Writers block, p.4
Writer's Block, page 4
“I’m sure it is, but I’d really like to go and see the Milton H. Latter Library on St. Charles Avenue. My grandma told me about it, and I put it on my list of stuff I want to see.”
This was a lesson in assuming stuff about people. “The Latter Library doesn’t make any lists of tourist hotspots, but it’s a beautiful place.” She’d done a reading there, and the mansion-turned-library housed collectible books in the splendor of a bygone era. It was the kind of place that made you want to linger. “You should definitely listen to your grandma and go.”
“Thanks.” The woman smiled and went to get her burger. She left Wyatt to eat, and she checked her email to make sure Pippa didn’t need a blood sample or a kidney. Blanche had stuck to her no-calling demand, but there were fourteen emails in her inbox. Impressive for twenty-four hours, considering how long each message was. There was enough psychobabble in each one to make her gag, so it was satisfying to dump them in the trash. She loved the noise email made when it went into the digital can. After all, she didn’t need Blanche to tell her she was going crazy—she’d figured it out on her own.
“Anything else, sugar?” She was never a fan of cutesy nicknames, but the book and library lover deserved some slack. “The pie’s good. It’s my grandma’s recipe.”
“A slice of that then. Can I buy you a slice?” After weeks alone with her imaginary friends and family, human interaction wasn’t such a bad thing.
“Sure, you don’t look like a serial killer ready to go through her death ritual.”
The bizarreness of the statement made her laugh. She was actually pen pals with a couple serial killers in maximum security prisons. In her humble opinion their insight gave her characters that little something extra that made readers sleep with their lights on. It was also the reason she didn’t give live interviews and didn’t put her picture on her book jackets. The world was populated by some sick fucks who shouldn’t be able to spot her on sight.
“I promise, no death ritual if the pie’s good enough.” She smiled, and the woman winked. The short conversation it took to finish the pie was nice, and she welcomed the waitress’s embrace when the tip overwhelmed her. She’d left enough for a trip to New Orleans if she really wanted to go.
“And the paper says you’re kind of bitchy,” her mom said when she got back in the truck. “That was nice.”
“I have my moments.”
She turned up the radio on George Jones, done with human interaction and her head for the day. The lyrics to “He Stopped Loving Her Today” were depressing as hell, which made her wonder if antidepressants were a necessity if you chose a career in country music. If so, meds would never mix with all the drinking. There should be a public health warning.
* * *
Monday came like a body slam in roller derby, only with rain and semiflooded streets. Hayley had already decided on an Uber, not trusting her low-to-the-ground Mini Cooper. The rain hadn’t slacked off since the weekend, so Lucy was in her guest room, not wanting to mess up her freshly done laundry.
She stood in the bathroom and held her hair back, trying to decide if that made her appear more mature in case she had to yell at people. It wasn’t her go-to option—the yelling, not the hair—but she also wasn’t going to spend the next couple of weeks catching everyone up on what they were supposed to be doing without a lot of supervision. She went with a hair-down look to lose the cute cheerleader vibe.
Her bra had to wait when her phone rang, and she smiled at the picture of her father in his coveralls. “Hey, Dad, could you hang on a minute?” She hurried and put on her bra and a blouse since it felt creepy talking to her father half naked. “How are you?”
“Perfect, and your mother sends her love. We checked the national forecasts, so I was calling to make sure you had batteries and emergency supplies.” He was totally serious, and by we, he meant I.
While her mother loved true crime, her father was obsessed with The Weather Channel. Jim Cantore was his kindred spirit, and his preaching about being prepared resonated with her dad. She wanted to answer that she owned a vibrator so of course she had batteries, but saying that out loud would mortify her into a permanent blush, so she went with the standard, “Yes, sir.”
“Good, good,” her father said, sounding like he was from the 1800s. “What are you wearing?”
There was a question she wished some sexy woman was asking. “I think it’s a jeans and galoshes kind of day. Usually I try to look more professional, but I doubt I’ll make it outside. It’s a catch-up week, I’m afraid.”
“Wear something warm, don’t work too hard, and thank you for flying out this weekend. We miss you, but we’re proud of you.” Her father was the sweetest man she knew. “You all set for money?”
“Thank you, and I’m fine. Once I’m through some of these big projects and can spend time showing you around, I’d love for you and Mom to visit.”
“Maybe after we plant again. Once you put it in the ground, it’s a wait-and-see proposition.”
It was weird he’d picked the polar opposite of what he’d done for years as a second career. The life of a farmer was in no way the constant activity beehive of a trader. “Do you ever get bored?”
“I still have some clients I advise, so don’t worry about me going raving mad on you.”
“I was curious, not worried.” She held the phone between her chin and shoulder as she put on mascara. With the weather it was probably a mistake, but her relaxed appearance only went so far. “Love you, and we’ll talk soon, but I’ve got to go.”
“Take care, and don’t forget the batteries and candles. You can never have enough.”
Hayley thought about the closet at the end of the hall, which her father had stocked himself. Clearly you could have enough. She could light up downtown if the power ever went out for any significant amount of time. “Thanks, Daddy, and don’t forget to kiss Mom for me.”
Her Uber blew the horn as she filled her travel mug, and the driver chatted her up until they reached the other side of the Quarter. It was obvious the guy driving thought she’d been waiting for him to show up at her house all her life, and she’d been lucky enough that he had. Some guys were a little out there when it came to flirty behavior.
The building that housed Fleur-de-Lis had once been a coffee processing warehouse, one of three in the Quarter, and she loved that Cornelius had kept some of the old equipment. She was glad to arrive at the office, if only to flee the Uber and make a note to never accept a ride from this guy again.
“Morning, Hay,” Fabio Rodrigue said when she ran in, trying to shut her umbrella. Fabio had been hired day one by Marlo to manage who got in to the building and, eventually, to her. That was his story, and his name really was Fabio. His mother had either been a big fan of romance book covers or was wild about butter substitutes. The name suited him. He and his husband Heinrich invited her over often when the mood to cook hit them. “How was your trip to the boonies?”
“Quiet and restful. It was until Marlo started calling. Seems erotica isn’t for everyone.”
“Girl, Marlo’s the spawn of the devil, and Cheryl’s an idiot. That girl’s got mothballs up all in there.” He nodded sagely at her when she laughed.
“Fab…” She laughed harder at his eye roll. “Make sure Marlo can’t hear you making comments like those.”
“It’s our little secret,” Fabio said in a stage whisper.
“It is, and while I’d love to talk about it some more, I have to get to work. Do you have anything for me?” She flipped through the stack of messages he handed her. All these people had her cell number, which made her want to toss the messages and just let them try her again, but she’d still have to call them back.
“The best advice I can give you is to run,” Fabio said. “This is going to be a shitty day.”
“Horoscope?” She picked up the pile of manuscripts on his desk. The last batch only had two worth pursuing, but another three were possibles if the authors were willing to make revisions. “Or was it your granny’s Tarot cards?”
“Don’t mock the cards, girlfriend, or I’ll have Granny cast you a love spell.” The bracelets on his right hand jingled as he typed something.
“Good, I can use one.”
“I’ll make it specifically for your neighbor George.” He printed the updated schedule and bowed as he gave it to her. “Go by Marlo’s office. She’s been waiting for you.”
“I’m early.” She glanced at her watch to make sure.
“Spawn of the devil, precious. Spawn don’t sleep.”
“They can burn your hair off, though, and give you something disgusting that involves weeping sores.” Marlo walked behind Fabio and made him flinch when she placed her hands on his shoulders. “Stop telling people that. It’s supposed to be on the down-low.”
“On the down-low?” Fabio asked. “Are you channeling the eighties?”
“Don’t throw stones, Fabio,” Hayley said, following Marlo back to her office on the main floor. It’d been the coffee manager’s office once upon a time, and Hayley liked to think she could still smell the coffee beans they used to roast close to here. “Fabio gave me the schedule. We can’t be this far behind.”
“I was trying to finalize some contracts and lost track. That and the false alarm are everyone’s excuse, but Cheryl’s in her own category of hot mess. She understands she’s got to burn all her inhibitions and hang-ups in the yard and get the job done. Understanding and doing seem to be on different planets when it comes to Cheryl. This isn’t kindergarten—you have to do the work or get the fuck out. She’s going to do the work if it kills her.” Marlo dropped into her chair and lit a cigarette. “If I don’t fire her.”
“It’ll be easier and faster if you just let me edit the collection.” She put her stuff on the floor and studied the schedule again. “I can take a month to get all this other stuff going and still get it to print on time.”
“Don’t let Cheryl off the hook. If she’s not comfortable with the books we publish, she needs to go work somewhere else. I’m serious as shit about that.” Marlo put her cigarette down on the overflowing ashtray that reminded Hayley of Jenga since the damn thing appeared not to have been emptied since the sixties.
“I might have a solution we can both live with, but that’s not my priority until we get started on this schedule.” She picked up her pile and got up to leave before Marlo started coughing. “I’ll be upstairs if you need anything.”
“Welcome back. You were missed.”
“Thanks, boss. It’s good to be here.” She smiled as she went up the back stairs to her little domain. Her office was half the size of Marlo’s, but she loved that it overlooked some of the oldest buildings in the French Quarter as well as the manicured garden behind their building. It was the only zen thing she got on most days.
It was still raining when she made it to her desk, and she gave herself a minute to center herself. The weird thought of internet dating of all things came to her again when she saw a romance novel on her schedule, but she laughed it off. Her mother would be the first to warn her that internet dating was an invitation to be chopped into little pieces in someone’s bathtub.
“Maybe I should take a page out of Cheryl’s book and forget about sex. It’s not like I have time for that anyway.”
Chapter Six
The outline of New Orleans was visible through the slacking rain when Wyatt reached the top of the I-10 bridge over the Intracoastal Waterway. The mental fog of the last four days cleared. This was going to be her life until she figured out what real life was going to be.
“Damn, that sounds so depressing,” she said. Traffic was crawling along, and the woman driving the car next to her waved, giving her a big smile. She paused, not really sure what the protocol was. Waving back got her an even bigger smile before the woman took it as a sign to cut in front of her. New Yorkers weren’t often so nice when it came to traffic moves, so this was a first.
The GPS on her phone brought her to the exit that led to Pippa Potts’s real estate office. The small but nice house in the Garden District was pink, and that didn’t surprise her. She’d bet the house she was about to buy that there was a unicorn somewhere inside. A woman stepped onto the porch and waved while she was thinking about it.
“Good afternoon,” the woman said, even though Wyatt’s window was rolled up. Between the rain and the damp cold that defined misery, she hadn’t rolled it down for hours.
“Good afternoon,” she answered after getting out. Despite the rain the woman walked to the gate, carrying an umbrella covered in unicorns, and took her arm. She smiled at the safe bet she’d made in the truck. “Ms. Potts?”
“Yes, but please call me Pippa.”
The pink continued throughout the entryway, and it matched Pippa’s outfit perfectly. “Okay, Pippa, and thank you for getting this done so quickly. Did you have any problems?”
Pippa squeezed her bicep and shook her head, making her hair flounce beautifully. It was the first time she’d used the word flounce in her life, but it fit perfectly. “Heavens, no. The problem we have sometimes is clearing the title, but the Fuller house has been in the same family for over a hundred years. We’ve been waiting for you to arrive.”
“We?”
“Sam Fuller IV is the family’s representative. I told you about Gator on the phone.” They entered a small light lavender conference room, and the middle-aged woman wasn’t what she was expecting. “Gator, this is Wyatt Whitlock.”
She stared, trying to decipher what all this was without asking any questions. This was supposed to be a house sale and not an episode where she was punked. “Nice to meet you.”
“I can see your wheels turning. My great-grandfather was Sam Fuller, and there’s been a Sam Fuller in my family ever since, even in generations when it’s all girls. My youngest niece is Sam Fuller V. I figured you’d like an explanation since you’re buying our family home.” Gator Fuller wasn’t what she’d call overly friendly but more like a grizzly coach who’d kick your ass if you missed a shot. She was a small but fierce woman you didn’t want to turn your back on.
“I’m sure Pippa can find me something else if you’re attached to the house. If it’s been in the family that long, I can see where it’d be difficult to sell it.”
Gator shook her head and laid her hands on the conference table. “No, it’s time, and hopefully you understand the stipulations in the contract.” Gator appeared ready to punch her if she gave any answer other than yes. “You hand over the check, you get our home. No reneging if you have second thoughts once you’ve been inside. The contract’s been signed.”
“Are you in sales?” She took the envelope from her coat pocket and dropped it on the table. “Maybe the hospitality industry?”
“My great-grandmother taught us it’s better to get things right straight off.” Gator glanced at Pippa and rolled her hand in a get-on-with-it motion. “The house has been in our family for decades, but this new generation is more interested in lofts in the warehouse district than grand old places, and I’m too old to deal with having to keep up the old place. It’s pure crazy, but it is what it is. You can’t force your kids to see the treasure right in front of them.”
“My father used to say the same thing when someone wanted to cover up some great feature in a house he was renovating.”
“You get it then.”
They signed everywhere Pippa pointed, and Gator took the envelope with her check. Once it was in hand, she stood to leave as if needing to deposit it to make sure it was good. Pippa walked Gator out and laughed nervously when she came back. The interaction was done, but Pippa had a folder in her hands.
“I thought you might appreciate the names of some good contractors.” Pippa gave her the bright pink folder and took the keys from her jacket pocket. Wyatt wasn’t shocked they were on a unicorn keychain with Pippa’s information stamped on it. “Like I’ve mentioned, the Fuller house isn’t in great shape, and I don’t want you to be disappointed. You can trust all the names in there for whatever work you have in mind.”
“Did they leave a bed, by chance?” Wyatt took the keys and glanced out the window. The weather had cleared somewhat, but the sky was still blanketed with dark clouds, signaling it was only temporary. Even though the weather didn’t appear ideal, the area was beautiful with its mature live oaks and beautiful, meticulously kept grand homes. It made her want to write, the same way she sometimes got the urge to run a marathon—in theory it sounded good, but in practice, not so much. Eventually she’d have to try to write again or embrace the jumble her mind was at the moment.
“The family went through and took what they wanted, but I’m sure there’s a bed or two still in the house.” Pippa clapped her hands together as if she’d told her the house came with a butler and magic beans. “Whatever’s still in the house is all yours.” The clap came again, and it made her nervous.
“Thank you for your help then.” She jiggled the keys and smiled, hoping she didn’t seem deranged.
“Call me,” Pippa blurted out, then blushed. The color of her face and ears clashed awfully with the walls and suit. “I mean, if you need anything, call me.”
“I sure will, thank you again.” She had to squeeze by Pippa but didn’t make it all the way around.
“Can I ask you a personal question?” Pippa put her hand on her forearm to stop her. If every house sale came with a big hug, this was where Pippa’s streak would end.
“Sure,” she said, drawing out the word. When people asked personal questions, it gave her the willies. At signings, giving someone free rein to ask questions at times led to inquires like the exact date she lost her virginity, or what kind of underwear she was partial to. Why anyone needed to know that to enjoy a mystery novel was beyond her, but the questions usually came from older white guys with facial tics. As if being old, white, and male gave someone the right to ask whatever they wanted.
