Plain Jayne (18 page)

“What does Luke-ASS say?”

“He wants me to stay, for some reason. I wish
you had more time, Gus. I’d tell you all about the messed-up shit going on
between him and his wife. As it is, I mostly feel like I’m a pawn he’s using to
annoy her. Quite successfully, I might add.”

“Good gravy! And they say that homosexuals are
a threat to the sanctity of marriage? As if! These two prove that you straight
folks are ruining the institution just fine on your own. Buh-jiggity!”

I giggle at him. “As usual, you have a good
point. I wish you were here to keep this all in perspective and make me laugh
about it. But it’s not very funny usually.”

“Well, you were there first! I say, as long as
you’re still able to write as well as you have been, and Luke-ASS is okay with
your staying, you avoid this Caroline creature—sounds like a big enough house
that it’s possible—and stick to your guns. Hell! Invite me out there this
weekend, as planned, and I’ll have Caroline out the door in five seconds flat.
I have two days to plot how to make it happen. I love a challenge.”

Picturing Gus in the mix makes me laugh and
groan at the same time. “I think this is messed up enough. Thanks for the
offer, though.”

“Oh, sister-friend, I gotta go! I heard Boss
Lady ask the receptionist where I am.”

“Where are you?”

“In the supplies closet.”

“Oh, now, you haven’t been in the closet for
years, Gus.”

“Right? I forgot how claustro-frickin-phobic
it is in here. Smooches! Let me know what you decide, whatever it is, but my
vote is for you to stay put. Indy is so boring!”

“It definitely is, compared to this place,” I
grumble.

“Keep writing. Then when you’ve knocked his
socks off, you can go wherever you want.”

We say goodbye, and I sink to the floor, where
I trace the pattern of the Oriental rug and despair at how the phone call I had
hoped would give me all the answers I needed has only made things more
confusing. Before I called Gus, my plan was to stay with him or go back home.
But he’s reminded me that the very last thing I want to do is to go home to my
solitary life. He’s right; it’s a big house. There’s no reason I have to be in
the presence of Caroline… or Lucas. And at least here I have Paulette to keep me
company when I feel the need for some human interaction. At home, I’ve often resorted
to going to the nearest grocery store and buying things I didn’t need, simply
so I could talk to someone, usually the checker.

I don’t want to be that sad person again.

*****

“She’ll be gone by the weekend,” he murmurs to
me in the corridor outside the library when I finally emerge, still not sure
what I’m going to do.

My tummy jumps. At the news, of course, not at
the fact that he’s standing so close to me that I can smell him. And he smells
good. I mean, he’s still Luke-Ass.

“Okay,” I reply, trying to be cool, when I really
want to jump up and down and say, “Yes!” and possibly even hug him. Maybe.
“That’s good news.”

He inches even closer. “She has a family thing
to go to this weekend at her parents’ place. And then I told her she can stay
at my—our—apartment in the city.”

My guts go cold. “Oh. I see.”

He smirks. “Yeah. I’m making a big sacrifice
for you here, Greer, so you’d better deliver. I mean, no pressure.” Still, he
gets closer. My shoulder’s against his chest now.

“Huh-huh. Right. Well, you don’t have to do
all that for me.”

Intensely, he counters, “It’s the least I can
do. I feel horrible for inviting you here only to have you stuck in the middle
of this ridiculous long-term feud between the two of us. She brings out the
absolute worst in me. It wasn’t always like that, though. I guess the memories
of how it
used
to be are still strong enough to make me hope for that
happiness again someday. Not with her, though.”

When I squirm and shift my weight from foot to
foot, he says, “Sorry. I know, you don’t want to know. And… I don’t know why
I’m telling you all this.” Finally, he backs off.

I duck around him. “I don’t know, either. Has
it stopped raining yet? I’d like to do some more writing today.”

“I thought that’s what you were doing in
there.” He nods to the library. “That’s why I didn’t interrupt you sooner to
tell you about Caroline.”

I try not to feel or appear guilty when I say,
“No. I called my friend, Gus, to ask if I could come back to his place. But his
place is being bug bombed thanks to an unhygienic neighbor.”

Drawing his head back, he says, “Wait. What? I
thought you said you’d give me a few days to figure out what to do with Caroline.”

“I did, but it’s so uncomfortable here, Lucas,”
I whine. “I can’t concentrate!”

“I told her to leave you alone.”

“Yes, the whole house heard you. I think they
heard you down on the beach, too.”

“The only way to get through to her sometimes
is to shout. I’m not proud of my bad temper, but… she drives me insane.”

“Okay, fine. But don’t you think it puts me in
an awkward position to know that you two are arguing so loudly about
me
?
And it’s all so pointless. I don’t have to be here.”

“Yes, you do.”

Without touching me at all, he steers me into the
previously-locked room and closes the double doors behind us. I perch on the
edge of a roll-top desk that’s open and has quite a few papers scattered on its
surface. The papers are littered with aggressive red editor’s marks. So
this
is what goes on in here. To find out it’s his plain Jane
office-away-from-the-office (and not some sacrosanct sex closet) is mildly
disappointing. Unless there are secret compartments, storing kinky sex
equipment…

“You’re a damn good writer,” he pulls my
attention back to him by telling me what every teacher I’ve had since the sixth
grade has told me (although they may not have used those exact words). “But the
writing you’ve done here… It’s on a whole other plane. As a matter of fact, it’s
so markedly different that we’re going to have to do some considerable blending
to make it match the rest of the book.” When he sees my face sag, he quickly
says, “But that’s not a problem at all, and I’m sure it won’t take long, and I
don’t want you to worry about that right now.” He sits in the desk chair,
steeples his fingers, and swivels. “What I’m saying is… you’re writing out of
your mind. Here. And it’s not that I don’t think you’re capable of doing the
same thing elsewhere, but… why take the chance? You’re here. It works.”

I absently rub at a tiny patch of fine stubble
on my knee that I missed while shaving this morning. Reluctantly, I tell him,
“I know. You’re right. I’ve never written like this before. Ever.” I hazard a
glance up at him. “I feel like… my mind is opening up to creative avenues that
I didn’t even realize existed before.”

My attempt to be vague makes me sound flaky,
but what I can’t tell him in so many words is that I wrote an entire sequence
this morning that had nothing at all to do with anything that happened in my
real life. It was entirely made up. Telling him that would probably confuse the
hell out of him, though. Actually, he’d likely jump to the conclusion that I’ve
plagiarized the rest of the book. I definitely don’t want him to suspect that.
But I also don’t want him to know how non-fiction my fiction novel is.

For one thing, I don’t want to explain
how
real
it is. “What about this part? And this part?” “Yeah. It all happened.” Or “No,
I changed that to make it more believable.” Then, I don’t want to see the, “Oh,
shit, you poor thing,” look that will inevitably take up residence on his face
every time he sees me. Even if it’s for only a split second, it’ll be there.
No, it’s better that he thinks I’m a fiction writer who’s too unimaginative to
come up with a better demise for her protagonist’s family than a tired, old
fire.

The point is… I’m willing for the first time
to legitimately make whole sections of the book fiction. That’s something I’ve
never considered before. For the most part, I’ve been faithful to history to a
fault, possibly to the detriment of the book.

That being said, the tornado idea has grown on
me since I’ve arrived here at the beach house. I’m willing to at least try to
write it that way—in a separate document—and see if it still works. He’s right
that it would be less cliché, as long as I can write it in a non-
Wizard of
Oz
way.

“Well, I’m glad your friend’s place is
unavailable, then,” he interrupts my impromptu brainstorm about tornado
imagery. “Unfortunately, that means two more days under the same roof with Caroline,
but I think she finally got the message about staying away from you.”

He leans forward and straightens some of the
papers on his desk.

I look over his shoulder out the window and see
with dismay that it’s still raining. And it looks like one of those storms that
takes its sweet time passing through, too. Before I can stifle it, a sigh
escapes my chest and rattles my lips.

Bemused, he watches me hop down from the desk
and go to the window, where I gaze wistfully toward the gazebo, which is barely
visible through the downpour.

“What is it now?” he asks with a slight edge
to his tone.

“I like to write out there,” I say simply.

“Then take a break while it rains. Read a
book.” He thrusts a messy handful of papers at me. “Read
this
book.
Please. So I don’t have to.”

I feel sorry for the author who worked so hard
to write that, only to have it become someone else’s chore. Glancing at the
pages, I say, “It’d be difficult to read after what you did to it.”

He shrugs. “It’s shit. What can I say? Even
the bestsellers lay an egg now and then.”

My eyes widen. “
That’s
a bestseller’s
work?”

“I wouldn’t call it ‘work.’ I’d call it, ‘I
think I’m a publishing god, and I’d rather spend my time on the beach in Cabo
than fulfill this five-book deal that made it possible for me to afford this
one-month vacation, so here’s something I slapped together; now, make it work.’
That’s what I’d call it.”

“Oh.”

He rolls his eyes. “Makes me wish
I
were in Cabo.”

“Well, I
want
to write. I don’t want to
take a break. I have some good ideas that I want to get down before I forget
them.”

He stares at me as if I’m mentally deficient.
“Then write, Jayne. What do you want me to tell you?”

“Where, though?” I nearly moan, staring
longingly at the soggy gazebo again.

“Wherever you want, for fuck’s sake! I’m sure
you can find somewhere in this house that’s quiet and has the correct feng shui
to suit your delicate constitution.” He scoots closer to the desk. “In my case,
it’s this room. And I have a lot of work to do. Negotiations with Caroline have
set me way back. Not to mention that telecommuting is not ideal for me. I’d
rather be in my office in the city. But we can’t always have what we want,
right?” With that, he hunches over the thick stack of paper on his desk, uncaps
his red pen, and appears to get back to work.

Since he hasn’t explicitly told me to get out,
I linger for a while, looking around the large room. It’s large and airy, with
high, punched-tin ceilings, a fireplace, and plenty of windows. Facing the back
and side yards, those windows yield a marginal view of the ocean. The walls are
a light brown, reminiscent of coffee with heavy cream. The dark wood accents
contrast nicely to give it a masculine but cozy feel. In addition to the
roll-top desk and Lucas’s mesh office chair, there’s a grouping of butter
yellow chairs and a sofa around a low, square coffee table, centered in front
of the fireplace. It’s a calming room.

“Jayne…”

His warning tone lets me know I’ve overstayed
my welcome. “Sorry. I’ll be leaving now. Good luck with your editing.”

I have my hand on the curved door lever when
he half-turns toward me and says, “You’re welcome to work in here until the
rain stops. Caroline definitely won’t bother you in here. And as long as you
don’t do anything odd like talk out loud to yourself when you write…?”

I shake my head vigorously. “No. I’m quiet.”

“Then be my guest.”

It’s worth a try. I can sit on the couch and
still get a glimpse of the ocean now and then, when I look up from my laptop.
And if Caroline never comes in here, that’s another huge factor in the room’s
favor.

“That would be nice,” I say. “Thanks, Lucas.”

He nods and goes back to his papers. “But just
one thing.”

I tense. “Yes…?”

“Please, stop calling me Lucas.
She’s
the
only one who insists on calling me that. I hate it.”

“Oh. Sorry.”

“It’s not your fault. But if we’re going to be
officemates, you should know.” When he says nothing else but makes a loud slash
through half a page of text in front of him, I figure our conversation is over
and run upstairs to get my laptop.

Chapter Fifteen