Writers block, p.22
Writer's Block, page 22
July 1913
Sam asked Lydia the night before if she wanted to change her mind. He told her he’d completely understand if she did. As Lydia’s mother pinned the veil on her head, she remembered Sam almost coming to attention when she finished dressing him down for asking such an asinine question. It’d been a month since Sam had spoken to her father, and she was ready to start their lives together. Maybe if they were under the same roof, she could teach Sam to not be so muleheaded.
“You have any questions?” her mother asked.
Lydia smiled and shook her head. She doubted her mother could help her with the rather different wedding night ahead of her. The truth was her mother would croak on the spot had she really had any questions. The thing was, though, from the day Sam had told her the truth, any fear she had of marriage disappeared. Unlike most of her friends who had married the year or so before, she was getting a true partner in Sam. This wasn’t going to be a marriage where she’d have no voice, and knowing Sam’s truth paved the way to commit to Sam completely.
“Your father shared something with me about Sam.” The hesitancy of her mother’s words moved her to make eye contact in the mirror they were both facing. “He said Sam couldn’t father children, but he’s a man.”
“He is,” she said, curious as to where this was leading.
“That might be true, about his fertility, but he’s still going to have expectations of you. All men do, and if you have any questions after you return from New Orleans, I’ll be happy to talk to you. And don’t let him get away with any rough stuff.”
If her prayers were answered, Sam would have expectations of her as often as they could get away with. “Thank you, Mama, but Sam loves me too much to hurt me.” On that she was willing to bet her life. If Sam’s kisses and touch when they were truly alone were any indication of how good Sam made her feel, they might not make it to New Orleans. “I’m sure we’ll figure it out, and I’m also sure you’ll be a grandmother. You keep telling me about faith, and mine is firm in that I’ll make Sam a father.”
“I hope so, sweetheart. Motherhood is a truly blessed calling.”
Their church wasn’t a big place, so some of their guests were standing along the wall when her father walked her down the aisle. She’d told Sam not to waste money on a new suit that would only hang in the closet most days, and she smiled seeing him in his dress uniform.
Yes, sir, Sam Fuller could make you weep he was so easy on the eye. She shivered when Sam held her hand and said his vows before placing a ring on her finger. The day he’d proposed with a diamond ring, she’d been the envy of her friends because she was the only woman who had one. This new simple band added to that one made her feel complete.
A few folks laughed when Sam announced they were leaving early but that had cut through the tension created by Sam inviting Lester and his family, including his brother, who’d come in for the wedding. They’d not said anything ugly, but Lydia could tell they were thinking it. Some of their so-called family friends had chalked it up to Sam not being a local, so he didn’t know any better. Had he announced he thought of Lester and his family like his own, the wedding reception would’ve ended way before it did.
“You can get mad at me now, but I got you a wedding present without talking to you about it first. I promised you we’d discuss all the big decisions, but I also promised your father I’d take good care of you.” Sam shifted the delivery truck and drove to a section of town she’d never visited before. “Lester and his friends helped me fix it up, so it’s like new. Hope you like it.”
The house where they stopped was as amazing as it was massive. “You bought us a house?”
“Sweetheart, you’d be miserable in that shack I’m in now, and this will give us more privacy.” Sam went around and opened her door. “It’ll also give you more places to hide when I chase you around the house.” He scooped her up and carried her inside. “Welcome home, my love, and thank you for giving me one.”
That’s about all the talking they did until the morning as Sam touched her in ways you didn’t talk about in polite company. Suffice to say, Lydia was waiting naked on the bed most afternoons when she finished at the stand in the French Market. Sam and Lester worked out a deal where Lester ran the farm, and one of Lester’s sons drove the produce into town. It’d taken a year for Sam to buy more land to keep up with the demands from restaurants that wanted anything they grew, and their large stand in the French Market always had a long line of people waiting too.
One day, a young woman came by the house, asking them to take her newborn baby. Seemed some of the girls in the red-light district had caught a glimpse of them and had seen how Sam treated Lydia when they were shopping for furniture on Royal Street, and word had gotten around that the couple had a big home and no children. The young woman explained that she had enough to deal with to add a baby to the mix. Once her friends found out about Sam’s accident, offering them her baby seemed like maybe it could be a good option. Lydia and Sam had been ecstatic and welcomed the new baby with open arms. And then a few more girls came to the house over the years with the same need, until Sam and Lydia decided the house couldn’t accommodate more than eleven.
“You think they’ll eventually stop screaming?” Sam asked as he walked from one end of their room to the other, bouncing two baby boys. They were their only twins in their bunch and required a lot of care.
“Eventually, until the grandkids start showing up, but I promise it’ll be fun.” Lydia watched Sam and wondered if her heart could actually burst from being this happy. She’d taken a chance and married the person she loved, and now she had everything she’d ever wanted.
Wyatt had read about the chaos of raising a family that large when they were all fairly close in age. The years Lydia and Sam lived happily together throughout the chaos gave her hope for her own future, especially when she considered her own parents. The possibility of seeing Lydia and Sam’s ghosts when she went back to New Orleans wasn’t something she feared any longer.
“And you shouldn’t,” her mother said.
Wyatt put the journal down and laughed. “Don’t worry, I’m going back to test the waters. Maybe she’ll eventually get over being mad about the things I’ve lied about.”
“You’re too good-looking to stay mad at. It’s what saved your father from an earlier demise.”
She went upstairs with the last journal she had yet to read because Lydia hadn’t included it as part of her novelization of her and Sam’s life together. The fact that it was the last one made her sad since she’d come to enjoy getting to know the Fullers through Lydia’s words, and she’d put this one off as long as she could. To her the journals belonged in the house where they’d lived and loved.
The quick flip through the pages showed the last journal was almost completely empty. She looked up Lydia’s obituary and was amazed she’d written a week before her death. The handwriting still held traces of the beautiful script she’d come to love, but these last few paragraphs were a lot shakier.
February 1997
To the one who finds what I left,
It’s my hope that you read the story with the intent I had in writing it. My life with Sam isn’t such a strange thing nowadays. Today I’m only an old woman, missing the other half of my soul. Sam Fuller gave me a more complete life than I would’ve had with any man. He was mine, and I loved him with all I am.
Our children were wonderful additions to our lives, and as adults they’ve built the business Sam started on his own with Lester’s help. I look back now, and the years have come in a rush, piling up before I was ready. You can’t know how much I miss that young woman who ran through the house with every intention of being caught. As we grew older, I ran much slower and enjoyed Sam wrapping me up in his arms and taking me to bed.
Aren’t I a rebel for talking like that? If you’re one of my great-great-grandkids reading this, take it as a lesson to never settle, to not let anyone tell you who it’ll be who makes you happy. I read something recently as folks fight for gay rights that struck a chord with me. Love is love.
Sam was my love, and I know he’s waiting for me somewhere nice because what we shared was in no way a sin. It won’t be long now, so treat each other kindly and search for whatever or whoever will make life worthwhile. You never know where that might happen, but don’t ignore that first glance that’ll grab you and won’t shake loose. I didn’t, and I had a wonderful life because of it.
—Lydia Fuller
* * *
Hayley sighed when she found George waiting on her porch when she got home from work. She really needed to get a sturdy lock for the gate. “Hello, George.”
“Hey, hope you don’t mind, but I was chasing this guy down.” He was holding a rabbit who wanted off his lap. Even the animals knew enough to get away from him. “DJ helped me and said they’re almost done over there.”
“Oh yeah.” She stopped listening when the FedEx truck stopped in front of her house. She wasn’t expecting anything, but sometimes Lucy had stuff mailed to her house. Work had been crazy after Cheryl had resigned to dedicate herself to mission work before the last of her soul was lost forever, so she’d been too busy to even shop online.
“Ms. Hayley Fox?” the guy asked, lugging a big box.
“That’s me.”
“I need to see some ID. It’s in the directions.” He finally handed the package over after she’d signed for it.
The box seemed to be something for work, which meant she shouldn’t be receiving it at home. If this was Fabio’s idea of a joke, she was stealing his lunch in retaliation. “Excuse me, George.” She was curious enough that she opened it right away, with George trying unsuccessfully not to look nosy.
It contained a manuscript, a letter, and a Jumpdrive. Whoever this person was didn’t follow directions well. The submissions protocol on their website was very specific, which made her want to send this back saying all that. She’d at least read the letter first, though.
Hayley,
For the longest time all I knew about you was your name. It took a bit of digging and asking around to find out more than that. From what I can tell, you’ve brought plenty to your job and have given the work the time and attention it deserves. That kind of respect is what I’m looking for with the enclosed manuscript.
Let me know what you think, so please be honest. I think I need more of that in my life, and you’re the editor to do it. At least I’d like you to be, but only if you’re interested. If it’s not too late, send me a contract for the two short stories as well, but I was way late in my submission, so I’ll understand if they can’t be included.
I’d also like to apologize for the one thing I did lie about, but that’s more story than can be told in a letter. So please give me the opportunity to explain before you write me off completely. I miss you.
Joe
She scanned the letter again, happy for the first time in weeks. Receiving it was a bigger shock than Joe being a writer, although she certainly knew she had a talent for it, thanks to the sensual short stories. It explained all the time Joe spent at home. It had nothing to do with snakes and train robberies or the development of putt-putt courses. She answered her phone without taking her eyes off the letter. “Hello.”
“Did you read the literary news of the day?” Marlo spent a few minutes a day trying to figure out what big author was doing what and how that might give them an opportunity for the publishing house.
“No, George is over. Hold on a minute.” She dropped her phone and bag to unlock the door, not wanting to put the manuscript down. “Thanks, George.” He put all her stuff inside before waving in acknowledgment and heading back to his place when she held up the phone. “I owe you one for getting him to leave early,” she told Marlo.
“Wyatt Whitlock is leaving her publisher.” Marlo continued as if Hayley had never said a word. “We need someone who knows her to try to set up a meeting.” Marlo stopped to cough up a lung, then wheezed for a minute. “You were in New York—do you have any ideas?”
“Are you talking about the mystery writer? I read all her books in college whenever I had free time. She can give you chills with some of the villains she writes.”
“She is to mystery what Nora Roberts is to romance. It’ll be a major win for whoever signs her, though I hear she hasn’t been writing since the death of her parents.”
“It’ll be a loss if she stops. She’s excellent.” She placed Joe’s manuscript on the kitchen counter and placed her hand over the leather cover it was bound with. “She’s a very private person from what I remember, always saying the work is what should matter.” She flipped the cover open and stopped moving. “Holy crap.”
“What’s wrong?” Marlo sounded hypervigilant. “Is it that Walton woman again? The stripper statue isn’t that bad. People will be sad if it comes down.”
“I got a manuscript delivered to the house today.”
“Who the hell is mailing you stuff at home, and how’d they get your address?”
“Wyatt Whitlock.” This was surreal. Butch—Joe—was really Wyatt Whitlock. That checked off the rest of her wish list. Not the fame or money, but the love of the written word. Lucy had been the only woman she’d met who loved books. Now she’d met another one who was perfect for her, and she’d told her to fuck off.
“Hayley,” Marlo said loudly, “did you pass out or something?”
“Sorry, what?”
“How’d you come to get Whitlock’s new book? And if you’re kidding, I’m firing you and hiring Roberta Sue to picket your house.”
“Joe is Wyatt Whitlock, which fits better than Joe, don’t you think?” She realized she was talking to her phone. Marlo had hung up.
And Marlo was knocking on the door before she could get past Wyatt’s title, The Woman in the Window.
Marlo read the letter and picked up Hayley’s phone and shoved it in her hand. “Call her right now.”
“I have called her, and she’s not answering her phone. Believe me, I’ve tried numerous times.” She caressed the book. “But obviously she’ll be in touch with me soon, given what she said in the letter.”
“Why oh why didn’t you sleep with her?” Marlo said and laughed. “I’m kidding, before you sue me. Let’s try to find out who her agent is. I don’t want to wait until you two work out the personal shit. We can start the paperwork to lock this down. How about a round of miniature golf while we talk out the details?”
“I’ll pass, and I think you have to have more than one hole to have a round of golf. Plus, George is on the prowl, and Belle isn’t his favorite subject.”
“Who’s Belle?”
“DJ told me that’s what Wyatt named the lady in the yard. Not a stretch if you imagine a younger Maybelle. Here”—she handed over the Jumpdrive—“you can’t have the bound copy.” She expected Marlo to run out, and she didn’t disappoint. For the first time since Wyatt had left, she didn’t feel lonely, so she took the manuscript and went up to her chair.
“Not a very imaginative title, honey.”
She started reading and realized why the two short stories were familiar. She really had read all of Wyatt’s books, and she had a distinctive voice. It was easy to get lost in the story, which really wasn’t a mystery in the truest definition, but in her opinion it was the best book Wyatt had written so far.
The phone rang again a couple of hours later—Marlo—and she couldn’t believe she had already finished. “I forgot to ask you one thing.”
“What’s that?” She stood and stretched, going down for a soft drink and to move her legs.
“The two short stories, fact or fiction?”
“I’d tell you, but why ruin all your rampant speculation with the truth.” She laughed when Marlo made a rude noise before hanging up. The lights were on next door, and she stared at the house through her kitchen window. There were still plenty of people coming to take pictures of Belle, but like she’d told George, she doubted it’d be a permanent fixture.
The idea of hiring DJ’s guys to finish her house was running through her head when she noticed the kitchen window across the way. Wyatt’s back was to her, but she’d recognize that ass anywhere. She ducked when Wyatt turned around. It wasn’t that she didn’t want to see her, but not in sweats, not again.
She’d take a shower and then put something on that would give Wyatt no choice but to come over and pick up where they’d never started. There was no time like now to try new things. “Get ready for a welcome home you won’t forget.”
Chapter Twenty-nine
Wyatt moved the rest of her stuff in and finished setting up the office. DJ and his crew hadn’t finished the kitchen, so they’d moved the coffeepot and microwave to the hallway, making it easy to smell the pot that was almost finished brewing. So far, she was happy with the work they had finished, and she’d moved into the main bedroom with the nice new bathroom, shower, and bed.
The clutter was also gone, taking the musty smell with it. Once she got her bearings, she was inviting Hayley over for a talk. She had some good news to celebrate. Gator had talked it over with her family, and they’d agreed to take a check for the journals if she made them a copy. It was sad—not all of them wanted to know Lydia and Sam’s secrets, but Gator had been thrilled to hear what trailblazers her relatives had been. Gator’s wife Patricia sounded pretty excited as well.
She was anxious to find out what Hayley thought of her new book since she was planning on making it into a new series set in the Fuller house. That was the only thing in the book taken from real life, but she figured her new main character would love solving crimes in the Big Easy.
The one person always on her mind, though, was Hayley. She’d never in her life considered herself a romantic, yet watching and sharing moments with Hayley without exchanging a word had soothed those parts of her that had been bleeding and sore for months. Her pain wasn’t the first thing she thought of anymore whenever she had a moment of quiet.
