by Susan Lewis
Thinking of him now, as she often did in quiet moments, she hoped that wherever he was, he knew that she was living in Wales. She could see his twinkly eyes shining with delight to realize that she’d returned to his roots. It would give him so much pleasure, especially since her mother had moved into a cottage at the heart of the village. Knowing him, he’d have wholeheartedly approved of Jack’s plans for the new business, and would probably even have got involved in some way if he could.
Stirring as the next-door neighbors’ cat jumped down onto the lawn, circling the children’s trampoline, slide, and two-story playhouse before disappearing over the wall into the moorland, Jenna glanced at the blank screen of her laptop and gave a sigh of dismay.
“Take this time for yourself,” Jack had told her after depositing the younger children at their friends’ homes earlier, and before he and Paige had set off on their shoot. “We’ll be gone for a few hours, so sit with it, see what happens. I bet something will.”
He was wrong. Nothing was happening at all.
It never did these days, and she was annoyed with herself now for hoping that today might prove any different, when she knew very well that a creative flow couldn’t just be turned on and off like a tap.
She was experiencing—suffering would be a better choice of word—a prolonged spell of writer’s block, though she deliberately didn’t call it that. She preferred telling herself that the story wasn’t quite ready to be told yet, or the characters were still making up their minds which directions to take. It would help, a lot, if she actually knew what the story was about—or, more significantly, whom it was about—but she really didn’t. It was as though she’d been abandoned by her own imagination. Actually, there was no “as though” about it—she had been abandoned by her imagination. It had run for cover following the awful reviews for her last book, taking the best part of her confidence with it.
However, blaming a handful of critics for a book that she’d known, even when she’d delivered it, wasn’t as good as her best-selling first was hardly going to help get her past this crisis. Nor was the fact that her agent had recently reminded her that the publisher would be asking for a return of the advance if she didn’t send something in soon.
So here she was, facing the happy prospect of having to repay something in the region of twenty thousand pounds in the next couple of months unless she could come up with a synopsis at the very least. Since this wasn’t a sum she could possibly raise, and the only words she’d been able to conjure so far were “Chapter One,” things weren’t looking good.
In truth, the situation might not have felt quite so desperate if they hadn’t spent virtually everything they had on setting up here. Jack’s severance pay, her advance, the small inheritance she’d received from her father, and most of the proceeds from their London house had all gone into creating their new life. She couldn’t deny they’d been extravagant, paying for the house outright, buying themselves a new car each—a flashy coupe for her and Jack, a sturdy dog-and-people-carrier for the family—and getting the children basically anything they wanted, including computers, iPads, iPhones, PlayStations, smart TVs, scooters, bicycles, and tree houses. There was even a jukebox in the sitting room, along with a pinball machine and a giant rocking horse Jack had won in a raffle. Jenna wasn’t sure how low their funds were running these days, but she suspected it was lower than Jack was ready to admit.
“The business is due to launch in a month,” he’d reminded her only this morning, “at which point cash will start rolling in and we’ll be sitting pretty again. Better than that, we’ll be able to send a check to your publisher, leaving you free to write and deliver just when you want to. It’ll probably turn out to be exactly what you need to get the juices flowing. No more deadlines, no nasty phone calls—just you, your characters, and all the time you could wish for to go on all the journeys you’re dreaming about.”
Time—a commodity virtually unknown to busy mothers, particularly those with three children under eight, each of whom had a character, set of needs, and schedule all their own, and a teenage live wire who’d lately started showing signs of a maturity that Jenna knew she should have been prepared for but wasn’t.
Picking up her mobile as it bleeped with a text, she smiled to see the photo Jack had sent of Paige peering into a rock pool with her latest admirer, Owen Masters. Should I be jealous? Jack was asking.
I don’t think so, Jenna texted back. Will tell you more when you get back. How’s it going?
Shot enough for another feature film. Heading up to Arthur’s Stone now. How about you?
How she longed to say she was on a roll, but even if she did, he’d know as soon as he looked into her eyes when he came back that it wasn’t true. Wondering if senna pods might help, she replied, and smiled as she imagined him laughing.
A few minutes later the landline rang; glad of the excuse to leave her computer, she went through to the kitchen to answer.
“Hi, it’s me,” her sister declared. “Hang on, sorry, I’ll be right with you.”
Tucking the phone under her chin as she waited, Jenna reached for the kettle to fill it. How she loved this kitchen! What luxury it was to have so much space to cook and socialize and watch the kids come and go. The house was just perfect; she couldn’t love it more if she’d designed it herself, with its floor-to-ceiling windows all across the back to take in the garden and the view beyond, its characterful reclaimed beams through most of the rooms, and the highly polished sandstone floors.
The dining room was more like a conservatory off the kitchen, with French doors leading onto the garden, while the sitting room was her dream of how a sitting room should be, with an open stone fireplace at the far end, deep-cushioned sofas, tatty rugs, and endless clutter. The mess never bothered her; on the contrary, she rejoiced in it, which she knew was a reaction to all the years of having to live with her mother’s obsession with order. Trails of toys, shoes, books, crayons—everything and anything—led off the sitting room into the playroom, and very often up the stairs to the bedrooms, where another sort of chaos reigned. Jenna and Jack’s master suite was to the left of the three-sided gantry landing and was almost never off-limits. Josh’s room was next to theirs and was poised to become sleepover central just as soon as the painfully shy Josh plucked up the courage to invite more than one friend at a time. Paige’s own small suite was opposite and very definitely off-limits. The twins’ room was next to Paige’s, with a pink half for Flora and a blue one for Wills. From the landing that ran across the tall back windows it was possible to look down into the sitting room or to stand gazing out at the mesmerizing view—if anyone had the time, which they rarely did.
Even on gloomy days their house felt full of light, while on clear days it was possible to see all the way across the Channel to Exmoor. There was no sign of a distant land today, and hadn’t been since long before Christmas.
“Are you there?” Hanna said breathlessly. “Sorry about that. The cat was on the windowsill. I thought she was about to jump. So how are you?”
“Great. How about you?”
“Frazzled, as usual. Got a deadline we have to meet by tomorrow. How’s the weather down there? It’s miserable here in London.”
“It’s just started raining again.”
Sighing, Hanna said, “That’s all it’s done for months. I pity those poor people who’ve been flooded. This must be a never-ending nightmare for them.”
“A couple of houses at the beach have lost their gardens,” Jenna told her. “Jack reckons their foundations too, but no one’s been in yet to check.”
“That’s terrible. Are they holiday homes?”
“Yes, I think so. Huge chunks of the seawall were smashed apart, so they didn’t stand a chance, and you should see the muck the tide’s washed up. The beach is like a rubbish dump at the moment. Anyway, I’m sure you didn’t ring to discuss that.”
“You’re right, I didn’t. I’ve just spoken to Mum. Have you seen her today?”
“No, but Jack dropped in on his way back from the shop this morning. She was all right then. Why do you ask?”
“She’s just told me that she’s going to start taking in washing and ironing.”
Jenna’s eyes twinkled.
“I’ve no idea where this ridiculous idea has come from,” Hanna went on, “but I’m guessing she read it somewhere or maybe saw it on TV.”
“She’s just started The Book Thief,” Jenna told her. “The foster mother’s a laundress who also has a foul mouth, so let’s hope no one round here speaks German.”
“Oh, please no,” Hanna groaned. “Do you think she means it? She’s not really going to take in other people’s washing, is she?”
Knowing how unlikely it was, Jenna grinned as she said, “I guess we’ll find out soon enough.”
Hanna sighed. “Do you think we ought to get her to see someone?”
“You won’t have forgotten what happened the last time we tried….”
“You mean the hunger strike?”
“And it’s not as though there’s anything actually wrong with her.”
“She’s just her own person,” Hanna said, quoting their father, “and maybe a little bit on the autism spectrum. If you ask me, she’s that, all right. Is she keeping to her diet?”
“Religiously. Everything organic, gluten-free, no refined sugars or artificial colorings…It takes forever going round the supermarket with her, and she’s always online ordering some supplement or other. God knows how much good it’s all doing.”
“What matters to her is that Daddy put the diet together. She’ll be on it now till the day she dies—or loses her marbles completely. Anyway, tell me about you. What’s new in your world?”
As they chattered on, catching up on each other’s lives, as they often did on a Sunday, Jenna watched the rain growing heavier, pulling a thick gray veil between the moor and the sea. Fortunately, the wind was nowhere near as violent as it had been over the past few weeks; if it had been, there was no way Jack and Paige could have been out in it. During the worst of the storms they’d been forced to bring all the computers and company paperwork over to the house just in case their garden office got carried off by a particularly lively gust. Luckily, it had remained anchored to its spot, though a window had been smashed by a flying branch (already repaired by one of Jack’s mates from the pub), and the stone path leading across the grass to its door had been washed away twice (both times reinstated by Jack himself).
“So you’re still on schedule for the launch?” Hanna remembered to ask before ringing off.
“Absolutely,” Jenna confirmed. “Putting us in touch with Martha Gwynne and her business management team was the best thing you ever did for us. She’s amazing. Just wait till you see the website they’ve come up with. And they’re full of ideas about how they’re going to promote and market us.”
“I’m thrilled she’s working out so well. As a business consultant, she’s one of the best, and it’s lucky for you she’s based in Swansea.”
“And London. I think she’s there most of the time, with a manager running things here, but as far as I’m aware, nothing gets finalized without her approval.”
“Sounds like Martha. She has a home near you, hasn’t she?”
“On the outskirts of Horton. You should see it. She invited us to a party there about a month ago….I told you, didn’t I?”
“You did, and the place is utterly amazing, with tennis courts, a pool, and its own stretch of beach. That’ll tell you how successful she is, and how lucky you are that she took you on.”
Jenna smiled. “Believe it or not, I think she likes working with us. Apparently we’re not as demanding as most of her clients, or as egotistical or unrealistic. She’s invited me for lunch a couple of times, as friends, but for one reason or another it hasn’t worked out yet.”
“I’m sure it will. She’s a very easygoing sort, a refreshing change to all those executive females who take themselves so seriously—I admit I probably have to include myself in that. Anyway, how about the literary content for your new site? How’s that coming along?”
“Actually, brilliantly. I’m being constantly surprised by how much real talent there is out there, and word is definitely spreading about us. Hardly a day goes by now when we don’t get a new submission, and at least half the contributors are willing to be edited.”
“So you’ve got your work cut out? How much are you charging for the editing?”
“It depends if it’s full-on plot and character editing or just sorting out the spelling and grammar. The prices are very reasonable, though, and you don’t have to pay anything at all if you just want to list your work. Obviously we have to vet those first to make sure they’re not obscene or completely unreadable.”
“So remind me again how you’re going to make money.”
“From the editing, like I just said, and advertising—Jack has done wonders with that locally, everyone from Howells the mobile butcher to some high-flying holiday rental company to the Film Agency for Wales has already bought space. Martha’s team is handling the national campaign. I’m a bit vague about the details of that, but I think they’re about to schedule a presentation to bring us all up to speed. Oh, and let’s not forget that we’re only taking a twenty percent commission on downloads; the other eighty goes straight to the author. Amazon takes seventy percent, and good luck getting noticed on their site. As a contributor, you’re a dust speck in a busy vac, to use one of Mum’s jolly little phrases. Anyway, I’ve just heard a car pull up, so it could be Jack and Paige are back. They’ll be drenched, and I don’t even want to think about the state the dog must be in. I’ll call later to get more of your news.”
After ringing off she quickly unlocked the utility room door, dumped an armful of towels next to the sink, and was about to run upstairs to start a bath for Paige—Jack always took showers—when her mother let herself in the front door.
“Didn’t you hear me knocking?” Kay Roberts demanded in her usual clipped way. Her neat gray hair was glistening with raindrops, while the expression on her small, elfin face was caught in what looked like a dilemma, as though she couldn’t quite decide whether or not to be cross. At almost seventy she was still an attractive woman, with a faintly lined complexion and quick, watchful eyes that were almost the same vivid green as those of her daughters.
“Sorry, I was in the utility,” Jenna told her, turning back from the stairs. “Close the door, you’re—”
“Yes, yes. Why wasn’t it locked?”
“I thought it was.”
“It doesn’t need to be around here, you know. It’s perfectly safe. They don’t have any crime.”
“No, of course not,” Jenna agreed, knowing it was always best not to argue with her mother’s version of facts. “The latch is a bit loose, so I didn’t want the wind to blow it open. Anyway, I hear you’re planning to take in laundry.”
Kay stopped unzipping her lime-green raincoat, her sharp eyes shooting to Jenna’s. “You’ve been talking to your sister. You know her trouble? She doesn’t get a joke when she hears one.”
Jenna’s eyebrows rose. “Maybe it’s the way you tell them.”
Kay regarded her carefully.
“So, would you like a cup of tea?” Jenna asked, going back to the kitchen. “We’ve still got some of the fairy cakes the Brownies brought round on Friday if you want one.”
“I believe they were very good,” Kay called after her, “but I’ll have one of my own, thank you. Where is everyone?”
“Josh and the twins are with friends; Jack and Paige are out making films. Actually, that sounds like them now. Would you mind going up to run a bath for Paige? But don’t put any bubbles in—she likes to choose her own.”
“Am I allowed into her bedroom? I can’t get to her bathroom otherwise.”
“On this occasion I’m sure she won’t mind.”
“You were always a secretive one too,” Kay commented as she started up the
stairs. “You made your father put a padlock on your door once.”
“I can hear you,” Jenna called after her.
“You’re supposed to.”
“And it was to keep Hanna out, not you. She was always stealing my stuff.”
“Actually, it was me,” Kay informed her. “We were the same size. Hanna’s bigger.”
Suspecting this was more of her mother’s peculiar humor, Jenna pulled open the utility room door and quickly leapt back as a dog she barely recognized as Waffle, their daft golden Lab, skidded past to his drink bowl.
“Hey, Mum,” Paige cried, bursting in after him. “It is totally crap out there. We’re drenched right through. Is Grandma here?”
“Upstairs running you a bath. You need to get out of those wet clothes.”
“I know, I know.” Tugging down her hood to shake out her damp, wavy dark hair, she clicked on her mobile to read an incoming text.
“Where’s Dad?” Jenna asked, grabbing the dog before he could spread the mud from his paws all over the kitchen floor.
“Still in the car, on the phone,” Paige answered. “Please tell me you haven’t eaten all the Brownies’ cakes. I’m starving.”
“There are a few left.” Banging on the window to get Jack’s attention, Jenna mouthed, “The dog!”
“Coming,” he mouthed back from the driver’s seat.
“Who’s he talking to?” Jenna demanded.
“No idea. What shall I do with my coat?”
“Hang it next to the radiator, and put your wellies next to mine. With any luck Dad will clean them after he’s finished with the dog. Waffle, will you please sit down?”
With instant obedience Waffle slumped to the floor and rolled onto his back for a belly rub.
“Dream on,” Jenna commented as Paige laughed.
“You are too adorable,” Paige told him. “No,” she cried as he kicked at her legs. “I’m not touching you either. Oh God, look what you’ve done to my jeans.”