My Very Best Friend (17 page)

I walk my cats in their four-seated stroller or head into the one-street town, if I must, or I read. I read everything from articles on all aspects of biology, physics, and new scientific discoveries and explorations, to fiction, nonfiction, and romance. I garden. If it is wintertime, and raining more, I listen to classical music and hard rock. Sometimes I am inspired to play air guitar, jumping and spinning, then I smash the invisible guitar on the floor, when I’m feeling especially frisky. In the summers I make jams and jellies with fruits I pick on my own property and on U-Pick farms on the island.

After dinner, I read what I wrote that day, tell myself I’m a terrible writer and that no one should have to read my crap as it might rot their thinking cap. I say things like, “Did you write that, Charlotte? Were you drunk? How does that move the plot along? Do you know how to structure a sentence? I’m asking, I want to know. Why don’t you write about pancakes instead? It would be more exciting for your readers. You can’t be serious. You should quit writing. Buy a nursery and sell plants. Or sell socks.”

While I write in the evening I have a glass of wine. Or two. Three, sporadically. Only the finest stuff, though. Wine is made from grapes. Therefore I am drinking fruit.

Before I go to bed, I recheck all the doors and check that my gun is still loaded, as if the bullets could have jumped out of it during the day. We have no crime on the island. It’s ridiculous that I worry. Over the years I have had fantasies of Toran creeping in through my window in a cat burglar black leather outfit with the buttocks cut out.

The cats curl up on my bed, exhausted from their day.

I read gardening books to combat insomnia and attempt to expand my knowledge and memorization of the Latin names of plants. When the book hits me in the face, I turn over and try to sleep. I am alone when I go to sleep. I am alone when I wake up. Alone.

Except for the cats.

But now I wasn’t alone. Toran slept down the hall.

I liked that. I liked him. My body liked him in a carnal, lusty way. I liked him straight from my brain.

I picked up my journals again. “Help me, Albert. Help me, Marie. Help me, Edgar,” I said out loud. I searched around in my head. I had nothing to say, nothing to write.

The writer’s block was still blocking me.

Why was that?

Why did I not want to write? Why could I not go anywhere with my tenth novel?

I couldn’t figure it out.

So I thought I’d go and help Toran on the farm.

“You want to help me?”

“Yes.”

Toran climbed off the tractor with wheels taller than me and stood before me, the potato plants in rows and rows behind him. “What would you like to do?”

“Anything.”

“Anything?”

“Yes.”

He seemed relieved. “Charlotte, I know you’re brilliant, that you like numbers, and I hate doing the books.”

“I’ll do them.” My, he was tall. I pictured him in those black leather pants, cat burglar style, with the buttocks cut out. I wondered if he would wear them, say, if they were given to him as a gift. “My father taught me how to keep the books starting when I was twelve. I was enthralled by the numbers.”

“I know. I remember coming over to your house and you were at his desk, papers everywhere, and you were using two calculators at one time. Charlotte.” He put his hands up. “If you could do the books, I would be grateful, more than I can say.”

“You would?” I felt hopeful! I could be useful. “I love making numbers work, every single one of them, down to the cent.”

“They drive me straight out of my head.”

“Are your books in your office in the yellow building or at home in your office?”

“Both places. Totally disorganized. Here, there. You’ll want to run me over with a tractor when you see the extent of it.”

“No. I won’t.” I tried to push my glasses up my nose, but they fell off. Toran picked them up and handed them to me, chivalrous warrior. “This is going to be fun. Thrilling, even. I’ll get the books from both places, then I’ll go tackle the numbers. Numbers can hide but they can’t lie, and I’ll figure it out. It’s like a numerical puzzle.”

“I’ll pay you. You are now Chief Financial Officer and on my payroll.”

I waved a hand. “I’ll earn my keep.”

“No. I will pay you.”

“Toran, I—” I stopped. His face was resolute. He put his hands on his hips. He did not smile. He would not argue this point. I heard my mother in my head. “A feminist provides for herself, and she insists that she is paid fairly.” Then, “In a love relationship, don’t ever emasculate your man.”

“Thank you, Toran.”

“There’s a spare office next to mine. You can work in there.”

I turned away, my light brown skirt ruffle spinning.

“Charlotte.”

“Yes?” I turned around.

“Thank you.” It was heartfelt, sincere.

“Thank you.” I stood up on my toes for a second. “Numbers make me giddy.” I cleared my throat. That sounded geeky, albeit true. “They get me charged up.” Darn. “Numbers make me excited.” That was sexual. Keep going, Charlotte, you’re bound to get the right word within the hour. “I mean—”

“I know what you mean, Char. I do.”

Yes, he did. I could tell by that softened-up hard face that he did. I turned away as another image of black leather cat burglar pants with the buttocks cut out tantalized me.

As if my agent, Maybelle Courten, could hear my literary struggles, she called me the next day when I was having spaghetti for breakfast, pouring over Toran’s books. I could tell he didn’t like bookkeeping.

He did not write his numbers precisely or in tight columns. Numbers were missing. There were receipt piles here and there. There were few invoices. There had not been a weekly entry in two weeks except for payroll. I looked for separate client accounts, and they were a mess, too.

I would clean this accounting catastrophe up for him and enter the numbers into the computer. He had recently bought one, but I don’t think he knew how to use it competently yet. I wiggled. My feet did a dance under the table. I could be of help! Was that against my feminist leanings to want to help and have him, a man, be grateful? No, it wasn’t, I decided. I worked for him and I was living free in his home. Aha!

“How is your novel coming along, Charlotte?”

“Dandy.” I swirled the noodles around my fork. I had made garlic bread, too.

“You haven’t written a thing, have you?”

“I cannot lie, because then I would be struck by lightning.”

“Quit indulging your writer’s block. Oh, for God’s sake!” she yelled. “Hang on. . . .” I heard her cover the phone with her hand. “Sheryl, your crotch almost shows in that miniskirt. No one wants to see your crotch, least of all me. No, no one else’s mother allows them to resemble a hooker, and I wouldn’t give a rat’s ass if they did.” She spoke into the phone again. “Tell me your idea for your next book.”

“I am thinking of making a new cement patio with rectangles and squares.”

“Hit me in the face with a goose. Tie my hands with a rattlesnake. Make me eat cardboard, this is a disaster. What does that have to do with your book?”

“I prefer to think of gardening types of things right now. Specifically, geometrically correct patios with a nod toward prime numbers and asymmetrical leanings.”

“Charlotte, what is wrong?”

“I don’t know.”

“Yes, you do, what is it? You’re not writing. Oh, for God’s sake again!” Maybelle put her hand over the phone. “That is not appropriate, either, young lady. You are not going out. You’re going to crawl out your window and leave? Fine, then I will go down to that dark and yucky basement that I know you’re sneaking off to at the Mulligans’ house and I will bring you home. Oh, yes. I would so do it. No, Jamie, you are fourteen, you may not drive me there.” She spoke into the phone again, her voice back to normal modulation. “Tell me, Charlotte. What is it?”

“Parenting teenagers sounds like an enjoyable experience.”

“It’s comparable to a colonoscopy. What’s holding you up?”

I put down the fork. “I don’t have any ideas. I don’t have any enthusiasm. I don’t have any excitement for any topic.”

“It’s McKenzie Rae Dean. She’s always exciting. Here, answer me these questions.” She asked questions—what country was I interested in, what time period, who did I want McKenzie Rae to meet, what problem could she solve? Save one person, save many? I answered. All of my answers were blah.

“Are you even trying to write?”

“No.”

She tried to smother a scream of frustration. “I sent you another one of Kitty Rosemary’s blasted articles. Did you get it?”

“I got it.”

“Someone from your publishing house obviously talked to her.” She shouted, “Randy. Stop singing, it’s too loud. He doesn’t sound like a sick pterodactyl, Jamie, don’t say that. Here, Charlotte, can you talk to Sandy again? She wants to know about mathematical proofs and I don’t have a clue.”

I talked to Sandy for an hour. It’s encouraging knowing the next generation has a passion for the complexities of mathematical equations. When we were done, Randy sang me his songs. He did not sound like a sick pterodactyl. He still thinks I’m groovin’.

Romance Readers and Writers Magazine
By Kitty Rosemary
Books For Chicks Reviewer

GEORGIA CHANDLER AND . . .
YOU WON’T WANT TO MISS THIS!

I’ve come upon a juicy bit of literary gossip, romance reader friends, but I can’t tell you who it’s from.

La-di-da, are you ready? Bra on tight? Holding your breath yet? It seems that the famous Georgia Chandler, of the Romantic Time Travel Adventure books, has writer’s block. Yes, writer’s block. After nine novels.

Her next novel will be late. There is no plot, no summaries, no nothing.

I know, I know, I want to bawl, too. Bring me my lace hankie!

Her readers, who number in the millions, will be sorely disappointed. I can barely stand it. Every time, after I have a bad date, and there are many, the last one with a man named Stuart who I found out later was married with five children and lives in Portland on a street named Oakhills, I pick up one of her books. They empower me, bring out my feisty side.

So what happened to Georgia Chandler?

Well, friends, I have been sleuthing about. There are many scintillating rumors.

Some say that Georgia Chandler has had a nervous breakdown and she is in seclusion in a chalet in Chamonix, France. Others say that she has run off with a Latin lover and doesn’t want to write anymore. Someone else, a prominent source, heard that Georgia is in a spiritual retreat in Cambodia, is not speaking to anyone currently, and is perfecting her prayers and yoga.

I wish we knew the truth but, rest assured, as soon as I know, I will pass on this most intriguing information to you, trusted romance reading friends.

My belief is that she’s with the Latin lover. I’ve always thought that Georgia Chandler simply writes about her own life—and adds the time-traveling storyline in. I’ve heard that she believes in taking charge of her own sexuality, and that means she sleeps with who she wants, when she wants.

Wishing you all wishing wells and romance under starry nights with seductive, polite gentlemen who are able to make a commitment, unlike married father of five (Stuart) on Oakhills Street in Portland, see above.

Ta-ta for now!

Kiss, kiss!

Kitty Rosemary

Molly Cockles Scottish Dancing Pub is in the center of the village in a stone building that looked to be about four hundred years old, give or take a century. Three stories, with a red door and red trim around the arched windows. The windows had that diamond crisscross pattern that reminded me of the castle in Cinderella.

When I arrived, it was dark, the old-fashioned streetlights casting shadows across the cobblestone streets. I could see the candlelight dancing in glass holders on the long wood tables. I squinted at the skinny, minimalized red door. People sure were short back then.

I had told Toran I would meet him here for lobster when he asked. He had a meeting in town with two other farmers. I said, “Yes, thank you. I like butter on my lobster, no hot sauce, no side of coleslaw, no bib.”

“Butter it is, then. No bib.”

Why do I utter such things?

I don’t like bars. Bars are raucous. Too many people. Unpredictable. Dancing, yelling, that new karaoke singing, sometimes punching. I smoothed my hair back and pushed my glasses up my nose. It was a warm night, and my face was sweating. The sweat was probably, biologically, from nerves.

I was wearing my dark brown corduroy skirt. My mother hates it. Last time she saw it, she called it my “pioneer woman who is a bag lady on drugs” skirt. “A feminist stands tall, stands proud, and does not endeavor to dress to hide that she’s a woman. Be proud to be a woman, not a bag lady on drugs, and burn that skirt.”