Plain Jayne (16 page)

I lean sideways and look up at him. Nodding to
the blanket, I say, “I’ve heard of separate bedrooms, but this is pretty
extreme.”

“What?” he snaps. Then he tones down his
annoyance when he realizes I’m joking. “Oh. This is for you, not me.” He unceremoniously
drops the blanket in a bunch onto my shoulders and sits next to me. “It gets
cold down here by the water. Paulette suggested I bring you this, since you’ve
been gone so long. I was expecting to have to traipse up and down the beach,
looking for you.”

I unfurl and arrange the blanket more securely
around me. “No traipsing necessary. See, I’m not so high-maintenance, after
all. I’m sure Tom Ridgeworthy is a much bigger diva.”

He stares out at the water and says
cryptically, “You’re definitely nothing like Tom Ridgeworthy.”

Under the warmth of the quilt, I uncurl myself
and sit cross-legged, allowing my hoodie to return to its original shape.
“Thanks… I think.” I choose to take it as a compliment, anyway, since Tom
Ridgeworthy, dressed in his bomber jacket and aviator sunglasses, as if he’s a
real-life action hero, looks like a douche on his book jackets. “And thanks for
the blanket.”

“Like I said, Paulette was worried about you.
Not that she’ll admit it. And I think she was off to bed when I was on my way
down here.”

“Okay…”

He sifts sand through his hands, watching it
fall into tiny mounds next to his legs. “I regret what I said earlier to you.”

This statement that sounds somewhat like an
apology gets my attention. “Oh? Which part?”

His focus remains on the sand. “You’re not a
sucky writer. I didn’t say you were, anyway. But the more I thought about it,
the more I realized it sounded like I did. I only meant… if you can’t make
readers feel what you’re feeling, then you’re a sucky writer. But I know you
can.” Finally, he looks over at me and seems surprised that I’ve been staring
at him the whole time. “I know you can,” he repeats.

I look away. “Hmm,” is all I say.

“What does that mean?”

After thinking about it for a while, I answer,
“It means, ‘hmm.’” I smile over at him. “I appreciate your vote of confidence,
but—no offense—I already know that.”

“But—”

“The challenge is… can I make
you
feel
what I’m trying to convey? You’re obviously a harder sell than the average
reader, who is
not
my mom, by the way.”

He winces. “That was a low blow, I suppose.”

Two sort-of apologies in one conversation? I
feel obligated to cut him some slack for his trouble. “Granted, my friend, Gus,
is an easier sell than the average reader. He cries about everything. I once
witnessed him tear up at a toilet paper commercial, because ‘those cartoon
bears are just so skip-boppety cute!’”

“‘Skip-boppety’?”

“Gusese for ‘darned’ or the multi-purpose
‘fucking,’” I translate.

He laughs. “Okay, then. This Gus sounds like a
character.”

“He is. He would call this whole thing between
you and your wife a ‘bajiggity situation.’”

This makes him laugh even harder, but then he
stops abruptly. “Wait.” He puts his hand over the blanket on my arm. “Where
have I heard that…? Hang on… Gus
is
a character! Is Gus Jack? Or vice
versa?”

For some odd reason, I feel caught. “Uh…”
Well, what’s the point in denying it? Writers use real people in their lives as
inspiration all the time. “Yes. Jack is based on my friend, Gus. He’s so…
colorful. He deserved to be a character in a book.”

Teasing, he asks, “So does that mean you’re
Rose?”

“No!” I immediately and adamantly reply. Damn.
I meant to be a lot more casual and carefree about it if and when he asked me
that.

“I see.”

“She’s really not,” I lie insistently.

“That’s fine. I was simply wondering.”

“Now you know.” I stand and wrap the blanket
more tightly around me. “Anyway, I’d better go pack up my stuff and head inside
for the night.” I bend over to retrieve my flip flops and nearly topple over on
the uneven surface underfoot.

Lucas catches me. “Careful.”

Regaining my balance, I blush. “Sorry.”

“It’s not a problem. I don’t want you to
sprain your ankle, though. Maybe I should carry the blanket?”

He reaches for it, but I pull away. I don’t
want to relinquish the quilt, although I’m not sure why. “No! I mean… it’s
fine. I’m stiff from sitting for so long. But I’m fine now.” I slide my feet
into my flip-flops and shake the sand from them one at a time before making my
way over the dune in the direction of the gazebo.

I glance over at Lucas, who’s concentrating on
his feet as we walk through the sandy grass that gradually gets lusher and
lusher the closer we get to the house.

When I peel off to retrieve my writing
supplies in the gazebo, he lifts a hand and says wearily, “G’night, Jayne.”

I duck my head. “Night.” Then I head up the
steps into the gazebo, where I can see my laptop sitting exactly as I left it.
Well, almost. It was open last time I saw it, but now it’s closed.

Chapter Thirteen

I can’t sleep. Normally, I’d write, but for
the first time I can remember, I don’t want to write. I want to do something
normal. What do normal people do when they can’t sleep?

Watch TV.

I creep through the quiet, sleeping house in
search of a television. I think I remember what one looks like. I haven’t owned
one in a long time. I don’t watch enough TV to bother with owning one and
paying for cable or satellite or any other service. Plus, I can stream online every
show I want to watch, like all the period dramas on PBS and BBC and… Ooooh!

I stop in my tracks at the bottom of the
stairs to the basement when I come around the corner, only to be confronted by
the biggest, shiniest, flattest TV I’ve ever seen.

“Pretty…” I breathe stupidly. Plopping down
onto the overstuffed couch, I grab the remote from the low coffee table and
study the device. It looks like something designed by NASA for use by
astronauts (or at least someone much smarter than I am).

Okay… power. That’s straightforward.

The TV comes on with a soft click. A blue
screen tells me to “press OK.” After searching on the large remote, I find the
appropriate button. An infomercial blares out at me, “ALL THIS FOR ONLY $19.99!
BUT WAIT!”

I quickly locate the volume controls and press
firmly on the bottom button until the program becomes little more than a
murmur. Holy crap, that was loud. My heart knocks in my chest and thumps in my
ears.

When the adrenaline rush subsides, I focus on
the remote once more. Channels. Okay. I scan up until I get to the upper
channels like HBO and Cinemax. What’s this?

“Oh!” I say out loud as my brain registers
that I’m looking at two naked people writhing against each other in an
elevator. My finger poised over the channel button, I watch for a few minutes.
Hmmm… That actually looks… nice. Well, that may not be the best word for what
they’re doing, but it looks fun, in any case. I seem to remember it was somewhat
fun. But a lot of work to get to… that… point. Not that I ever did anything
like that in an elevator. Or anywhere close to being public. I just mean… Oh,
never mind. I know what I mean.

I reluctantly change the channel when watching
the two actors (that’s all they are, I have to remind myself) makes me sweat
along my hairline. Eventually, I settle on a period piece on the BBC that’s
decidedly less sexual but will probably put me to sleep as effectively as a
good schtupping. I relax back into the couch cushions and pull my knees up to
my chest. There’s something about English accents that makes me feel all warm
and fuzzy and…

I wake up on my side, having toppled over in
my sleep at some point. My muscles are tense from trying to generate body heat
in the chilly basement. On the television is a whimsically-drawn cartoon featuring
little English characters. The young boy is helping the young girl, Lola, catch
a spider from the bathroom sink. She’s thanking him profusely in her adorable
accent. “Thank you ever so much, Charlie. You know I’m not keen on spiders.”

Keeping my eyes on the television, I pull a
blanket from the back of the couch and lie on my side once more, settling in to
watch the clever show. I’m laughing out loud at another adorable yet grownup-sounding
line when a voice behind me startles me.

“I never would have pegged you for a cartoon
watcher.”

My laugh sticks in my throat, and I stiffen,
but I don’t move. Finally, I say, “This is the first time I’ve watched this
show. First time I’ve watched TV in months.”

He comes closer, standing behind the couch,
looking first down at me and then at the television. “TV rots your brain.”

“Precisely. But this show is smart.”

“It’s a children’s program.”

“Yeah. I guess that’s why it’s smart. Adults
don’t require intelligent programming anymore. We’re content with killing our
brain cells with reality shows. But this is great.”

He comes around the couch and sits at the
other end, where he wedges himself into the corner and leans back as if he’s
studying the show for academic purposes. I curl up more tightly to give him
some extra space. He crosses his legs, resting his ankle on his knee. I have no
idea what time it is, but he’s already dressed, so I assume it’s some normal
time in the morning and not terribly early. I’d ask, but I’d rather continue
watching the show. I want to know what happens to the spider and if Lola ever
learns to be more “keen” on spiders in general.

When the episode’s over, he chuckles and looks
over at me. “You’re riveted.”

“I love it. It’s so… quirky. I think I’ve found
a new hero in this Lola character.” I stretch and then pull my leg quickly back
when my foot nudges his hip.

“Did you sleep down here all night?” he asks,
sitting forward and putting his elbows on his knees.

“I’ve been here since about two,” I admit. “Couldn’t
sleep.”

“I couldn’t, either,” he shares. “But I sat up
in bed, reading. What on earth did you find to watch at that hour? It’s all
infomercials and porn.”

I will not blush like a guilty teenager.
Riiight… “Uh… Hmm. I think it was an adaptation of
Jane Eyre,
if I’m not
mistaken. It didn’t take long for it to put me to sleep. Mission accomplished.”

He laughs. “Maybe I should have come down
here. My reading wasn’t much help.”

Imagining him walking in on what I was
watching for a short time before
Jane Eyre
makes me blush in earnest. To
hide it, I pretend to rub sleepily at my face. “What were you reading?
Something for work or for pleas—not work?”

“I was actually doing some research, for
personal purposes. Anyway… I guess I should let you get some breakfast and get
to work.”

I can practically hear the whip cracking.

Defensively, I say, “I’ll get there. I’ve
never needed a task-master before.”

He blinks at me before saying levelly, “That’s
not what I meant.”

“I’m sure. The sooner I finish my book, the
better, right?”

“For everyone, most of all, you. But—”

“Most of all, you. Then you can give Caroline
her house back.”

I move to sit up and set my feet on the
ground, but only one leg makes it before he grabs my other ankle. “Stop
worrying about Caroline. I told you, I’ll deal with her.”

“You wouldn’t have to deal with her, if I
weren’t here.” I jerk my foot away from his grasp, sit up, and move as far away
from him on the couch as possible.

“But I only have myself to blame for that. I
invited you to stay here. And it’s my fault that this house is even an issue. I
should have divorced her a long time ago. I’ve procrastinated too long.” He
rubs his jaw. “But… I love this house. And once we’re divorced, it’ll go to
her, like everything else that I only have because I’m married to her.”

“That’s a shitty reason to stay married to
someone you don’t love.”

“True,” he allows. “She has her shitty reasons
to stay married to me, too, though. And until now, it’s worked out fine. I knew
it wouldn’t last forever, though. Nothing does with her.”

I’d rather not know any of this. I mean, I
know
couples like them exist, but actually being in the presence of one such
couple is extremely depressing. I’m no romantic, but I’d rather be alone the
rest of my life than ever be part of a relationship or marriage that’s based
more on convenience and tax breaks than love. Maybe I
am
a romantic,
after all. A closet romantic.

“Well, this is uplifting, inspiring
conversation, but now that you mention it, I
am
hungry and would like to
try to get some work done, if for no other reason than to decide if it’s worth
staying here to try to get any work done,” I snipe.

He stands when I do. “I’m sorry you got
involved in this. I am. It’s… complicated.”