I wander back to the kitchen, with its white subway tiles gleaming in the June sun, and pour a glass of iced tea. I drain it in four gulps. Though the tea quenches my thirst, it does nothing to quell my unease. I glance at my watch. Four thirty. Guy will be home by six, and I’m already looking forward to seeing him. Maybe we should eat on the patio, since it’s bound to be a beautiful night.
I will myself up from the chair and clear the soup bowl and utensils I used for lunch. Next I take two chicken cutlets out of the freezer and begin snipping the green beans I bought earlier.
Finished, I head upstairs and straighten the duvet in the master bedroom. For the first time I’m struck by the sheer ridiculousness—and irony, too—of me snapping the fabric into place. Until now my life has been, at least literally speaking, a litany of unmade beds, beds I’ve always been far too busy to fuss with and happy to just stumble into at the end of crazy days. I know why I’ve given myself this little task each day. It’s a way to avoid what I’m really supposed to be doing.
Coming to Saratoga for the summer and renting a nice house here was meant as a chance for me to get my mojo back now that my broken bones have mostly healed. I was also going to conceive and pound out a proposal for my new book, the one that had been delayed by the car accident and recovery. But it’s just not happening. I alternate between bouts of panic and feeling totally jet-lagged, like a traveler who’s stumbled off an airplane after crossing a dozen time zones.
And then there’s the writer’s block. I knew it might take a while to get back in a groove, but I’ve spent days now staring at a blank computer screen. It seems at times as if my brain’s been sucked dry by aliens. At my most panic-stricken I worry that I’ll never squeeze out another word, never again share what I’ve learned, never again command a room of appreciative readers.
As I give the duvet a final shake, I catch a glimpse of my reflection in the mirror above the dresser. Because, until recently, I needed to negotiate shampooing and blow-drying with a cast on my arm, I chopped my light brown hair fairly short. The cut is cute enough, I guess, but because of the weight loss, my overall appearance leans toward beleaguered. I look like I’m ready to board an orphan train.
My cell phone rings, startling me from my thoughts. I tug it from the pocket of my sweater. I smile to myself when I see Guy’s name.
“Hey, babe,” he says. “I didn’t disturb a siesta, did I?”
Is that the impression I’ve been giving him? That I indulge in a postlunch nap every day? Well, I do, don’t I?
“No, just taking care of a few things. How about you?”
“I’ve got a donor crisis on my hands but hopefully nothing I can’t handle.”
Guy runs the development office for Saratoga’s small but well-regarded opera company, Springs Opera, and his job calls for reeling in contributors and then keeping them on board.
“Oh, that’s a shame. Which donor?”
“The guy who pledged a hundred grand last week. Unfortunately I’m going to have to grab drinks with him and see if I can fix this.”
“Tonight?”
“Yeah, sorry. If I don’t put this fire out now, it’s only gonna get worse.”
I sense him catching himself too late about the phrase he’s used, probably wondering if he should excuse the comment and then deciding it would be worse to draw attention.
“I’m sure you can fix this, honey,” I say.
“Hope so. I’m going to try to find one of the artists and ask him or her to join us. Maybe Mario.”
“Mario. He’s brilliant with people, right?”
He chuckles, and I can picture the grin on his handsome face. Guy’s a fixer, a solver, a person undaunted by problems that can frazzle many of us, like canceled flights, lost luggage, and credit card snafus.
“Absolutely. And he’s savvy enough to know how to talk to a skittish donor.”
He asks about my day, and without having intended to, I find myself padding the details, Hamburger Helper-style. I say, “I went shopping this morning,” instead of I bought a bag of green beans at that little market. I say, “I took a walk,” instead of I stood in the backyard and watched the ferns shiver in the breeze.
“How’s the writing coming?” he asks next. “You starting to feel in the swing again?
“Yup, a bit. I made some notes for the next book.” That’s not exactly true either. All I did was write the word reinvention with a question mark and stare at it for twenty-seven minutes. “Shall I wait and have dinner with you when you get home? I don’t mind eating later.”
“No, don’t wait. I’m honestly not sure how long I’m going to be. Just stick a plate in the fridge for me, okay?”
“Will do,” I say, disguising my disappointment.