worlds, in my opinion. He’s an excellent lover. You know, when Smith was conceived—”
“Stop right there.” Smith covers his ears as he stumbles from the hallway in his pajamas. “The last thing a man wants to wake up to is his wife and his mother discussing his conception.” He’s shirtless and in a pair of gray sweatpants, which is an ideal male wardrobe for all occasions as far as millions of romance readers are concerned. Myself included.
“Typical Capricorn,” Fiona teases. “I’m going to go wake up Monroe and Jasper. We may not be celebrating the colonizers’ holiday, but we can still gather around the table and have a meal together with good, deep conversation.”
“More conversation?” Smith pours himself a cup of mint tea. “All we do is have deep conversation. Can’t we talk about something light and fun?”
“Your father and I could share what we’ve been learning through our recent study of tantric sex.”
Smith groans. “Deep conversation it is.”
“Fine.” She pushes her thick gray curls into a bun on top of her head. “But I highly recommend the book we’re studying, especially for two young people with such good knees.” She kisses his cheek, leaving a coral lip print behind, before heading upstairs to wake Jasper and Mo.
God, I love that woman.
Smith joins me outside on the balcony. This—him with his tea and me with my fruit salad watching the gentle Persian Gulf waves—has become another one of my favorite rituals. Eventually, we’ll both bring our laptops out here and spend half the day working and talking about work and life. We’ve spent more time together on this balcony than we do most months back in our new apartment in LA.
“Good morning, wife.” Smith kisses my forehead. “Want to run away with me for a couple of minutes before this non-Thanksgiving breakfast gets started? I’ve got something I want to discuss with you.”
I spear a piece of pineapple with my fork and feed it to him. “Is this about your call last night with the concert promoter?”
“It is.”
“Good news or bad?”
I hold my breath. Last month, Smith applied for a director of digital photography position at a music magazine. It’s a start-up and swears that paper magazines are on the way out and digital is the way of the future. I’m not sure if I buy into that, but what I do buy into is my husband no longer being gone every night to photograph concerts at dive bars for nothing pay. This job would let him work from anywhere, even Dubai if we wanted to. And, god, do I want to stay here in Dubai.
“Amazing news.” He pulls me out of my seat and drapes his arms around my waist. “They want to hire me, Pen.”
“Oh my god!” I kiss him, savoring the hint of pineapple on his lips. “I don’t want to talk about this on the beach. We should talk about it here with everyone. You finally have a job that won’t require you working every weekend and crazy late nights. We need champagne!”
“Hold it on the bubbly.” He lifts my chin to meet his gaze. “I said they want to hire me.”
“Yeah, I got that part. Hence the bubbly.”
“But it’s not for the director of photography.”
“OK,” I say slowly. “Then what do they want to hire you for?”
“That’s where the walk on the beach comes in.”
Suddenly, this walk on the beach sounds a hell of a lot like walking the plank. He’s excited. I can see it in his eyes and the way his smile won’t stop. But he’s nervous. That’s why he keeps shifting his weight from side to side. That’s the problem with marrying someone you’ve known since you were a kid. You know all their tells without them having to say a word.
But why is he uneasy? Any job has to be better than the one he’s got.
“I’m making you nervous,” he says. “You keep biting your lip.”
I guess he knows all my tells too. “I just want you to tell me what the job is here. Is that OK?”
“Job?” Jasper’s melodic voice startles me. He shuffles onto the patio slowly. Rock and roll hasn’t been nearly as kind to Jasper’s body as it has to Fiona’s. “Did that magazine offer you a job, Smithy?”
“You got the job, baby?” Fiona squeals. “Don’t say another word. I’m going to run back upstairs and demand Monroe get out of bed to hear this. Monroe!”