What am I doing here? Faith Lewellyn scrawled into her journal. She'd started a new one with a gold textured cover and a sturdy spiral spine for this class. Earlier she'd printed Creative Writing with Niall Killian on the first line of the first page. And now this — a question without an answer. What am I doing here? Temporary insanity was her only excuse, especially since her husband, Ben, thought she was —
"Welcome, everyone." The instructor for the community college class perched on the corner of the teacher's desk at the front of the room and gave a smile that was both self-assured and friendly. A good five years younger than Faith, Niall Killian was a nice-looking guy with short dark hair and trendy frames for his glasses. His lithe body was encased in black clothing.
He looks like he's from New York. I wonder if he's married. He's sexy in an intellectual way, but doesn't wear a ring.
Faith couldn't help jotting her thoughts into her journal. This sort of writing had become habit to her, honed from years of watching Robert's soccer games, listening to Thomas on piano, and more recently, waiting in the car during Jessica's tap lessons.
She'd been the first to arrive this evening. Now about twenty people, ranging from young adults to seniors, shared the classroom with her. Most were women but there were a few men, too. One sat three rows up from Faith. He had wild, sandy hair and an ungroomed appearance that tagged him as either the struggling-artist type or a vagrant looking for a warm place to spend a few hours.
"I'm glad to see so many breathing bodies in the room — I never expected much of an enrollment, to tell you the truth."
Niall's frank honesty was disarming. Faith could tell right away that she was going to like this man.
"I'm not going to work you too hard, today," he continued. "I'd like to start by —" He stopped talking as the classroom door opened again. In walked a petite young woman, pretty — no, actually stunning — with long dark hair and a confident manner.
If Faith had arrived late, she would have slunk into one of the back-row seats. But this woman sauntered to a desk at the front of a central aisle. She smoothed a hand down the back of her short, black miniskirt, then settled comfortably into the vacant chair. She had a black satchel with her, and from this she removed a sleek laptop computer.
Faith watched enviously as the young woman opened the screen and powered the computer to life. They had a computer at home — a used model from Ben's office — but she'd only figured out the email feature.
"Let's start by getting to know each other," Niall said. "Just the basics — our names and what we're doing here. I'll start, okay?" His dark gaze traveled down one line of chairs. To Faith, it felt as if he was looking right at her. "No need to take notes."
She flushed. He was looking right at her. She set down her pen self-consciously, tempted to flee the room in embarrassment. But then Niall winked. "I'm just kidding, of course. This is a writing class. If you feel like jotting something down — anything at all — feel free to do so.
"Now, getting back to the introductions, as you all know my name is Niall Killian. I'm going to be up-front about why I'm your instructor."
He paused and a charge of expectation filled the room. What's he going to say? He looks like he's gathering his courage. Why?
Finally, he started speaking again. "I'm on parole after serving time for a driving-under-the-influence charge. Teaching this course is part of my community service."
"An ex-con." The sandy-haired man sounded impressed.
Faith didn't know what to think. She observed a few startled expressions around her. No one said anything else for a few moments.
Then the woman on Faith's left offered her opinion. "Okay, so you served time for drinking and driving." Her voice was deep for a female, and sounded vaguely familiar. "Not armed robbery. Not murder one. I'm willing to bet a few of us in this room have been guilty of driving under the influence at one time or another."
"Well, I was guilty more than once — I had a drinking problem," Niall admitted. "But I'm working on that. I'd like to assure you I have it under control, but I know I'd only be tempting fate if I said that. As for my credentials, I've had a few stories published in the New Yorker and a collection of those stories is coming out this spring."
"Oh, I'd love to write for the New Yorker." This was the lovely girl speaking, the one who'd entered late.
"Lots of serious writers drink." The woman behind Faith leaned forward in her seat so only Faith could hear. "Like Hemingway. And Steinbeck. And Dorothy Parker."
"That's enough on me." Niall gestured to the late arrival. "Why don't you tell us your story?"
Some of the woman's self-assurance faded as she stood and faced the class. She was petite, her slender body perfectly toned. She tucked her long, dark hair behind her ears and smiled tentatively. She's shy, Faith noted. Her sophistication is just a cover.
"I'm Ashleigh Griffith. I'm a journalist for the New Hope Chronicle, but I'd love to move to New York City and work for one of the big magazines one day. I also write short stories." She sat down.
"She'll end up sleeping with the teacher," the woman behind Faith predicted, sotto voce.
Though she felt it rude, Faith was compelled to twist round to see the woman making these comments.
"Nancy Beckman," the woman introduced herself, still whispering. She was expensively dressed and very attractive, with ultrashort dark hair and huge, expressive eyes.
"Faith Lewellyn."
"I'm here because I'm divorced. I'm looking to meet a new husband."
Faith felt her eyebrows shoot up her forehead. The other woman laughed lightly at her shock.
"Not really. I want to write a mystery. How about you?"
Faith wondered how to answer. She hadn't told anyone what she wanted. What she really wanted. No one even knew that she was here, taking creative writing. Not her husband, not her children. They all thought —
"I'm Marsha Cowen."
Faith looked from Nancy to the woman who'd spoken so confidently earlier. Now Faith realized why that husky voice sounded familiar. She'd heard and seen Marsha Cowen on the news many times. She grabbed her pen. Oh, Lord. What am I doing here? I don't belong in the same room as these people. I've never even had a job — unless I count my ten months at Wal-Mart after I married Ben and before I had Robert.
Normally Faith used her most perfect penmanship in her journals. But now she scrawled. She couldn't help herself. The words needed to come faster than her fingers could deliver. Marsha Cowen looks older in person — probably forty. She seems taller, too, and somehow more tired, weary, like she's carrying a burden none of us can see. On TV her hair is always a beautiful auburn, but now I can see streaks of gray.
"I've been a journalist for almost twenty years, but I need a break. I'm thinking of doing some travel writing. I've seen enough of the poor and oppressed in this world. I want to concentrate on the pretty stuff for a while."
"Travel writing. That sounds interesting." Niall was respectful, but showed none of the awe that Faith felt. She wondered if she was the only ordinary woman in the crowd, and dreaded the moment it would be her turn to speak.
Niall wandered down the aisle closest to the windows. He stopped beside the person sitting in the very last desk. "How about you?"
Faith hadn't noticed this woman before. Probably in her early fifties, she seemed to blend into the crowd, until you looked closer and saw that she was truly beautiful. Her blond hair had streaks of silver, and her skin was beginning to show signs of age, but her bone structure was classic, her smile charming. She met the gaze of the teacher and held it for several long seconds. "You know what?" she finally said. "I'm not sure why I'm here. I was bored and wanted to try something new."
"Fair enough." Niall placed his hand on her desk for a moment. "If this class is nothing else, I guarantee it won't be boring." He went to move away, then paused. "Your name?"
"Oh, I skipped that part, didn't I? I'm Catherine Matusik. I work part time in the bookstore on Fourth Avenue. If I had to pick right now, I'd say I'd like to learn to write like Maeve Binchy. She's always been one of my favorite authors."
"That romantic tripe?" The struggling-artist type scowled. "I hope we'll learn better stuff than that from a man who writes for the New Yorker."
Niall said something conciliatory in reply, which Faith tuned out as she imagined herself in the other woman's shoes. Poor Catherine. I'd want to die if someone spoke to me that way. If he thinks Maeve Binchy is tripe, what will he say when he hears my writing dream? The nervous pain in her stomach reminded her of her schoolgirl days, waiting to be called on to give a special presentation. She checked her watch, hoping it was time for the break. Maybe she could still switch classes. But the break wasn't for another fifteen minutes.
Niall turned to the guy who'd scorned Maeve Binchy. "And you are?"
"Roger Derks. I'm working on a novel." His intonation implied it was the equivalent of War and Peace. "I'm on page eight-hundred and sixty-five. I think I'm at the stage where I feel I'm ready to share."
Niall blanched slightly, probably hoping Roger didn't intend to share all eight-hundred and sixty-five pages with him, but made no comment, moving instead to the next person in that row.
In the next ten minutes Faith heard from a sixty-year-old gardener who wanted to write about dahlias, a fiftyish undertaker intent on immortalizing his life story for his grandchildren, and many others. Her handwriting deteriorated from a scrawl to informal shorthand as she raced to write down at least one defining characteristic beside each name.
And then it was her turn. Niall Killian was standing in front of her desk, looking directly into her eyes. She liked the way he'd handled the class so far, treating each person with respect, listening carefully to everything they said, as if every subject — from dahlias to world peace — was worthy of his attention.
But what would he say when he heard her goal? Worse, what would Roger Derks say? She knew she shouldn't care. She didn't know Roger; he was nothing to her. But she did care. She didn't like looking like a fool. That happened often enough in her everyday life as she met the mothers of her children's friends — all of whom seemed to hold amazingly interesting and challenging jobs. When she claimed to enjoy staying at home and looking after her family, she could tell they found that unfathomable.
"Faith?" From behind, Nancy gave her a nudge.
"Oh. Sorry. I'm Faith Lewellyn."
She sensed Niall's silent encouragement, his unspoken interest. He did care. She could feel it. Suddenly the words came, just like when she was writing and couldn't, couldn't make them stop.
"I'm here because writing is my dream. I've been writing every spare moment since my first child was born. That was eleven years ago — Robert is the oldest. I have another son, Thomas, who's nine, and Jessica is seven. I want to learn how to make the stories in my head come alive on paper. I know the chances are very slim, but more than anything, I want to be a romance novelist."
She put a hand over her mouth. What had she done? She hadn't intended to say all that — she couldn't believe she'd said all that.
"Dreams are what it's all about, Faith." Niall's approving words took some of the sting out of Roger's rolling eyes, Marsha's dismissive glance. Still, Faith felt strange, almost hollow inside. She hadn't meant to share so much. Ben was right — she did tend to blab when she was nervous.
"Okay. Thanks, everyone. I think those introductions really helped break the ice." Niall glanced at his watch. "Why don't we take a short break for coffee, then we'll assign critique groups and an assignment for next week."
Faith hardly heard him. She was still cringing in embarrassment. She craved nothing more than to slink off to the ladies' room.
"Want to grab a coffee?" Nancy asked.
She shook her head and scurried out of the room. She had to wander a bit before she found the washroom. After rinsing her hands she stared at her reflection. Once she'd been pretty — everyone had said so. But now she seemed so...faded. She wasn't that old. She'd had her children young; she was only thirty-four. But she looked...dowdy. Especially compared to Nancy who, although older than her, was much sharper-looking.
I need a haircut. A new outfit. And to lose five pounds — better yet, ten.
A toilet flushed and a cubicle door opened. In the mirror Faith saw Catherine from her class. The woman who liked Maeve Binchy. "I loved Circle of Friends," she told Catherine.
The woman's face broke out in a warm smile. "Oh, yes, that's one of my favorites, too. I was quite impressed to hear that you're interested in writing romantic fiction."
Impressed? Faith pulled out a long strip of paper and dried her hands. "Most of my husband's friends make fun of romance novels."
"Oh, I've read lots of marvelous romances. And you know what? We sell tons of them at our store. I'd say you've picked a very lucrative field."
"I don't care about the money," Faith confessed. It was true. Though a second income would be nice, and Ben did want her to return to work now that all three kids were in school full-time, Faith knew she would continue writing romances forever, even if she never earned a dime. She loved it that much.
"I don't either," Catherine said. "Come on, let's go out into the hall and chat for a few minutes."
Faith was pleased. Catherine was really very nice. She wondered if, maybe, the two of them might become friends. She and Ben had moved to New Hope one and a half years ago now, but she still hadn't found anyone she could really talk to. Most of the women on their street worked and hired nannies to look after their children. And Faith was naturally shy anyway. Having grown up in the same small town, she hadn't learned the skill of meeting new people.
"Do you have children?" she asked Catherine, noting a thick wedding band on her finger.
"Yes. Gray and Dana. They're grown now, going to university. I remember you said you have three children. You must be very busy."
"I am, but I love looking after my kids. And my husband," she added, wishing that hadn't come out like an afterthought.
"Oh? And what's his name?"
"Ben. He owns the Subaru dealership in town. Now that Jessica is about to start grade two, he thinks I should learn about accounting and work in the office a few days a week. Bookkeeping," she added, wrinkling her nose as if she was speaking about garbage or dirty diapers.
"I take it you're not keen?"
"I'd love to spend more time on my writing."
"Have you told him?"
"Not yet." She twisted her own wedding band, feeling guilty. Ben had come home early from work so she could get to her class on time. He'd been so pleased that she was broadening her interests. If only he knew... "I'll have to tell him soon."
"It shouldn't come as a total shock. Not with you taking a creative writing course."
"But he doesn't know." Faith found it a relief to finally have someone to confide in. "He thinks I'm studying accounting for small businesses."
"Why would he think that?"
"Because that's what he registered me for. Only, I phoned and switched the registration two days ago."
Faith crept in the back door quietly. It was quarter-to-ten and all three children would be sleeping by now. "Ben? Everything okay?"
"Everything's fine." He smiled at her from the kitchen sink. Why was he washing up the dinner dishes this late? Faith could guess. He'd spent the evening playing with the kids, putting off his chores until they were in bed. He was a good dad, her husband. She came up from behind him and wrapped her arms around his chest, laid her cheek against his broad, solid back.
"Did Robert finish that report on reptiles?"
"You bet. We even downloaded some great pictures from the Internet. How was the first class?" He dried his hands and turned so that they could hug face-to-face.
Her husband was a big, strong guy, with wholesome good looks and curly brown hair that still showed no trace of gray. Faith had loved Ben Lewellyn since she was sixteen years old. She loved him still.
And hated herself for lying to him. He thought she'd gone to Accounting for Small Businesses, when really she'd been in Creative Writing. She ought to tell him the truth. But he'd be so disappointed.
"I met some interesting people," she said. "Our instructor is really nice."
"Yeah? Did he teach you about debits and credits? I'll be so glad when you understand all that. I feel like such an imbecile when my accountant tries to talk to me about our books."
Well, maybe you should take the accounting course then. Faith couldn't bring herself to say what she was thinking. Ben already worked so hard for them. His early success had catapulted them into this expensive neighborhood and their children into private schools. Ben was busting his butt for them, his family, even though Faith tried to tell him she'd be just as happy with less.
Possibly more happy.
But she knew the status of a beautiful home, a good address and prestigious schools were important to Ben. His older brother, a doctor, was his parents' pride and joy. She knew Ben wanted to prove he was just as successful. She wished he would see that he, himself, the guy who liked to cuddle with his wife when he watched TV, and loved to horse around with his children, was the real success story.
"Faith?" Ben nuzzled his ear. "You're not answering my questions."
For good reason. She had no idea what debits and credits were. "We didn't spend much time on course content today. We focused on getting to know each other. The instructor divided us into…working groups."
Critique groups Niall had called them. He'd asked if anyone wanted to work together, and Faith had been pleased when both Catherine and Nancy indicated a wish to be with her. To her chagrin, Niall had then added two more people to their group — Marsha Cowen, the TV journalist, and Ashleigh Griffith, the pretty girl who wanted to write for the New Yorker.
Both those women intimidated Faith. Up until then she'd thought Niall had been a shrewd judge of character. But he'd really screwed up with that move. Faith couldn't imagine sharing her work with Marsha and Ashleigh.
But she would have to. This week's assignment was to write a single scene focusing on character development. Their critique group had agreed to meet at Marsha's house on Saturday afternoon to share first drafts. The very idea made Faith's palms sweat. Even worse, she would have to come up with another excuse to leave Ben with the children. Which wouldn't be easy, since he typically worked on Saturday.
Though he now owned the dealership and could have submerged himself in the managerial duties only, Ben still loved to be on the floor, making sales, meeting people, talking cars.
Her husband pulled back from her, examining her face as if he was waiting for her to say something. Had she missed another of his questions? "I'm sorry. What did you say?"
He shrugged. "It doesn't really matter. Your mind is elsewhere tonight. Anyway, I'm pretty tired. Ready for bed?" He squeezed her hand, which was usually a signal that he wanted her to be ready for bed. But tonight she shook her head.
"I'd like to stay up and make a few notes. Before I forget everything that happened tonight."
"I thought you said the instructor didn't cover much course content?" Ben dropped her hand. "Oh, never mind. Stay up and make your notes. I'll see you in the morning."
For a moment she felt guilty. After all, Ben had come home early so she could go to this class — this class that he didn't even know she was taking. Didn't he deserve a little of her undivided attention now, at the end of the evening?
But the urge to record her impressions of her first creative writing class was too strong to suppress. She didn't want to risk forgetting anything. Sitting at the kitchen table, she took out her journal and pen and let the words fly.
I feel like this course is going to change my life. And I may even have made a friend — possibly two.
I liked Catherine as soon as I met her. She has kids, as well — maybe that's the connection. Hers are older, in university, a boy and a girl. She mentioned her husband, in passing, but didn't say his name or what he did for a living. I'll have to remember to ask for more details next time. I feel like I monopolized our conversation — I hate when I do that. But I haven't met anyone I've enjoyed talking to so much for such a long, long time.
She paused, thinking of her girlfriends back home. She missed them so much. Most of them had been friends since grade school. Phone calls and email just weren't the same. Anyway, none of them knew about her writing. And her writing was what she really longed to talk about.
The more I get to know Nancy, the more I like her. Despite her expensive clothes and jewelry, she's really down to earth. Irreverent. Funny. She has children, too — Brin is eleven, same age as Robert, and Scott is nine, just like Thomas. I wonder if our kids would get along....
But no. Maybe it's selfish, but I want to keep my new friends to myself for a while. Besides, we're going to be busy, judging from this first assignment. I wish we weren't meeting at Marsha's house. I could tell she was a little disappointed when Niall assigned her to our group. Definitely she doesn't think much of my romance writing. Marsha's divorced. I found that out after class, when she was talking to Ashleigh and I happened to overhear them. She has no children.
As for Ashleigh, she was still hanging around the front entrance after everyone else had left. I asked if she needed a ride. She said her boyfriend was picking her up. No sooner were the words out of her mouth than a cream-colored Lexus pulled up by the stairs and she dashed off. I can't be sure, but the driver seemed to be at least in his late thirties. Could Ashleigh really be dating someone so much older than her?
I'm really excited about our assignment. I want to write about the hero in my novel. Niall told us to reveal something important about our character — and that's just the problem I've been having with this one scene. My hero has just found out his father died. He wants to break down like a child, but he can't because his mother is in the room, and so is the woman he's falling in love with. He thinks he needs to be strong for them and so he behaves all blustery and authoritative. How do I show, without him actually breaking down into tears, that he's absolutely torn apart inside?
Faith spent the next day almost exclusively on her assignment. She fed her children, of course, and drove them to school. She made the beds and cleaned the dirty dishes. Then she sat at the kitchen table and barely raised her head until it was time to drive back to the school. So much for the laundry she'd meant to tackle, the floor that needed washing, that costume for Jessica's dance recital. And she had nothing organized for dinner, either.
She dashed to the car and raced to the school, then coped with the mayhem of snacks and homework. Thomas's piano lesson was today; fortunately the teacher came to the house. Faith made sure the living room was reasonably tidy, then, after Mrs. Green appeared and was settled with Thomas by the piano, she took Jessica to the kitchen ostensibly to help with dinner, but really to keep the little girl from bothering her brother. Robert was playing next door with a friend.
She opened the pantry cupboard. "What should we have?"
"Mac and cheese?" Jessica said hopefully.
"That may be our only option." She should have grocery-shopped today, too. She was in the midst of preparing the cheese sauce, when the back door opened.
By the sound of his heavy footsteps in the hall, she knew right away it was Ben. So did Jessica. "Daddy!" she cried, running to greet him. They met in the doorway, where he swooped her into his arms.
"How's my girl?" he asked. His happy expression faded as he took in, first, Faith's appearance, then the condition of the kitchen.
She'd never managed to change out of her sweats today. She hadn't bothered with makeup and hadn't styled her hair, either. The kitchen, strewn with the remains of the kids' lunches and the makings for macaroni and cheese casserole, was a disaster.
That wasn't even counting the dirty floor.
"I'm sorry the place is such a mess, Ben. I spent the whole day working on my assignment."
His gaze swept to the big maple table, where her journal still sat. No accounting text, no notebook with figures and columns. Just her journal.
Ben knew she liked to keep a diary. Though he'd never said so, she suspected he felt it was a waste of time. She'd never told him that within the pages of the dozen or so journals she'd filled in the past ten years was a rough draft of a complete novel. He'd probably think that was a waste of time, too.
"Your first assignment, huh?" He looked back at her, and she could tell that while he wanted to believe her, he couldn't.
She glanced away from him, to the pile of cheese she'd been grating by rote. Tell him the truth, she urged herself. Just blurt it all out, the way you did in class last night.
But she couldn't. She knew Ben wouldn't understand. And his disapproval would crush her. She'd have to live with her secret a little longer.
Marsha Cowen lived in a high-rise apartment with a view of the New Hope River. Mixed in among the modern, leather furniture and steel-and-glass tabletops and shelving were mementoes from around the world. Primitive masks hung on the wall, authentic-looking Turkish rugs warmed the floor and, most fascinating of all, at least to Faith, a large Buddha sculpture sat in contemplation in front of the marble fireplace.
"Good. You made it." Marsha's tone was brusque as she opened the door to her home. She wore beige linen pants. Rolled-up sleeves on her white shirt revealed a masculine-looking watch with a thick leather band, the only jewelry she wore.
Faith forced a smile. She'd sat outside the building in her parked car for ten minutes, amassing the courage to come in here. She'd seen Nancy drive up in her Mazda convertible and Catherine in her Buick sedan. Ashleigh had been dropped off by the man in the Lexus again. They'd kissed briefly, and Faith had tried to tell herself that a ten- or fifteen-year age gap wasn't such a big deal. Seeing that fresh young girl in the older man's embrace, however, hadn't felt right to her.
"Make yourself comfortable." Marsha waved a hand to a chair next to a bookshelf. "Would you like a glass of wine?"
Faith noticed everyone else had one. "Water would be fine." Wine tended to make her sleepy and she needed to be alert this afternoon. Besides she had to pick up the kids and a fourteen-year-old baby-sitter from the park later. She'd told Ben she was going shopping. Another lie.
She sat down and glanced over her shoulder at the rows of books on display. There were few novels. Marsha favored politics, history and biography in her reading. Their hostess was now passing around a tidy tray of sushi rolls. As her own nervousness slowly wore off, Faith noticed that despite her air of confidence, Marsha was extremely uptight.
Looking around the room, Faith realized everyone looked a little anxious. Was it possible she wasn't the only nervous one?
Finally, Marsha sat, cross-legged, next to the Buddha. "Well?" She glanced from face to face. "What do we do now?"
Uncertain looks were passed back and forth. Finally, Nancy gave a nervous laugh. "Have another glass of wine? Get plastered?"
Faith decided she'd better be the one to speak up. This class meant too much to her to waste even a few precious minutes. "It was a tough assignment. At least, I found it so. But I did feel it helped me get deeper into one of the main characters of my book."
"Have you actually written an entire book?" Catherine asked.
"Only a rough first draft — handwritten in about ten different journals."
"You should type it out, then bring chapters for us to read," Catherine said.
"Oh, I couldn't —"
"Why not? Afraid we'll hate it?" Nancy asked.
Faith almost laughed. "Exactly."
"Well, we can't say anything negative without offering a constructive comment as well," Nancy said. This was one of the rules Niall had set for working within a critique group format. "So if you're right and we don't like it, at least you'll get some ideas on how to make it better. That's what you want, isn't it?"
"That's true." Faith nodded slowly. "I want to make my book as good as I possibly can."
"So bring your first chapter to the next meeting," Marsha said. "Now, tell us more about that main character of yours. Do you want to read your scene aloud and we'll comment when you're done?"
Faith flipped open her journal, still nervous, but also excited. She thought what she'd written was good. But maybe she was merely deluding herself. She started to read....
Five minutes later, she finished. Faith lifted her head.
"That was good." Ashleigh sounded surprised. "I could really feel his pain."
Catherine agreed. "I felt so badly for him."
"Really? It didn't stink?"
"Like a rose," Nancy assured her. "I really like the way you have him walking out of the room when the emotion levels get too high for him. If that isn't just like a man, I don't know what is." Everyone shared a laugh over Nancy's truism.
They spent another ten minutes discussing her scene, then moved on to the next volunteer. Marsha begged off, letting Nancy go next, then Ashleigh. Nancy's scene about her hard-nosed female sleuth was funny. Ashleigh's tightly composed paragraphs about a career woman poised for change was witty and thought-provoking, if a little stiff.
"Marsha?" Nancy prompted, when Ashleigh was done. While the mood in the room had lightened considerably by then, Marsha was still sitting stiffly, frown lines firmly in place. An inexplicable urge to touch the other woman overcame Faith. She leaned close and put a hand on Marsha's bony shoulder.
"Are you okay?"
Surprisingly, Marsha's top lip quivered. She leveled her gaze at the papers in her hand. "This was very hard for me," she said finally. "As you know, I joined this class to focus on travel writing. But for this assignment I found myself writing about a boy I met in Nigeria once. I'm not sure I can even read it."
"Want me to do it for you?" Faith offered.
"Would you?" She passed her pages over with relief.
Faith's eyes traveled across the lines of flowing script. Using Marsha's words, she described a young boy who looked like a stick man himself, holding his dying sister in his arms and begging for money. The boy sang to his sister, rocked her back and forth. Flies buzzed around both of their heads. Eventually the girl died. Not one of the passers-by even stopped. The boy settled down beside her. There was no one to call to help. His fate was inevitable. He drew his sister's hand next to his cheek, closed his eyes and waited to die.
"Oh, Marsha."
"A real downer, isn't it?" Marsha sprung from the floor. "More wine, anyone?"
"After that, I could use one."
Nancy held out her glass, but no one else did. Faith supposed they were still submerged in the mood of Marsha's piece. "That was really powerful, Marsha."
The journalist shook her head. "I took this class to get away from that crap. I don't know what made me write about that boy. Let's hear Catherine's piece now."
Quietly, Catherine recited a lovely vignette about a grandmother picking flowers in her garden. She reflected on how each of the blossoms reminded her of different members of her family. It was a charming piece of writing, laced with melancholy.
"That's beautiful, Catherine. Haunting."
Sort of like Catherine herself, who was so kind and pleasant and yet seemed to be holding part of herself back. Balancing her journal on her knee, Faith wrote, I bet Catherine is used to people underestimating her. She reminds me of myself in the way she almost fades to the background, and yet I'll bet she has more inner strength than any of us in this room.
Discussion turned general after that, as they shared impressions of their first class, of the instructor (awfully nice, and not bad to look at) and their writing. Faith found herself talking way more than she'd expected to. Nancy had another glass of wine and became even more vocal. Eventually Ashleigh glanced at her watch.
"Oh, I've got to go! Kirk will be waiting."
"Is that your boyfriend?" Nancy asked.
Ashleigh hesitated a second, then nodded.
"If you don't mind me saying so, he seems a little old for you."
Faith didn't think Nancy would have spoken so indiscreetly if she hadn't had three glasses of wine. At least she hoped not.
Ashleigh didn't seem insulted. "I like mature men." She gathered her pages and her satchel, and soon everyone was leaving.
Faith thanked Marsha for everything, and remarked again on how compelling her character study had been. Catherine and Ashleigh were gone by then, leaving Faith to take the elevator down with Nancy.
"Would you like a ride home?" she offered Nancy.
"What? You think I've had too much to drink?"
"I do."
Nancy laughed. "And here I thought you were timid. Okay, sure, give me a ride home. The kids are with Ken and Barbie today — or should I say Ken and Skipper?"
Faith guided Nancy gently toward her car, opened the passenger door and waited for her to sit down before going round to the driver's side herself. "That's your ex-husband and his new wife?"
"She was his dental assistant. Can you imagine?" Nancy laughed again, as if she found the whole thing so terribly amusing, but Faith could tell the opposite was true.
"Were you and Ken married a long time?"
"His name isn't really Ken. It's Richard. We were together thirteen years."
She twisted a large diamond ring on her right hand. Faith noticed that almost all her fingers had rings, except the wedding ring finger. "I'm sorry. That must have been hard. Especially with the children."
Nancy was silent. After a pause, Faith started the engine. "Where do you live?"
Nancy gave her the address. It wasn't far from Faith's home, in the expensive Woodlands neighborhood of New Hope.
"My mother thinks it's my fault my husband had an affair with the blond bimbo from his office. A good wife is supposed to make sure the kids are ready for bed when her husband comes home. She should be wearing makeup and heels, with a cocktail in hand and dinner waiting in the oven."
Faith laughed. "I guess I'd fail your mother's high standards." She told Nancy about the night that week when Ben had come home to find her in sweats and macaroni and cheese in progress for dinner.
"That's reality," Nancy said. Then she sighed. "Who knows. Maybe Mom's right. Maybe the breakup was my fault. I was pretty focused on my kids in those days. When Richard came home I expected him to dig in and help with dishes and homework and mowing the lawn. No wonder he preferred to stay late at the office and practice his drilling technique with his airhead assistant."
Faith didn't say anything. At the end of the day, that was what she expected from Ben, too, for him to help with the kids and the housework. It seemed only fair, since she'd spent the day working as much as him.
But how did Ben feel? He'd probably love to find her all dolled-up, a nice dinner waiting on the table when he came home from work.
Mentally, Faith reviewed the shortlist of female employees at the dealership. Kimberly, in the office, was single, in her late twenties, and quite attractive. Should she be worried?
"There's my house — with the gabled roof." Nancy pointed ahead, to the left.
Faith parked in the driveway. "What a beautiful home." As immaculately maintained, down to the perfectly manicured garden, as Nancy herself.
"Thanks for the ride, Faith." Nancy hesitated. "Any chance you'd like to come in for a drink? We could sit by the pool in the back and have a good long chat. My kids won't be home until dinnertime tomorrow."
She's lonely. It must be a big house when she's on her own. "Sorry, Nancy. I'd love to but I have to pick up my kids from the park."
"Sure. That's okay. See you Wednesday?"
"You bet." Faith waited while Nancy let herself out of the car and made her way to the entrance. She fumbled with her key for a few moments, then finally opened the massive oak door and disappeared inside.
On the way home, Faith's imagination took over again. How would she feel if Ben left her for another woman? The very idea seemed unfathomable. And yet, the scenario Nancy had described wasn't so dissimilar from her and Ben's circumstances. And Ben had been working late a lot since they'd moved to New Hope. But that was because of the extra work involved in taking over a new dealership, right?
Faith checked over her shoulder in order to change lanes. She didn't want to think about her marriage this way. Her and Ben's relationship was completely solid. They were best friends, as well as lovers and parents.
Only, when, exactly, had she started keeping secrets from and lying to her best friend? And if she could do it to him, who could say he wasn't doing it to her, too?
After dropping Nancy off, Faith stopped for groceries. As she wandered through aisles of stocked shelves that she knew as well as her own kitchen cupboards, she thought about the early days with Ben.
She'd started seeing him in her junior year of high school. While she'd been a star student, Ben had shone on the baseball diamond. Faith would never forget the figure he'd made standing on the mound, lifting one long leg, winding up his powerful arm, his face taut with concentration. So handsome, so focused, so quintessentially the all-American boy.
After the game, he was always swarmed by girls. But never Faith, who was too shy to leave her seat on the bleachers. Besides, she'd noticed that he didn't seem to like the attention and never flirted back other than to give out the occasional smile.
Then came that absolutely magical day, after a perfect no-hitter game, when he'd walked straight from the dugout, after being congratulated by his team members, to where she sat in the bleachers. He'd stood in front of her, looking almost bashful, even though any other girl her age would have killed to have him standing in front of her.
"Want to get some ice cream or something?"
That was their first date. But even before then they'd been friends for years. His grandma lived in the apartment above her father's bakery. Countless afternoons, they'd sat together on the wrought iron bench that faced the street, unrolling her father's iced cinnamon buns, munching the sweet, warm bread, licking their fingers and chatting about...pretty much everything.
Though they'd both been on the shy side at school, they'd always been able to talk to each other. She knew that he loved cars almost as much as baseball and that he wanted to have his own business one day. He knew that she hated being an only child and dreamed of having at least three children when she was married.
Despite her good grades, Faith hadn't had any more ambition than that — being a wife and a mother — when she was younger. She'd kept a journal since she'd turned ten and often enjoyed composing short stories that she didn't show to anyone because she knew they were just silly. Though her head was filled with made-up characters and stories all the time, she never considered writing for a living. She thought everyone had stories racing through their heads. To be a real writer you had to be a very important and wise person, which she certainly was not.
After she and Ben were married, they didn't count on having children right away, but they didn't use birth control, either, so it was no surprise when she became pregnant quickly. It might have been nice to have Ben to herself for a few years before she became a mother, but she was glad to quit the job at Wal-Mart. Ben had been determined to make enough money so she could be a stay-at-home mom as she'd dreamed.
And he'd more than achieved that goal, Faith reflected as she carried her grocery bags out to the van. His dream to own his own business had almost seemed like her dream, they'd talked about it so much. Maybe that was why he'd assumed she would want to work with him there one day.
I should have told him about the stories earlier, she realized. Maybe if she hadn't kept that part of herself secret for so long, it wouldn't have been so difficult to confess that she didn't want to work in his office any more than she'd once wanted to work at Wal-Mart.
At home, Faith noticed Ben's car in the drive. He must have left work early. She grabbed some of the groceries then went inside, plopping the sacks on the kitchen table. As she was about to go back to the van for the rest, Ben appeared from the basement and volunteered to get them for her. He returned with the paper bag from the bakery...and a pair of sunglasses.
"These yours?" He held up the sophisticated black frames and frowned, as if he couldn't imagine her wearing them.
Oh, darn. "They belong to Nancy Beckman. I met her in my class. She must have forgotten them." Faith took the glasses from Ben and put them on the kitchen windowsill, where they wouldn't be mauled by any of the children.
"Did she go shopping with you this afternoon?"
"Mmm," Faith murmured, as she transferred food from the bags to the fridge.
Ben leaned against the counter and crossed his arms. "Did you buy anything? Besides groceries?"
She couldn't look at him. Clearly he was suspicious. Remembering the success of her reading at the critique group earlier, she took a deep breath. Just tell him and get it over with. It won't be that bad.
But to have Ben belittle her passion for writing was something she couldn't risk. They belonged to a book club with four other couples. Once, she'd suggested a romance novel for her pick. "You're not serious?" They'd assumed she was joking. Ben had patted her knee and laughed with the rest of them.
"I put a few things on hold. But I'm not sure..."
"We can afford it now. You should buy yourself more nice clothes."
His generosity only made her feel worse. She glanced down at her navy capris and striped T-shirt. She'd bought the outfit at a chain store, for a discount price. At the time she'd thought it was a fairly sharp outfit, if casual. Comparing herself to the other women at the critique group, though, she knew she'd been underdressed.
"Are you ashamed of the way I look?"
"Did I say I was ashamed? Don't twist my words, Faith."
"And don't raise your voice. The kids are in the next room." After a full day at the park, they were zoned-out in front of the TV.
Ben held back whatever it was he'd intended as a reply. When he spoke again, he appeared calm, but still angry. "What's going on? When you told me you were going shopping, you never mentioned this Nancy Beckman. Why not? What's the big secret?"
"I just didn't think to mention it. That's all." She forced herself to meet her husband's challenging stare.
"There's something you're not telling me."
"Well, Ben. I can't recount every minute of every day. And I don't expect you to do the same about your time, either. Who were you with today? Did you go out for lunch with anyone? Meet any interesting customers?"
"Now who's raising their voice? You know exactly where I was today and who I was with. At noon, Kimberly and I went across the road for a submarine sandwich."
Kimberly? "I thought she only worked weekdays."
"She's training as a salesperson now. Once you're able to come in a few days a week, I'll give some of her duties to you and she'll work on the floor."
Wow. He had it all planned out. But he'd never asked her, not once, if she wanted to work at the dealership. Not that she had anything against his business. She was proud of her husband's success. But she had her own dreams for her life. After dedicating so much of her time to her children, home and husband, didn't she deserve a few hours of every day to call her own?
Faith couldn't bring herself to say any of this to Ben. Once she opened that door, she'd never be able to close it again. And she still wasn't sure she had the nerve to pursue her writing.
What if she wasn't any good? What if she never sold a book? She'd feel like such a failure. Maybe it would be better to never try, to go and work for Ben. At least that way she could keep an eye on Kimberly and protect her marriage.
Next Wednesday evening, Faith almost didn't go to her writing class. Ben arrived home early as planned and shooed her out the door. She climbed into the van and drove away from the house, thinking maybe she should check into that accounting class after all.
But in the end she couldn't make herself stay away. She had to go at least one more time, if for no other reason than to return Nancy's sunglasses. At five minutes to seven she slipped into the same chair she'd sat in last week. Nancy was behind her again, and she passed her the glasses before turning her attention to the front. Niall was dressed in black again, and seemed anxious to start.
"Okay, everyone, we're talking about character today." Niall strode across the classroom to write the word "character" on the whiteboard. He faced his students, his face animated. "When it comes to storytelling, what's more important? Character or plot? Anybody have any opinions?"
"Well, plot, obviously." Roger looked as though he hadn't shaved since last week. Or eaten, either. "That's what Aristotle concluded. And it makes sense. Ask yourself why people read. To find out what happens. That's plot."
"But they care about what happens to the characters. That makes the story character- — not plot- — driven."
This comment came from a young woman who couldn't be more than eighteen. She sat across from Roger and had been assigned to his critique group. Faith checked back in her notes...Abby Lancaster — that was her name. The single mom of a nine-month-old baby, Abby worked at a restaurant and wanted to write screenplays one day.
Faith thought she'd raised a good point about readers caring about the people in the books. Then Ashleigh came up with a comment that got her head spinning again.
"But Robert McKee, in his book Story, argues plot and character are two sides of the same coin." Ashleigh held up a copy of the book to which she was referring. "Character is revealed through actions. Actions are plot. Therefore, character equals plot."
"They are indelibly related," Niall agreed. "You can't take characters from one story, insert them into another, and expect the story to work in the same way. Just try to imagine Meg Ryan's character from When Harry Met Sally playing Ingrid Bergman's role in Casablanca. You'd end up with something completely different."
"And completely awful," Nancy said. "Can you imagine Ingrid faking an orgasm with Humphrey? I don't think so."
Niall grinned. "Thanks for painting that picture, Nancy. Anyone else have an opinion on this?"
Faith, caught up in the intellectual thrill of analyzing something she'd never really thought about before, raised her hand. "Character and plot have a symbiotic relationship. But they can be analyzed separately. I still think there are character-driven stories — where most of the action takes place inside people's heads."
Her book was like that. Oh, sure, she had some key events, like when the hero's father dies, and a few others. But primarily she was interested in the dynamics of the hero and heroine working out a relationship together.
"Sure there are," Niall agreed. "Just as there are plot-driven stories, like The Fugitive, where the action is external and the main characters have one primary goal — in Harrison Ford's case it's to prove his innocence and get the guy who killed his wife. Strong motivation, I agree, but in terms of a character arc, is Harrison Ford's character much different at the end of the movie than before? He's a free man, and that's important, but he's suffered no real internal struggle that has changed the way he sees the world."
"In some ways that struggle happened before the movie started," Roger pointed out. "I bet when he was arrested, tried, then falsely sent to prison, he went through a lot of internal changes."
"That might have made a different movie," Niall suggested. "Think of The Count of Monte Cristo. There's an excellent example of a story that examines the effect being falsely accused of a crime has on a man."
"Books by Henry James are a perfect example of the character-focused story," Ashleigh contributed. "In university we had to read The Spoils of Poyton. That book drove me crazy. Nothing ever happened. Just people thinking about doing things."
"Try reading Crime and Punishment," Nancy suggested.
Faith paused in her furious note-taking to shoot a glance over her shoulder. Had Nancy read that old classic? Faith had tried years ago, but had been unable to endure the endless scenes of introspection.
Nancy winked at her and said in an undertone, meant for others to overhear, "I read the Coles Notes version."
Faith nodded, but wasn't convinced. Nancy had more depth than she liked to let on.
"I think we've just identified a catch-22 situation," Niall said. "When the plot is heavy with action, there isn't much room in the story to capture character nuance. Generally the main characters in these types of books and movies have pretty straight-forward goals. In Agatha Christie's mysteries, for instance, the pursuit of justice seems to be motive enough for Hercule Poirot. We are never introduced to subtleties of Poirot's character that would provide more complex and interesting reasons for why he solves all these crimes — often for no financial recompense."
Nancy nodded. "Yet in the movie L.A. Confidential, not only was the plot full of twists and turns but the characters were layered with motivations and complexities."
"Are the best stories, then, the ones with both complex plots and complex characters?" Ashleigh asked.
Niall held his hands palm up. "I don't know. What do you think?"
"It's personal preference, isn't it?" Abby said. "I loved L.A. Confidential, but I also adore stories like Sense and Sensibility and Remains of the Day. I've even been known to enjoy a good action flick like Gladiator on occasion."
"Well said, Abby. I think you've left us in a perfect place to break for coffee. Take just fifteen minutes today, then when we come back we'll share our assignments with the class."
Faith finally set down her pen. Her fingers ached. She turned round to face Nancy. "Wasn't that fascinating?"
"Almost as invigorating as good sex." Nancy headed toward the vending machine. "Want a coffee?"
"Not tonight, thanks." Her excitement level alone would make it hard for her to fall asleep tonight. She didn't need a jolt of caffeine besides. She hung back while Nancy waited in the queue. Glancing back toward the classroom she spotted Catherine in deep conversation with the instructor. They were walking this way, slowly, each taking turns talking, the other listening intently in turn. By the time they reached Faith, they were laughing.
"I'll have to rent the video sometime," Catherine said. Then she turned to Faith. "Wasn't that an amazing discussion?"
"It was," Faith said wholeheartedly.
Niall smiled. "It sure helps to have enthusiastic students. I'm going to get a coffee. Would either of you like me to get you something while I'm there?"
"No, thanks."
Once Niall was out of ear-shot, Catherine gave Faith a careful, questioning glance. "Does Ben know where you are tonight?"
Faith's euphoric mood cratered. "I still haven't told him."
"It isn't going to get easier as time goes on," Catherine prompted gently.
"I know. But I keep thinking about this from his point of view. He's so busy already, he really could use my help with the business end at the dealership. And I'm probably just wasting my time writing. What are the chances I'll ever sell a book? I think I should just transfer to the accounting course and forget about creative writing."
"Then why did you come tonight?"
Faith put a hand to her face. "I know. It's crazy. I meant to check into switching classes. But in the end I just couldn't resist this class. I thought to myself, what can one more class hurt? And I'm so glad I came. I've never talked about writing this way before. It's absolutely amazing."
"Then stick with the class, Faith. And tell Ben. He may need help with his business, but you have to look after your needs, too."
"But isn't that selfish?"
"As mothers we see ourselves as indispensable to our families. But children grow up, Faith. They drift away from their parents. It's a natural process. If you don't have something else in your life that you feel passionately about, then you're going to feel so lost when that happens."
Was that how Catherine felt? Was it sadness at her children having grown up and moved away that gave her that aura of melancholy?
"I hear what you're saying, but my children are so young. Jessica's only seven."
"Yes, and in seven years she'll be fourteen. I'm not saying she won't still need you then, but at fourteen she'll have her own life. You'll find that, in their teens, your children will care more about their friends than their family. It's a natural evolution of their growth into adults."
Seven years wasn't that long, Faith allowed. Especially when she considered that each new year seemed to pass faster than the one before.
"Where do you see yourself in ten years, Faith? Your baby will be seventeen. Your sons may well be in university or working full-time jobs. So how will you be spending your days? Working at the office of your husband's car dealership? Or plotting your next romance novel?"
Even if she could have thought up an answer to Catherine's insightful question, Faith didn't have the time to respond. Niall had his coffee in hand. Now he was rounding up the students still lingering in the hall. "Okay, break is over. Let's get back to work."
Faith found the next forty minutes as riveting as the first forty. She even managed to gather the courage to share her little scene, and was gratified when not even Roger offered much criticism.
Not until later, though, when she was driving home, did Faith realize she'd spent most of the break talking about herself again. She hadn't learned anything new about Catherine. Hadn't asked her one single question about her life, about her husband.
That wasn't like her. Faith considered drawing other people out to be one of her talents. Next time, she promised herself, she wouldn't say a word about herself until after she'd asked about Catherine.
Next time. She caught herself thinking it before she'd even made the decision. But she already knew there would be a next time. She wasn't dropping out of her creative writing class. It would kill her.
That week's creative writing assignment was to put a character in a situation where he or she had to make a decision. The choice would propel the plot forward in a new and different way. It would also reveal something about the individual character.
Faith was anxious to put into practice all she'd learned about character and plot on Wednesday evening. She decided to write about her heroine this time. Stephanie had to decide whether to stay at the hero's ranch and help him deal with his problems now that his father was dead or to go on with her life as a therapist in a nearby city.
Faith wanted Stephanie to stay. This was a romance, after all. Unless they were in close quarters, how could Stephanie and Marshall fall in love? Yet Stephanie would be letting down her patients if she opted to remain at the country ranch. Faith didn't feel that reflected well on Stephanie at all. She needed really strong motivation to make this work.
While she was peeling potatoes for Friday dinner, the idea came to her. What if the hero had a mentally handicapped sister who'd been devoted to her father? She falls apart when he dies, and Marshall begs Stephanie to help her cope with this change in her life. In this desperate situation, maybe Stephanie could ask some of her colleagues to take care of her city obligations for a short while....
Pumped by the idea, Faith set the potatoes on the stove, then rushed to her journal. This was a major change to her story, but she thought it would add so much drama that the work would be worth it. First, she rewrote the scene where Marshall asked Stephanie to stay. Then she started to work on Stephanie's internal struggle as she weighed the needs of this one bereft family against the needs of her clients in the city.
Tipping the scales, Faith decided, would be the fact that the hero's father had helped pay for Stephanie's education. Why? She didn't know. She'd have to figure something out later.
Faith's pen could hardly supply the ink fast enough as she worked desperately at catching Stephanie's agonizing internal struggle. On the one hand — this. On the other hand — that. Faith hurried toward the exciting moment when Stephanie would bravely decide to do whatever she could to help the hero's bereaved sister.
Then she noticed an acrid smell. She lifted her head. Sniffed again. Oh, no! The potatoes. She ran to the kitchen to discover that the pot had boiled dry.
On Saturday morning, Ben didn't ask a single question when Faith got on the phone to arrange a sitter for the children. He hadn't said anything when she'd come home from her class that week, either. No comment about debits or credits, no comment about anything. If he'd noticed that there still were no accounting texts or calculators on the dining room table when she sat down to work each evening, he didn't comment on that, either.
Her husband, Faith realized, was giving her space. So much space they hadn't made love in...well, actually, not since she'd started her course.
This wasn't good. With three children they'd occasionally gone through spells when they'd been too exhausted to make love for days, sometimes a week, on end. But never had they refrained from physical intimacy for so long. Faith missed her husband's touch. More, she missed the true emotional connection they usually shared.
Almost every day she told herself this had gone on long enough. She needed to tell Ben what was going on. But the more pressure she put on herself to be truthful, the more anxious she became. It was easier to try not to think about the problem.
Still, as she climbed into the driver's seat of her van later that afternoon, she wondered if she was being a fool. For all she knew, her husband had gone for lunch with Kimberly at work today. Maybe he was wondering why he put up with Faith and her haphazard housecleaning and distracted manner when he could have the full attention of a younger, sexier female?
As for Kimberly, surely she'd be tempted by what Ben had to offer. Besides being handsome and sexy, Ben was wealthy and successful and a really nice guy besides. What woman wouldn't want him?
Faith parked behind Catherine's white sedan. She was here, at Nancy's house, where the critique group was meeting today. This time she didn't hesitate. She got out of the car and jogged to the front door.
The interior of Nancy's house was surprising. It was more traditional than Faith had expected — a lot like hers, really. Only their home had been decorated by a professional, at Ben's insistence. The only rooms in her house that Faith really liked were the kitchen and adjoining family room. That was because between her and the kids, they really made the place look lived-in.
Nancy's house seemed more comfortable. They were seated in a solarium at the back of the house, overlooking a wonderful perennial garden and a sparkling swimming pool. Though it was mid-September, the grass was deeply green, and some of the flowers still bloomed.
"Okay, I've put the wine on the table so everyone can help themselves." Nancy plopped onto one of the overstuffed cushions and waved for everyone to follow suit. "How did you guys make out this week?"
They talked about their assignments, nonstop, for two hours. Then Ashleigh began checking her watch with increasing frequency. Faith looked up and met Nancy's knowing gaze.
"Is your boyfriend coming to pick you up again?" Nancy asked.
Ashleigh nodded. "He should be here in five minutes."
"Why don't you invite him in? He can have a drink while we finish up." They hadn't yet listened to Catherine's story.
"Actually, I don't think he has time." Ashleigh gathered up her laptop and her papers. She checked her cell phone to see if she had any messages then typed something into her Palm Pilot. Her utter reliance on her electronic gadgets still had Faith enthralled.
"Maybe you're afraid I'll try to steal your fellow?" Nancy teased. "After all, he is closer to my age than yours."
Ashleigh didn't seem perturbed. "I told you I like mature men."
"What about Niall? Aren't you even tempted to make a play for the teacher?"
"Not really." She gave us a cool, composed smile. "See you all Wednesday." Then she left.
"Well," Marsha said. "That was pretty subtle, Nancy."
"I don't do subtle. Anyway, someone had to say something. She's too young and pretty to waste herself on some moldy middle-aged character. He's probably married with kids, for heaven's sake."
"If he is, surely that's Ashleigh's business."
"I'm guessing your husband didn't leave you for a younger woman."
Marsha was silent for a moment. She swirled the wine in her glass, examining the pale-yellow liquid with distracted concentration. This week she'd written about a family finding out they'd lost their son in combat. When he heard the news, the father bowed his head, then returned to his job in the fields. No one had managed a word for a full minute after she'd finished the reading.
That silence had been one of shared empathy. This one, however, was tense. Faith was about to step in as mediator when Marsha abruptly spoke.
"No. Jonathan didn't leave me for a younger woman. He left because I refused to have children. That's something altogether different, isn't it?"
Another pause, and this time, Faith broke the silence. "Well, that's your choice. I imagine with the atrocities you've seen in your line of work, you'd think long and hard about bringing another child into this world."
Marsha acknowledged the truth of this with a twisted smile. "Exactly."
"Well," Nancy said. "I've managed to get us totally off track, haven't I? Catherine, do you want to read your assignment now?"
"Actually, I need to be running, too."
"Me, as well." Marsha stood up at the same time as Catherine. Faith went along with them to the door, but after the goodbyes were over, Nancy placed a hand on her arm.
"What about that drink I promised you? By the pool."
Faith figured another fifteen minutes couldn't hurt. "Sure, but make mine a fruit juice, please."
"Of course," Nancy said, her tone only slightly mocking. She poured two fresh glasses in the kitchen, pineapple juice for Faith, a gin and tonic for herself. The kids had been in the water earlier. Now the only sign of their previous presence were two damp towels abandoned at the water's edge. Nancy spread them over a lounge chair to dry, then beckoned Faith to a couple of chairs underneath the shade of an aged maple.
"I envy you, Faith," she said.
"You've got to be kidding. Why?"
"Your solid marriage for one. Not to mention your talent. That first chapter you read for us today is really something. "
Faith had done as requested and typed up the first part of her story from her journals. She had six completed chapters at home, as well as the one she'd brought with her today.
"Oh, Nancy. You're just being kind."
"Me, kind? I don't think so. Even Marsha was impressed. And she isn't one for sugarcoating anything."
That was true, Faith had to admit. She allowed herself to feel buoyed by the fact that there were four women who had seemed to enjoy the first chapter of her book. But had Nancy asked her to stay late to talk about her book? Faith didn't think so.
"You've got a gift for writing, too, Nancy. You crack us up every time."
"Yeah, a laugh a minute. But the plot doesn't make sense."
Everyone had agreed Nancy's story needed work in this area. "You'll figure it out. You have a real knack for the dramatic."
"Thanks for the compliment. Maybe I will sort things out eventually. And not just with my writing."
This, Faith sensed, was what Nancy really wanted to talk about. "Is everything okay?"
"Not really. My life is such a...I don't know. I liked being married, Faith, liked having someone I felt was in my court. My worst fear now is what would happen to my kids if I was in an accident or something. What if I got sick? They don't like Barbie. Not at all."
"Nothing's going to happen to you, Nancy." Faith knew that was a trite answer. She couldn't guarantee Nancy's safety, much as she might wish to. "You're an amazing woman, you know that? I've never met anyone with your spirit. I wish I could be more like you. I certainly wish I had a fraction of your style." She eyed Nancy's sharp black skirt, which she'd teamed with the perfect sleeveless blouse and topaz pendant.
"To be honest, Faith, you could use a good haircut. I hope you're not offended?"
"Not at all. I know I need help. Only where should I go? My last hairdresser talked about cutting it all off and going red. That's just not me."
"No, it isn't...."
Nancy was studying her so closely, Faith felt uncomfortable. She averted her gaze upward, studying the canopy of leaves that shaded them from the late afternoon sun.
"Tell you what." Nancy clapped her hands together with authority. "Tuesday morning you and I are going to sneak off together as soon as we've got the kids in school. I know just the place to take you. We'll do your hair, then go shopping. All you need to do is bring your Visa."
Ben was always saying she needed new clothes. Faith felt sure he would approve. Maybe her new look would kick-start a little...romance.
"Great idea, Nancy. I'm all for it."
Tuesday morning, September 20
Finally a few quiet moments to collect my thoughts. Ben just left to drive the kids to school. He told me he's planning to work late tonight. What else is new?
Things between Ben and me are getting worse...and I don't know what to do. This week he's been the usual great dad with the kids, but he's frozen me out completely. Not only have we not made love, but he's avoiding direct eye contact now.
I know I need to tell him about the creative writing class and our critique group meetings. But I'm not sure even that will help. He positively glowers if he sees one of my journals lying around. I'm sure he'll think I'm just wasting my time. I have it in my head that if I can just complete my manuscript and show him the final, printed product, he might be more inclined to take me seriously.
After all, I've written a book. I really have. I've been going through all my old journals this week, trying to organize everything onto the computer. I'm so consumed by the story that I forget to eat (imagine!) and I'm sure I'd forget to pick up the kids from school if I didn't set an alarm for myself.
The computer is in the basement. I've never used it before except for email. But I taught myself Word and I've been getting several chapters done a day. My slow typing skills frustrate me, but I think I'm getting faster.
The good news is that I still love the story! I was worried that after all this time (I wrote some of those chapters when Jessica was in nursery school) I'd go back and find out it wasn't nearly as good as I remembered. But I've been enthralled. Some of it is so good I can't believe I wrote it.
Other parts, though, really do need work. I've been fixing as I go along. I stop whenever I get to a passage that seems wooden and try to figure out why. Also, I've found some of my longer descriptive passages really need to be trimmed. In chapter five I came to the part where Marshall gets angry at Stephanie for making a sacrifice he doesn't want her to make. When I wrote that I thought it was so gripping. But now I wonder why didn't he just ask Stephanie what her reasoning was instead of flipping out? Stuff like that I've got to fix.
But it's going so well. I finished chapter five yesterday and I'm hoping to get another done tonight, if Ben does work really late. See how bad things are? I'm actually hoping Ben works late because I'd rather work on my book than spend the evening with him.
In two weeks, though, I should be finished, and then I'll be able to tell him the truth and we'll — Hold on, I hear the doorbell. That will be Nancy. Gotta run.
The hair appointment alone took two and a half hours and Faith couldn't help but think longingly of all the writing she could have accomplished in that time. But the final results, well, they were kind of worth it.
"Fabulous!" Nancy said when she saw her. "Turn around, let me see the back. Oh, yeah, look at those highlights. And I love the layers. Makes you look much younger."
"That's the magic word," Faith said, handing her credit card over the counter, as Nancy continued to inspect her.
"That cut really brings out your cheekbones. And your eyes. I can hardly wait to hit the stores and do something about the rest of you. No insult intended, Faith, but you do realize you've been buying your clothes about one size too large?"
Faith glanced down at her full, ankle-length skirt. It did feel a little loose in the waist, but she figured the extra fabric helped camouflage the thickness in her thighs. "I never lost all my pregnancy weight after Jessica."
She signed the bill, then returned her credit card to her purse. Together she and Nancy strolled out of the salon, heading for Nancy's convertible. Despite the warm sunshine, Nancy insisted on putting up the top to protect Faith's new "do."
"So you're not a stick," Nancy said as she headed for the boutiques on Fourth Avenue. "That doesn't mean you can't show off a few curves."
"Easy for you to say, Nancy. You don't have an ounce of body fat, I swear."
"I lost a lot of weight after the divorce. Not because I was trying. I just couldn't force myself to eat." She forced a brave grin. "See, some good came out of it anyway."
Faith's heart ached for her friend. "Did you really love him, Nancy?"
"At the time I thought I did. Now I'm not even sure what that means. I know I loved being married to Richard, loved our life together. I never imagined going through life on my own. And I wanted my kids to have... Well, you know exactly what I wanted my kids to have."
Yes. Faith knew. Nancy wanted her children to have a safe, stable world. The constant presence of a home and loving parents to provide a foundation for their future.
Divorce statistics were one thing. Seeing firsthand how devastating the breakup of a marriage could be was quite another. Why did once-loving couples let it happen? Was the lure of a pretty girl at work enough to cause a man to stray? Didn't the marriage have to be fundamentally flawed in the first place?
But what, exactly, constituted "fundamentally flawed?" Boredom? A petty argument at home that escalates into something more?
A wife keeping a secret that she simply refuses to share...?
"Enough of all this depressing talk," Nancy said. "It's time to shop!"
Nancy zoomed into a well-placed parking stall in front of a store that Faith liked but found intimidating. She loved the window displays, but when she looked at the clothes on the racks, she could never figure out which pieces would look best together. When the saleswomen asked if they could help, she didn't even know where to start.
"We're going to get you some great outfits, Faith. When you get home tonight, your husband will be amazed! I promise."
Ben was amazed, all right, when he arrived home that evening. He was amazed that there was no dinner waiting, covered in plastic wrap, for him to reheat in the microwave. He was amazed to find Faith in the basement — where she seemed to be living these days — working on those damn journals again. He was amazed that the house was a terrific mess and that no one — no one but him — seemed to give a damn about that.
"What is going on, Faith? The house is a disaster and you haven't cooked a decent meal since —:"
He stopped himself, but Faith could fill in the blanks herself. She'd relied on convenience foods and quick favorites like tacos and sloppy joes since she'd started her creative writing course. Such was her addiction to her writing, though, that even now, with her husband seriously angry at her, all she could think was, If only he'd been another half an hour, I could have finished this chapter.
She forced herself to save her document and close down the computer. Ben hadn't even attempted to see what she was doing. She guessed at this point he no longer cared. He just wanted her to go back to being herself. No, not herself. The wife he wanted her to be. The one who would take accounting for small businesses and get with the program.
"Want me to warm up some soup and make you a sandwich?" As she stood, she could see Ben finally notice her changed appearance. His eyes widened as he focused, first on her new hairstyle, then on the skirt and top. She'd bought size eight instead of her usual ten, and Nancy had been right. Her curves stood out, all right. But not too much, she hoped.
Anyway, she'd received several compliments when she dropped by the school to pick up the kids.
She waited for something from Ben. Didn't he like the new look? He certainly wasn't smiling.
"I can get my own dinner, thanks. You're obviously busy." He closed his mouth firmly and headed up the stairs. She followed him to the kitchen, lingering by the doorway as he rummaged through the pantry, finally pulling out a box of breakfast cereal.
"Sure you wouldn't prefer a sandwich? I could fry you a couple of eggs...."
"Don't bother, Faith. Obviously you're too busy to look after your family anymore. Tell me, what did the kids have for dinner? Another frozen pizza?"
"Actually beans and toast. But there's nothing wrong with beans and toast, Ben. It's a perfectly nutritious meal."
"And, coincidentally, very quick to prepare." He snagged the milk from the fridge, then a bowl from the cupboard. Once he was settled at the far end of the island, he paused before taking his first spoonful. Again he seemed to check out her new appearance.
"Do you like my new hairstyle?"
"Does it matter?"
"What do you mean?" Of course it matters!
"I've been after you to take better care of yourself for years. Now, suddenly, just two weeks after you start running out of the house every Wednesday evening and Saturday afternoon, you decide to fix yourself up. Can you blame me for wondering just who you're trying to impress?"
Faith put a hand to her chest. His outburst left her feeling not pretty and appealing anymore but cheap and...ugly. "That isn't fair."
"Come on, Faith. I know you're not going to that class."
She froze.
"I sold a car to the guy who teaches accounting for small businesses. That's how I heard about it. He said it was a real good primer for someone who'd never studied bookkeeping before. He said it would be perfect for you."
Faith gripped the edge of the counter, her gaze locked with Ben's. Though his tone was controlled, she could feel the anger radiating from him. She waited for the rest, knowing it couldn't be good.
"As it happens, that guy came back into the store today with a question about his warranty. He asked about you, Faith. He wondered why you'd canceled your registration. Why you'd never even shown up for the first class."
Faith and her husband stood at opposite ends of the kitchen island. Ben hadn't touched the cereal he'd planned to eat for his dinner. His bran flakes would be getting soggy. As if that mattered. Ben knew the truth. She'd never been to one of the accounting for small business classes he was so keen on. Faith wasn't surprised that he was angry. What did astound her, though, was that she felt angry, too.
"You registered me in that class without even asking. Why would you assume I want to learn about accounting? Have I ever expressed an interest in bookkeeping or office work to you?"
She'd caught him off guard by going on the offensive. He looked at her as if he was confronting a stranger. "Was I wrong to assume I could count on a little help from my wife? I've been supporting this family almost since day one. The dealership is our livelihood. It's paid for everything in this house, the kids' schooling..." He eyed her up and down again. "Not to mention your hair appointment and those new clothes."
With the one look, he made her feel like an employee. Funny, but she'd always pictured them as partners. "Are you saying I haven't made a contribution? That my work at home hasn't been important?"
"No. I'm just wondering why, now that the kids are in school, you can't help out at the business a little."
Faith looked down at the counter where she'd splayed her fingers. The granite surface was expensive and beautiful, as was the farm-style sink and the European dishwasher and the Christopher Pratt original oil painting over the table, and on and on it went. This house was full of expensive and beautiful belongings, all of which had been paid for by Ben's hard work.
At this moment, she hated the entire package.
"Ben, the dealership is your passion. Not mine."
"So you're too good to get involved in the business of selling cars. Is that it?"
"Of course not. I'm just saying that I have dreams, too."
Ben's mood shifted from anger to suspicion. "Just what have you been up to on your Wednesday nights?"
The time had come. Knowing he wouldn't understand but finally, finally having no other choice, she took a deep breath. "I have been going to the community college. But I'm taking a different class — creative writing."
Whatever Ben had been bracing himself to hear, obviously this wasn't it. "You mean stories and things?"
"Well — yes. Sort of."
"Why do you need to take a course in that? You already waste enough time on those damn journals."
He must have seen the indignation in her face, because he immediately threw up his hands in apology. "Sorry, I know I shouldn't have said that. Everyone needs a hobby and if you like jotting down your thoughts, that's fine. I just thought after all these years you might be ready for a real job."
Would writing romances qualify as a real job in Ben's opinion? She highly doubted it. "I'm sorry I didn't tell you I'd switched classes," she said. "But my creative writing class is very important to me. I think you should know that."
He let out a long, heavy sigh. "Well, that explains Wednesdays at least. Where do you go on Saturday?"
"Four women from my class and I are taking turns meeting at each other's homes and sharing our...work." She had a sudden longing to tell Ben about these women: how Nancy covered her fear of being alone with jokes and brash comments; the poignancy of Marsha's vignettes taken from her real-life journalism experiences; Ashleigh's love of electronics...and older men; the sadness behind Catherine's calm, composed exterior.
But even if she tried to tell him, she knew Ben wouldn't be interested. On his face she saw an awful mixture of disappointment and sadness. He stared at his cereal for a few moments, then shook his head. Slowly, he got to his feet. He carried his bowl to the sink and tossed the cereal down the garburator.
"Ben?"
"I'm going to bed."
He didn't ask if she was coming, but she followed anyway, a horrible ache in her stomach. She and Ben rarely disagreed, almost never fought. Even though they'd barely raised their voices to each other, they'd done both tonight.
And the worst thing was, even though she knew she ought to be worried about repairing the damage to her marriage right now, what she really wanted was to go back to the computer and keep working on her book.
Although Ben now knew her secret, Faith still didn't feel comfortable inviting the critique group to her house, so when Ashleigh offered to host the next meeting, Faith was quick to accept. Ashleigh lived downtown, in a tidy, sparsely furnished, one-bedroom apartment.
The minimalist décor, in shades of taupe and black, definitely suited the modern, controlled image that Ashleigh presented to the world. She came to the door in sleek black pants, a three-quarter-sleeve cotton top and bare feet. Her toes, Faith noted, were tiny and perfect like the rest of her.
"Am I the first?"
"Yes. Come in. What's in the box?"
"Chapters two through six," Faith admitted. Despite Ben's disapproval, she'd continued to work diligently on her book. She just couldn't stop herself. Maybe no one would want to read so much material, but she'd decided to bring the chapters just the same.
"Wow. And I thought I was driven."
Usually Ashleigh's gaze seemed to skim past Faith, but this Saturday afternoon she really seemed to notice her. Faith felt her taking in the new hairdo, the updated clothes.
"You look smart. I like your hair that way."
"Thank you."
"Sparkling water?" Ashleigh offered. She also had a tray of beautifully presented cut fruit.
"Would you mind if I used your washroom first? I ran some errands on my way here and would love to freshen up a bit."
"No problem." Ashleigh waved a hand toward the hall. "It's the door on the right."
Though it was the middle of the day, a trio of ivory candles burned on the counter next to the sink. A heavy curtain separated the bath and shower from the rest of the room. Faith closed the door gently, noting the pleasant scent of jasmine. In the mirror, she checked her hair and lipstick, then washed her hands. A stack of linen hand towels sat next to the sink. Apparently they were meant to be tossed into the wicker basket on the floor after they'd been used.
What a lot of laundry a system like this would create in her house. It was elegant, though. Faith tossed the cloth then glanced at the medicine cabinet. How she longed to take one little peek. She actually lifted her hand, then paused and returned it to her side.
No. She really shouldn't.
Faith returned to the living room to find that the others had all arrived. Nancy had opened the box containing Faith's chapters and was unabashedly reading. She glanced up when Faith took the chair next to hers.
"Faith, this is really great. Mind if I take it home to read?"
"I'd love it," Faith said. She knew she could count on an honest opinion from Nancy. And honesty — no matter how brutal — was what she needed to make this book as good as she possibly could.
"Well." Ashleigh took the final chair and looked round the room at everyone. "I guess we'd better get started. Marsha, do you have something to share today?"
"I do." Marsha unzipped a bag and pulled out a couple sheets of paper. "I've drafted an article I'd like to submit for the travel section of the Chronicle. It's about cycling in India."
She launched into the article, a knowledgeable piece that showcased her authentic knowledge of the subject and contained sparks of her very dry humor. When the article ended with a final, witty sentence, Ashleigh clapped her hands in delight.
"It's perfect, Marsha, just perfect. I'm sure the travel editor will love it."
Others voiced similar opinions, but when it came time for Faith to speak, she couldn't stop herself from offering a more frank view. "It is an excellent article, and I'm sure it would be very helpful and entertaining to the Chronicle readers. However, I liked your other pieces better, Marsha. They were so powerful."
"She's right," Catherine said. "The travel writing is smooth, but it doesn't pack the same punch."
"But that stuff was so hard to write!" Marsha dug both hands into her thick hair. "It just makes you sick after a while. You know? All the starving, suffering children, and nothing ever gets better."
Marsha had seen too much, Faith realized. For the good of her mental health, she needed to focus on lighter subjects for her writing. "I'm sorry if I sounded critical," Faith said. "The travel piece is good, too. It really is."
"Let's move on," Ashleigh suggested. "Nancy? Did you bring anything?"
They worked their way around the room, with one break when Ashleigh offered more sparkling water and fruit. Nancy lifted her eyebrows at the water, implying something harder might be appreciated, but Ashleigh either didn't have any wine or had no intention of serving it this afternoon.
As time went on, the conversation turned to personal matters. Catherine had to leave early to prepare for a charity event she'd helped organize. "After all that work, I don't want to arrive late," she said.
Faith noted the use of the word I. Wouldn't her husband be attending with her? It didn't seem like a very tactful question to ask. What if they were having marital problems and were temporarily separated? The possibility was an aching reminder of the problems she and Ben were having. Not that she and Ben would ever do anything drastic like separate.
Still, he'd barely spoken to her since their conversation the other night. He acted as though he'd been the aggrieved party. But Faith wondered how he would have felt if she hadn't supported his dream to own a car dealership. In the early days, they'd really scrimped and struggled to make it happen.
Marsha left shortly after Catherine. "I have a date with a friend I used to work with. We're going to get plastered and forget we ever heard the term third-world country."
"Sounds like fun," Nancy said. "Well, the getting plastered part sounds like fun."
Once Marsha was gone, Nancy turned to Ashleigh. "You must have a date tonight, too."
"As a matter of fact, I do."
"The guy with the Lexus?"
Ashleigh nodded.
"So, what's he like?"
Ashleigh shrugged. "Nice enough." She was gathering the dirty glasses. Faith could tell she was waiting for them to leave. Yet Nancy lingered. Her questions were anything but subtle as she continued to grill Ashleigh about her boyfriend, but the younger girl remained coolly unforthcoming. Finally Faith took Nancy by the arm.
"We really should be going."
Ashleigh rewarded her with a grateful smile. "See you at class on Wednesday."
In the elevator Nancy leaned close and whispered, "Did you check out the medicine cabinet when you were in the washroom?"
Faith shook her head no. But Nancy had used the facilities, too, and she guessed her new friend hadn't been as circumspect. "You?"
"I sure did."
"I was tempted," Faith admitted. "What did you find?"
"Two toothbrushes. Men's shaving cream. An old-fashioned wooden razor."
"Her boyfriend lives in?"
"My guess is he visits occasionally." Nancy paused. "I'm more sure than ever that the creep's married."
"You think?"
"Why else is Ashleigh so secretive about him?"
"Maybe she's just worried we won't approve of their relationship because he's
older. Maybe she doesn't feel she knows us well enough.
Or maybe —"
"He's married." Nancy brushed away all Faith's suggestions with a knowing smile. "Trust me. I can smell the presence of a cheating rat for miles."
When she wasn't in writing class or meeting with her critique group, all Faith could think about was her novel. The story consumed her, making her absentminded when she was supposed to be listening to her children or doing any of the unavoidable daily household chores.
At least she didn't have to worry about paying attention to Ben. He went out of his way to avoid being in the same room with her. As she stayed up later and later to work at the computer, he was always asleep by the time she crawled into bed.
She was at the midpoint of the romance now. Marshall had finally realized he loved Stephanie, but he'd also realized that until she got over the death of the man who'd been her fiancé — and his best friend — she'd never be able to return his love.
Tuesday morning after the kids were in school Nancy called. "Sorry to interrupt," she said. "I know this is your writing time but I had to tell you I just devoured chapters two through six. When will you have some more for me?"
"Hopefully I'll have seven, eight and nine done by tomorrow night." Faith cast her gaze over the stacks of open journals piled around the computer monitor. Piecing together the scenes she'd written over the course of so many years felt like putting together a jigsaw puzzle. Sometimes, if she worked too long at it, her head began to ache.
Still, she didn't stop. She just popped a couple of pain relievers, drank a big glass of water, then kept working.
Somehow, she wasn't sure how, all her problems would be solved if she could just finish.
Ben worked late on Monday and Tuesday. Wednesday morning Faith didn't have the nerve to ask if he'd come home early so she could make it to her class. But he did, walking into the kitchen just as she was serving dinner to the kids.
She'd forced herself to stop writing at two that afternoon so she could wash the kitchen floor and make his favorite chicken enchilada casserole. Also, she'd washed her hair for the first time in three days and put on another of the outfits she'd bought with Nancy.
"So, you're going to class tonight?" Ben stood at the counter, watching as she dished out the meal.
He looked tired, she thought. His broad shoulders slumped slightly. His eyes lacked their usual sparkle. Even when he was talking to the kids there was something forced about his smile.
"Yes. I've already eaten." She nodded toward the fridge. "There's pudding for dessert."
He raised his eyebrows, acknowledging her effort. "You cooked a real meal."
"I appreciate that you came home early. Even though you don't approve —" She cut off her sentence, not sure if the children were listening. They didn't seem to be. Robert was teasing Thomas about a girl he'd been playing with at recess.
"It's not that I don't approve. I still don't understand why you had to keep this such a big secret." He scanned her new outfit. "Makes me wonder what other secrets you might be keeping."
"Ben?" He wasn't thinking…? But he was; she saw it in the resentment that flashed over his face.
"You never go to this effort with your appearance for me anymore."
Faith didn't know what to say to that. She wasn't dressing this way to attract Ben or any other man. She was doing it for herself, because she was tired of her dowdy image. And maybe, she had to admit, she also cared what the women in her critique group thought. Without exception they were all women of style, though their individual tastes varied widely.
"Ben, please don't make too much of this."
"I'd like to know how you'd feel if I suddenly —"
"Stop." What had begun as a discussion was about to degenerate into an argument. Not only was this not a good idea in front of the kids, but she didn't have time. "I have to leave now, or I'll be late. We can talk later, Ben. Okay?"
She went to the table to kiss the kids goodbye. By the time she came back to Ben, he'd made an excuse to leave the room.
"To plot or not to plot. That is the question."
Faith jotted down the words Niall had written on the front board.
"Keener," Nancy hissed.
Faith laughed. "It's an interesting question. Do you plot your mysteries before you start writing?"
Before Nancy could answer, Niall started talking. "I'm handing back the assignments from last week. I've gotta say, I'm impressed with the quality of writers we have in this room. When you see my comments in the margins, remember they're just one person's opinion. This isn't a credit class. I'm not handing out any marks. The whole point is to move your writing to the next level."
He moved between the rows, checking names on the top corner of the top page. When he came to a very thick package — about thirty or forty pages — Faith guessed who it belonged to before he stopped in front of Roger's desk.
"Interesting stuff, Roger," Niall said. "Sorry I didn't have time to read all of it. I should have mentioned beforehand that you should limit yourself to between ten and twenty pages per assignment."
Roger glanced at his cover page then back at the instructor. "Did you get to the part —"
"Later, Roger. Okay?" Niall moved on through the pile, finally coming to Faith's assignment. She'd handed in the first chapter of her book. "Very compelling," Niall said. "Emotionally gripping. I'd say you're on to something, Faith."
She could feel her cheeks go hot. "Thank you."
Thank you! Thank you! Thank you! Did he know how much his compliment meant to her? Judging from his brief but empathetic smile, she guessed that he did. As he moved on to the next person, she quickly flipped through the pages of her chapter. Niall had placed red checkmarks next to passages he'd especially liked. In a few places he'd jotted notes where he felt she needed to be clearer or to expand on motivation. He'd also made a few editorial corrections, but not many.
Did she have talent then? Was it possible her book might really be published one day?
Niall finally reached the last assignment. He walked to the back of the class and handed it to Catherine. "Very touching," he said quietly. "Extremely moving."
I still haven't talked to Catherine about her husband. I need to do that this break. I've been so wrapped up in my book and my problems with Ben, I haven't paid enough attention to her. She's the quietest member of our group. I wonder what she thinks of all this.
"Okay, let's get to work." Niall rubbed his hands together. "As you can see from the board, we're talking about plot today. Some writers outline their work extensively before they even think about that first line. Others dive straight into the work, trusting their characters to take them where they need to go."
"Which do you do?" Roger asked.
"I'm half and half," Niall confessed. "I like to know where I'm heading with a story, but I don't need to nail down every detail. What about the rest of you? Nancy? You're working on a mystery. Those tend to be fairly plot-driven. How do you like to work?"
"With a glass of wine in hand and the bottle nearby." Everyone laughed. "According to Stephen King," Nancy said, "plotting should be the good writer's last resort. He contends that if you plan out all the action your story ends up sounding artificial."
"You've got to admit he has a point. Forcing the story to move in a certain direction can stifle creativity," said someone on the other side of the room.
"And yet, the most satisfying stories I've ever read have a definite structure," Marsha contributed. "The dramatic tension may ebb and flow, but as a reader you feel confident the author is moving you toward a final, satisfying resolution."
"By satisfying, do you mean happy?" Roger asked.
Faith was willing to bet serious money that Roger's tome didn't end happily.
"Not necessarily. But the ending has to fit. I don't know how to put it better than that."
Marsha considers herself hard-nosed and logical. But she relies on her intuition more than she thinks she does. I'm definitely not plot-driven in my writing. If I was, revisions probably wouldn't be as difficult as they are.
"Faith?"
She froze at the sound of her name. Then slowly raised her gaze to the instructor, now leaning against his desk in one of his favorite postures.
"You're working on a novel. Do you plot ahead with your story?"
Slowly she shook her head. "That would take the fun out of it for me. Part of what inspires me to pick up my pen every day is wanting to know what's going to happen next. If I already knew, I think I'd be bored."
That prompted someone else in favor of heavy outlining to come up with a rebuttal. The conversation continued, with strong opinions for both methods being voiced, until the break.
"Man, do I ever need a shot of caffeine!" Nancy climbed out from behind her desk. "Coming, Faith?"
"You go ahead. I'll meet you in a minute." Faith was determined to talk to Catherine, who was conferring quietly with Niall at the far end of the classroom right now. Earlier, Niall had written out the names of a couple of books on writing. One in particular appealed to Faith. She turned to the back of her journal where she kept titles she wanted to read.
Escaping into the Open by Elizabeth Berg. She'd read novels by the author before, and guessed she would enjoy learning Berg's thoughts on the craft of writing. Besides, she liked the title. Escaping into the open was how she felt whenever she picked up her pen.
Catherine and Niall were still talking. Last class, Catherine had spent part of the break with Niall, too, Faith remembered. Perhaps Niall saw something special in Catherine's writing. She tried not to be jealous. He'd been very generous with his help on her assignment, too.
I wonder how many of the women in this class have a crush on Niall. It would be easy enough to fall for a guy like him. He's handsome, warm, intelligent. Yet he's very contained too — there's an aura of mystery about him. He was very open about his drinking problem. But what caused him to turn to alcohol in the first place? Something tells me he had a troubled childhood. He's extraordinarily attuned to the needs of people around him. Perhaps it's just his special gift. But I've read that children who were abused in some way also tend to develop that talent
Still talking. She closed the journal and wondered if she should just go ahead and find Nancy. Then Catherine noticed her sitting there.
"Hi, Faith. I was glad to see you came to class."
Niall looked perplexed. "I should hope so. One of my star pupils." He touched Catherine's shoulder briefly then headed out the door. "I should grab a coffee while I have the chance."
Faith waited until he'd left the room to answer Catherine's question. "Yes. I finally told Ben the truth. He wasn't pleased, but at least I can come to class now with a clear conscience." Remembering her resolve not to let this conversation focus on her problems again, she asked, "What about your husband? Is he supportive of your writing?"
Catherine's gaze shifted to the desktop in front of her. She rearranged the papers lying there then looked back at Faith. "Graham's always been supportive. When I wanted to stay home with our kids when they were little, he was all for it. Later, when I took the job at the bookstore, he thought that was great, too."
"But what does he think about your writing?"
No denying the sadness in Catherine's lovely gray eyes now. "He doesn't know about it, Faith."
Was Catherine keeping a secret from her husband, too, then? Somehow Faith knew that wasn't the right explanation. Catherine twisted her hands. Faith worried that she'd made her friend uncomfortable.
"I'm sorry, Catherine."
"That's okay. It's just that I haven't told many people yet."
Oh, dear. It was a separation. Faith felt awful for raising the subject. "Are you okay?" she asked, touching a hand gently to the older woman's shoulder. Catherine was dressed elegantly, as always, in a pretty cream sweater with a silk scarf casually draped around her neck. Yet, suddenly Faith saw the outfit as a disguise, allowing Catherine to face the world as if everything was normal, while in truth, something in her life was definitely off kilter.
"I'm okay, Faith. But Graham, well, he isn't. He suffers from early-onset Alzheimer's."
For a moment Faith was too stunned to speak. "Oh, Catherine." She couldn't believe it. Catherine seemed too young to have such a gravely ill husband.
"Graham was doing okay. Then he had a stroke in July and I had to put him in an institution. I didn't have a choice, Faith. I simply couldn't look after him on my own."
Faith recognized the guilt behind the explanation. "I'm sure you did the right thing."
"The real problem now is that I still haven't told my children. They came home when he had his stroke, of course, but he was still in the hospital then. When I told them he'd been discharged, they assumed he'd come home. I didn't tell them the truth."
"Oh, Catherine."
"And to think I was giving you a hard time for keeping a secret. I've been keeping an even bigger one myself. But my lies are about to catch up to me."
"What's happening?"
"It's Graham's birthday this weekend and both the kids are coming home. I'm especially concerned about Gray. He and his father were so close. I have no idea how he'll react when he finds out his father's been living in an institution the past two months."
On Thursday, Faith completed rewriting chapters ten and eleven. She only had one more to do to finish the book. Mind, body and soul longed to revisit that last gripping scene when her characters would finally resolve the issues that stood between them. But on Friday Jessica awoke with a fever.
Faith kept her daughter home from school. She made her Jell-O and played card games until Jessica's head nodded with fatigue.
Rather than try to fit in an hour of writing during her daughter's nap, Faith did a few loads of laundry and caught up on some cleaning. Though the last chapter called to her several times, she refused to respond.
Saturday morning, Thomas had the fever. Sunday it was Robert. Thankfully neither she nor Ben caught the bug, but they were so fatigued looking after three sick kids they might as well have.
Faith had hated missing the Saturday afternoon critique group meeting, and couldn't help but be glad when Nancy called to say it had been canceled. "Ashleigh's having some crisis with her boyfriend and Catherine had a family emergency — she didn't elaborate. Do you have any idea what it might be?"
Not sure if Catherine would want her talking about Graham's health, Faith was noncommittal. But after Nancy rang off, she dialed Catherine's number to make sure everything was okay.
"I'm fine, thanks," Catherine had assured her. "And so is Graham. My son is just having a hard time right now. I took him and his sister to visit their dad last night."
"And…?"
"Well, Dana's okay. She's amazingly strong, actually."
Like her mother.
"But I don't want to leave Gray alone today. He's talking about dropping out of university and coming home to help me look after his father. I don't want him to do that."
"I can understand why. But maybe this is something he needs to do?"
"If he's doing it for himself, I guess I could live with that. But I don't want him thinking I need the help. Because I've been coping just fine."
Perhaps. Or perhaps Gray knew his mother better than she knew herself.
After their conversation had ended, Faith had hung up the phone and reflected on how much her life had changed since she'd started this course. She'd only known Nancy and Catherine for a few weeks — yet she could talk to them about all the things that mattered. Even Marsha and Ashleigh didn't seem as intimidating as they once had.
Finally, on Tuesday, the last sick child was back at school, and schedules returned to normal. The basement was buried in laundry, but by early afternoon Faith was back at the computer. At five minutes to three, she typed the new last sentence.
Sighing, she leaned back in her chair. The house seemed so quiet. Funny she hadn't noticed before. She had a mild ache in her wrists and her head felt stuffy.
But she'd done it. The revisions were done. She'd finished her book.
She thought she should celebrate. Buy her favorite chocolates. Have a bubble bath. Phone someone.
That's what she wanted to do. Phone someone who would understand exactly what this moment meant. She tried Nancy first, and caught her at home.
"You're done? That's awesome, Faith! Thank God I'll finally get to read the whole thing. Make sure you bring those last chapters to class on Wednesday."
Catherine was more subdued, but equally pleased for her. "Congratulations. You finished a book. An entire book — revisions and all. That's a marvelous thing."
Faith smiled. Yes. It was marvelous. She felt terrific, she really did. In fact, she felt so terrific she had to get off the phone right this second or she was going to start…
"Faith? Are you okay?"
"I'm f-fine." She lowered her voice to a whisper. "I have to go." She'd barely hung up when she started to cry. It was ridiculous. As she groped for a nearby box of tissues, she couldn't understand what was wrong with her.
So what if Ben hadn't been the first person she called? So what if he wouldn't have understood if she had?
It was time for her to pick up the kids from school, but she couldn't stop sobbing. The truth was, she did care. For the first time since they'd been married, Ben wasn't the one she'd turned to. Her husband wasn't her best friend anymore. In fact, she didn't think he even liked her anymore.
When Ben wasn't home by seven on Wednesday night, Faith called the dealership. Kimberly answered.
"Hi, Kimberly. Is Ben there?"
"Sure. He's right here, Faith. Hold on."
Two seconds later her husband was on the line. "Faith? Oh, hell, it's Wednesday, isn't it? Sorry, I forgot about your class. I'll leave right away."
How could he have forgotten? She'd reminded him this morning. And what, exactly, was he doing? He and Kimberly had to have been standing within a few feet of each other in order for him to pick up so quickly.
Or maybe they'd been standing even closer than that.
Faith clenched the handle of her book bag. Imagining an affair between Ben and Kimberly was the last thing she needed right now. Leaving the kids eating their cookies for dessert, she went out to the front step to wait. As soon as she saw Ben's Forester coming down the street, she jumped into her van. They waved to each other as she took off for class.
In the end, she was half an hour late. As usual, an animated discussion was under way. She hoped no one noticed her as she slipped into her seat in front of Nancy and read the notes on the front board.
Faith opened her journal, noted the date, then copied from the board. As she settled into the familiar routine of writing, she gradually calmed down and began to absorb the conversation around her.
"Does every story necessarily have a theme?" Niall asked.
Roger's hand was the first to go up. After he postulated that too much structure killed spontaneity, Ashleigh countered with her opinion. She was reading Story by Robert McKee and had brought up his ideas on several occasions.
"McKee says that a story is more meaningful to audiences when it is wrapped around one, solid story concept."
Nancy agreed. "Stephen King says you don't need to focus on theme too much. As you think about your work, gradually the theme will become obvious. Then, in the rewrite stage you can shape the meaning to maximize the impact on the reader."
Putting down her pen, Faith frowned. She hadn't thought about her story from this perspective before. Did her novel have a theme?
Catherine, who rarely contributed to class discussions, raised her hand. "I hate to ask a stupid question, but what, exactly, is a theme? Niall, you've said it's a controlling idea. Can you give me an example? In most of the mysteries I've read, justice prevails. Is that the theme? Good triumphs over evil? If so, it seems kind of lame to me."
Before Niall could respond, Ashleigh was speaking again. "A theme is more than an expression of the end result. Good triumphs over evil might be part of a theme, but we need to know why. For instance, a theme might be good triumphs over evil because good is innately stronger than evil. Alternately, it might be good triumphs over evil because of the superpowers of one individual."
"That's good," Marsha said.
"Yeah. I like that," another student agreed.
Faith was still lost in thought. Her book had to have a controlling idea. She knew it did. Then it came to her. "Damaged relationships can only be healed through love."
When she noticed the sudden silence, she realized she'd spoken aloud. And without raising her hand.
"Sorry. I didn't mean to interrupt."
"Is that the theme of your novel?" Niall asked. He seemed interested. Faith glanced around the room. Everyone seemed interested. Even Roger and Marsha.
"Yes. I just figured it out now." She couldn't stop herself from adding, "I finished rewriting the last chapter yesterday."
Spontaneous applause broke out among the students. Even Niall joined in. "Way to go, Faith. Are you going to submit the manuscript to a publisher?"
"I haven't thought that far ahead."
"You mean, of course you will," Nancy corrected her, kicking the back of her chair with the tip of her short, fashionable boots.
"You should," Catherine agreed. "You have a real talent for storytelling."
Faith smiled, but didn't commit herself. When her book was still in progress it had been easy to say she planned to send it off to a publisher. But now that it was finished, she was scared.
What if every editor who read her manuscript hated it? This book meant everything to her. If the book was no good, then maybe she was no good, too.
Surely the safest thing to do was to stuff the darn thing into a box in the basement and forget she'd ever written it.
That week's critique meeting was held at Catherine's condo — a gracious, elegantly decorated space. On the upright piano were displayed an attractive array of family photos. Faith was drawn to one of Catherine and Graham standing on a beach.
"That was taken in Maui on our twentieth anniversary," Catherine said.
One of their last holidays before his illness? Faith swallowed past the tightness in her throat.
Ashleigh picked up a picture of an attractive young man. Tall and lean with a wide, engaging smile. "Is this your son?"
"Yes, that's Gray. He's playing with our Border collie, Allie. We had to put her down last year."
Faith's gaze lingered on their hostess. What a lot she'd had to deal with in the past few years. Both of her children leaving home, her husband's illness, the loss of an obviously loved family pet. Catherine, walking past with a decanter of wine, put a hand on Faith's arm.
"It was sad at the time, but I'm okay now."
Faith knew she was talking about more than the dog.
"Well, let's get busy guys." Nancy had been one of the first to arrive. She opened her briefcase and pulled out a mound of typewritten pages. "Here's the rest of your book, Faith, and let me be the first to say it's fantastic. You've got to let the others read this, too."
"I'll be next," Ashleigh put in quickly.
"Are you going to print out a clean copy and send it to a publisher?" Marsha asked.
"I'd like to," Faith admitted. "If I can work up the nerve." She knew she didn't really want to relegate her story to a dusty corner of her basement.
That explained the black dress and heels, Faith thought. Nancy was always well-dressed but today even more so than usual. "That sounds nice. Where did you meet him?"
Nancy shrugged. "A friend of a friend. He's an orthodontist, but I'm trying not to hold that against him." She turned to the others. "My ex was a dentist." She rolled her eyes.
Faith hoped this new guy would turn out to be someone interesting and fun…and nice. Nancy deserved someone really terrific.
"Actually, I could use a ride," Ashleigh said quietly.
"Sure. No problem."
"What happened to the chauffeuring boyfriend?" Trust Nancy to be blunt.
"We're finished."
To Faith, Ashleigh sounded quite detached. Was it just an act, or had she really not cared very much about this guy?
"You okay?" Marsha asked.
"Fine. He had such a busy schedule we hardly saw each other anyway."
"Sounds like my ex. Of course, his busy schedule involved another woman," Nancy added candidly.
"So did my boyfriend's."
"Really?" Catherine seemed shocked. "What's the matter with men these days, anyway?"
Ashleigh shrugged. "Actually it isn't just the men. When you think about it, every married man is sleeping with a woman, isn't he? So the females are just as much the problem as the males."
Nancy caught Faith's gaze and raised a knowing eyebrow. See? She seemed to be saying. I told you she was involved with a married man.
Faith wasn't so sure. Ashleigh seemed to have a very blasé attitude toward dating. But she suspected the younger woman cared more about this man than she was letting on. For a woman of only twenty-three, Ashleigh was expert at hiding her true emotions.
"I brought a book that should help you do a proper job of it." Marsha handed her a copy of Be Your Own Literary Agent by Martin P. Levin. "Do you plan to send a proposal or the entire manuscript?"
"Whatever you do, make sure you double-space and use an easy-to-read font like Courier New," Ashleigh added.
"This book has examples of covering letters, too," Marsha said. "If you've published any short stories or articles, you'll want to mention the publishing credit."
She'd published nothing. Faith put a hand to her forehead. She was already psyched out about this. Now the entire process was sounding more complicated than she ever could have imagined. "I'd planned on sending the whole thing. What's a proposal?"
Her friends spent the next hour going through each step she needed to follow. Faith copied all their instructions carefully into her journal. Fortunately the publisher she was targeting accepted full manuscripts, so all she needed to do was write a cover letter to accompany the book.
Finally, she thought she had everything. "Thanks so much, you guys. You've been great. Now I just need to get up the nerve to mail the darn thing."
Catherine poured everyone a glass of wine at that point, and even Faith accepted half a glassful. Then they went on to talk about everyone else's writing. Two hours later, Faith was having too much fun to want to leave, but she had to pick up her kids.
"Anyone need a ride?" she asked as she packed her stuff into her book bag. She glanced at Nancy, who'd had quite a bit to drink.
"Actually, I have a date tonight," her friend said, a little smugly. "He's picking me up here."
On Monday Faith spent some time on the Internet site for her targeted publisher, trying to find the right editor's name. Her critique group thought she was better off mailing her submission to an individual rather than "The Editorial Department." Then she spent two hours agonizing over her cover letter.
Nancy called at noon. "Have you sent it yet?"
"Are you kidding? I just finished the cover letter. I still have to print the manuscript and check it over one more time."
"Are you sure you need to do that? Sounds like procrastination to me."
Maybe it was. But Faith needed this submission to be as perfect as she could make it. "Say, how was your date on Saturday?"
Nancy's sigh traveled clearly over the phone line. "Don't ask."
"Oh, dear."
Nancy laughed. "You sound like an old lady when you say that. Don't worry. I didn't have much hope pinned on this guy anyway. See you Wednesday. And Faith?"
"Yes?"
"Mail the manuscript."
Faith wanted to, she really did. But by the time she'd printed out all two hundred pages and read them over carefully, it was time to get the kids.
Robert had an assignment due the next day and needed a sheet of poster paper. Thomas invited a friend over. Jessica wanted to bake cookies. By the time dinner was finished, Faith was exhausted.
Ben still wasn't home from work. So she put his meal in the fridge then went through the bath and story-reading routine with the kids.
"Where's daddy?" Jessica asked, as Faith helped her brush her teeth.
"He's working late, honey."
"Dad's working late a lot lately," Robert observed, coming into the bathroom to get a video game he'd left on the floor.
"Don't play that now, Robert," Faith said. "If you're finished your assignment, why don't you read your book? It's due at the library this week."
She'd sidestepped the questions about their father, but Faith knew she and Ben couldn't carry on this way much longer without their behavior affecting the children. They missed Ben. And they were sure to pick up on the way she and Ben were avoiding each other soon enough, too.
Once the children were all in bed, she checked the time. It was a few minutes past nine. The dealership didn't stay open this late on Monday. Where could he be?
She couldn't stop herself from worrying about Kimberly. She honestly didn't believe Ben was the type of man who would have an affair, but maybe Nancy had once thought that about her husband, too.
Now that her book was done, she had to make solving her problems with Ben the priority. When he came home, she'd show him her manuscript. She'd try one more time to explain how much writing meant to her. She'd make him understand. She had to.
Faith settled on the couch with a book. After fifteen minutes, she sprawled out and covered herself with a light blanket. She managed to read another couple of pages, but her sight kept blurring. Finally she gave up and put the book down. She'd close her eyes. But only for a few minutes…
Faith rolled over in her sleep and almost fell to the floor. What was going on? She groped for the bedside lamp then realized she wasn't in her room.
She'd fallen asleep on the couch.
Ben? She bolted upright and sought the digital display on the VCR. It was four in the morning! Clutching the blanket around her shoulders, she padded down the hall to check the bedroom. The bed hadn't been disturbed all night.
Oh, God. The worst scenarios played out in her head. He'd been in an accident — but wouldn't the police have called by now? He was with Kimberly — but no, she couldn't, couldn't believe her husband would do that.
Faith abandoned the blanket for her housecoat and slippers. She made her way to the kitchen, where she flicked on the light then stared at the phone. Who should she call? She dialed the number for the dealership and got the recorded message that played during closing hours. Next she tried Ben's cell. He answered on the very first ring.
"Ben?"
"Hi, Faith."
Relief was quickly replaced with anger. "Where the hell are you? Do you know what time it is? How worried I've been?" She stopped for air.
"I'm at home, Faith. In the basement."
"What?" She crossed the room and opened the door that led downstairs. Sure enough she saw a faint glow of light. "What are you doing down there?"
"Reading."
Her heart resumed the staccato beat from when she'd thought he might be hurt. She started down the stairs, the portable phone still in her hand. "It's late, Ben."
"I know. But this is a really good book. I can't put it down."
Her heart was thumping now. Madly. She turned the corner and came to the computer desk. Seated in the big swivel chair was her husband. He held the last page of her manuscript in his hand.
"Ben?" She turned off the phone and placed it on the desk, next to his cell.
"Just a minute. I'm almost finished." He waved her aside, as he scanned the last couple of paragraphs. When he was done, he set the page neatly on top of all the rest.
She stood uncertainly in front of him as he regarded her for a long, long time. Finally he stood, too, and came round the desk to take her hands.
"You wrote a book." He seemed a little stunned by this. "All those journals — that's what you were doing — writing that story."
She nodded.
"I got home around ten and when I didn't see you in the bedroom, I checked downstairs, expecting to find you here."
Where she so often was these days, she thought guiltily.
"Instead I saw this manuscript. After I'd discovered you sleeping on the couch, I came back down and took a closer look. All I had to read was page one and I was hooked. I couldn't stop. Why didn't you tell me, Faith?"
Her gaze dropped to the first button of his shirt. "When I suggested we read a romance novel at our book club, you made fun of the idea along with the others."
"Oh, honey." He shook his head. "I guess I was prejudiced. I'd never read a romance novel. But what you've done…" He indicated the neat pile of paper on the desk. "I can't quite believe you actually wrote it. It's…amazing."
"Do you really think so?" She looked him in the eyes again, afraid to see condescension. But his eyes were shining with only positive emotions. Pride, admiration…love.
"I do. I really do. I'm sorry I gave you such a hard time about your writing class."
"I didn't give you much of a chance to be supportive. I know I shouldn't have been so secretive. But the writing meant so much to me, Ben, and I was so scared I wouldn't be good enough."
"As if. You've got real talent, honey. I'm just kicking myself right now for being such a jerk. I never even gave you a chance, did I?" He put his hands on her shoulders, gently pulling her close.
"You had your own problems. I'm sorry I'm not interested in accounting, Ben. I feel bad that I wasn't able to help you."
"Forget the accounting. It's not a problem anymore."
"No?"
"When I found out you weren't going to those classes, I asked the instructor to give me some private instruction in exchange for an upgrade to his sound system. We've been meeting every week for lunch, and I've been staying late at work to finish my assignments."
"So that's what you've been up to!" She'd probably confide her silly worries about Kimberly later. But right now, she still had questions. "Why didn't you tell me?"
"You weren't talking to me much, either," he reminded her. "I was angry, Faith."
And probably hurt, too. She wound her arms tighter around his waist.
Ben kissed her then. Long and sweet, just the way her hero had kissed her heroine in the final paragraph of her book. It felt so right to be in her husband's arms again, to hold him close, to know that their future was secure, that it always had been.
"Ready for bed?" He squeezed her hand, and she squeezed back.
"Very ready. But I hope you don't think I'm going to let you sleep."
"Last thought on my mind," he assured her.
By five minutes to nine the next morning, the last of her kids had been dropped off at school. Faith drove to the local post office, at the back of a chain drugstore, and stood in line with her carefully labeled, padded envelope. When it was her turn for service, she placed the package carefully on the scales.
"First-class postage to New York City, please."
The clerk, a young girl, still tanned from summer and slightly distracted, tapped away at the computer then requested payment. Faith counted out the dollars and cents and handed over the exact amount. The clerk printed off a stamp and placed it in the upper right corner of the envelope. Then she affixed several first-class stickers.
Faith reached for her envelope.
"I can mail that for you," the clerk said.
"That's okay."
The clerk looked puzzled for a moment, then shrugged in a what-do-I-care manner and called for her next customer.
Faith carried her stamped package outside to the mailbox in front of the store. She stood for a moment, breathing in crisp autumn air and thinking how wonderful last night had been.
She loved Ben so much. She was a very lucky woman.
Then she dropped a kiss on her manuscript. "Good luck," she whispered as she finally released it into the hands of the U.S. Postal Service. She imagined her envelope sitting on the desk of an editor in New York. What would that editor think when she read it? Would she love it as much as Faith's friends had? Or would it not meet the publishing company's standards for publication?
Even more than money, Faith yearned for validation. Yes, you wrote a good book; yes, your time was well spent. Having this book published would be a total dream come true. Yet it in a way she knew it didn't really matter what that editor in New York decided.
She had written one book and she would write another. It was what she did. She was a writer.
The End