The Right Time

by Danielle Steel

  “That’s what Bert told me. I thought it was gone.”

  “No,” Rose said firmly, “it’s better than ever. It will never be gone. Keep writing.”

  Alex kept writing for the next four months with no one to show the book to. She couldn’t send it to Bert now, or follow his directions. But she could hear him in her head, telling her what to do, when to stop and when to move ahead, when to end a chapter or write something really vivid with details of brutal murders. The story just rolled out of her head and onto the page, and she couldn’t hold it back. And on the last page, with a shocking exposé at the end, she knew it was finished, she didn’t need anyone to tell her. Not even Bert. And she knew he would have loved it.

  She spent two more weeks polishing it and making small corrections. It was surprisingly clean, and then she scanned and emailed it to Rose Porter.

  She read it the next day, in one sitting. She finished at 3 A.M. and called Alex. It was 8 A.M. in England.

  “You’re back!” Rose said, sounding elated, as Alex sat smiling, staring into space. She knew it too. She had found the magic again, the secret. After five years of silence, Alexander Green had come alive again, returned from the dead, stronger than ever. “I’m sending this to your publisher tomorrow. And you’ll be paid three million this time.”

  “That would be nice,” Alex said, smiling broadly. But it wasn’t about the money. It was about the dragon in her that wasn’t dead but only sleeping, and had roared to life again.

  —

  Rose told the publishers she wanted three million per book and a four-book contract, which made Alex nervous at first, but now she knew that she could do it, and so did her publishers. They all agreed, it really was the best book she’d ever written. She was better than ever. The shock of Bert’s death had brought her back to life. The pain of losing Miles had put her to sleep, and now every fiber of her being was tingling as though there was an electric current passing through her body.

  She walked out into the garden with Desi after Rose called to tell her she got the four-book contract for her asking price. After scrimping and saving, losing everything, and almost having to sell the farm, she was back with more money than she’d ever had. She had lost Miles and Bert, but now she had Desi. Life had a strange way of trading one blessing for another. It had worked out in the end, and she hadn’t sold the farm. She knew Miles would have been proud of her. And now so was Bert.

  Chapter 21

  It took Alex two years to write the four books in her new contract. When the first book was published it was the biggest seller she’d ever had. She turned forty on the day she sent in her last book. It seemed a suitable way to celebrate her birthday. She dedicated the first one to Miles, the second to Bert, and the third to Desi, and she hadn’t decided who to dedicate the last one to. She had already dedicated books to her father and the nuns over the years. But the last one in the contract wouldn’t be out for eighteen months, so she had time to decide. And she already had an idea for another book, and possibly for another one after that. The ideas were flowing again, just as Bert had promised. She realized more than ever now how wise he had been. He had been gone for two years, and Miles for seven, and she was writing again. It had been a peaceful two years while she worked on the new books, in the same single-minded way she always had before. The books were deeper and stronger, as though she had learned something while her gift was dormant. And Bert had been right about something else too so long ago. The books were “cooking” even when she didn’t know it and she thought the stove was off. The stove was never off, and there was always a book in her somewhere. That was the magic she hadn’t lost, even when she thought she had.

  The day after her birthday, she took a morning ride right after dawn. She felt free and alive and hadn’t done that in years. She and Miles had always loved their rides together. It reminded her of the weekend they’d spent together so long ago, when he had brought her to the farm for the first time.

  She was cantering back as the sun rose in the sky, when her horse stumbled and she slowed him to a walk, pulling him up in time. He was one of the few Thoroughbreds she had kept when she sold the others. He was a good ride, and she liked going out in the hills with him, and was sorry she hadn’t done it in so long. She was walking back through the woods, giving him a rest, when she heard a horse coming toward them, and her mount shied sideways as a man came into view on a handsome stallion. The rider had dark hair like her own, and looked as surprised to see her as she was to see him. It was rare for anyone to come on their property, and she wondered who he was.

  “Good morning!” he called out to her from the distance, so she would know he wasn’t a poacher or a trespasser. He slowed his horse to a walk and came up beside her. “I’m sorry if I startled you.” Alex’s horse had calmed down again, and the rider looked slightly embarrassed. “I cut across your pasture. I do that sometimes, but I’ve never run into anyone.” She noticed that he had a southern drawl.

  “I don’t ride very often anymore. I’d forgotten how nice it is this time of day.” She smiled at him. And then she realized who he was. An American had bought the farm next to theirs two years before, she’d never met him.

  “I hear you had some fabulous horses here a few years ago.” He reined the stallion in and rode along next to her. His was an Arabian.

  “We did have some nice ones. They were my husband’s. I sold them seven years ago. It’s been a while. He bred them.”

  “So I’ve been told.” And then he decided to come clean with her. “I’ve been wanting to buy your south pasture since I bought my farm, but they tell me you’re not interested in selling any of your land.” Their horses were dancing as they stood and talked.

  “That’s true,” she said.

  “I’m Jerry Jackson. We’re neighbors but we’ve never met. I have a stud farm in Kentucky and spend a lot of time there.” She had heard that he had some of the best racehorses in the States, and had brought a number of them to England. One of his horses had won the Kentucky Derby the year before.

  “Alex McCarthy,” she introduced herself.

  “You’re American,” he said with some surprise. No one had told him that.

  “I’ve lived here most of the time for fourteen years, and before that in London for a couple of years.” He thought she didn’t look old enough to have lived anywhere for fourteen years as an adult. He guessed she was much younger than she was. She correctly estimated that he was in his late forties.

  “This is beautiful country. I’d like to spend more time here. I’ve got business in London and try to get down here whenever I can,” he said with an easy smile.

  “My daughter and I actually moved here full-time from London seven years ago when my husband died. It’s a good life.” He nodded.

  “How old is your daughter?” He was curious about her.

  “Seven. She was five days old when her father died.”

  “Oh, I’m sorry.” He apologized for bringing up a painful subject, and they rode on the path in silence for a few minutes. “I’d love to show you my stables sometime, if you’re interested. It’s a nice operation, and I’ve got some very fine horses here, since you know something about it.”

  “I don’t know as much as my husband did.” She turned to look at him. “You have racehorses, don’t you?”

  “I do, and a few I’m very proud of,” he said as they reached a fork in the trail. She had to go to the right to get back to her barn. “Please come over sometime.”

  “Thank you,” she said, and cantered off toward home.

  She had breakfast with Desi after that and took her out to play in the garden, and she gave her a riding lesson that afternoon in the ring they still had in the barn. She was teaching her to jump, because Alex knew it would have pleased her father. He had taught Alex and turned her into a better rider, and she enjoyed instructing her daughter.

  They had just come into the house after Desi’s lesson when Jerry Jackson called her. Alex was surprise
d to hear from him.

  “I thought I’d give you a call and see if you’d like to see the stables today.”

  Maude was there to bathe Desi and give her her dinner, and Alex was curious about Jerry’s horses and his interest in her pasture. “I’d like that,” she said. She had nothing else to do, and was taking a few days’ break from her writing. She did that now, and wrote intensely once she got started, just as she always had.

  “Come on over in ten minutes.”

  She took the road outside her property to the next farm, and turned into his driveway. It was a long drive to a stone house that was smaller than hers, but the grounds were impeccable, and the stables beautifully maintained, and she saw two grooms walking two spectacular horses.

  Her host was waiting for her in the courtyard and escorted her into the stables, where she saw how meticulously they were set up. The horses in the stalls were among the best looking she’d seen, even better than those Miles had.

  They looked around for half an hour, and she complimented him on the setup. He had restored the house and the outbuildings when he bought it. She and Miles had looked at the property when it was for sale, but it had been in terrible condition and would have cost a fortune to restore. Jerry had done a fabulous job.

  “You did an amazing transformation.” She smiled at him. “I saw what bad shape it was in before,” Alex said with admiration, as they returned to the courtyard and walked slowly toward the house.

  “It was a lot of work, but it was worth it. I love it here.”

  “So do I.” She smiled and followed him through a side door directly into the library, which was a shortcut, and a moment later a man in a white shirt and black slacks brought in an enormous silver tea tray with a proper English tea, complete with perfect little watercress and egg salad sandwiches, and scones with jam and clotted cream. It looked delicious as he set it down on a table in front of them.

  “I love the traditions here, it’s all so civilized.” Jerry smiled, and as he said it she noticed the book left open facedown on the coffee table that he’d been reading. It was one of hers, the first one from the new contract. It was the one that had broken the spell, when she first started writing again. He saw her glance at it, and laughed. “My favorite author. Alexander Green. He writes incredible crime thrillers. I’m addicted. His books are my drug of choice. I went into withdrawal when he disappeared for about six years, but now he’s back, better than ever. This one is fantastic. Have you ever read him?”

  “Actually,” she couldn’t resist tweaking him a little, “I think it’s fair to say I’ve read them all.” He looked pleased to have that in common with her.

  “Aren’t they fantastic?” he said, as he offered her the tray of sandwiches, and she took one and helped herself to a scone. “How did you get into reading crime thrillers?”

  “My father. He started me on Nancy Drew, and kept ramping it up from there.” It was a long way from Nancy Drew to Alexander Green, and he laughed.

  He talked about his children then. He had three. “Two in New York, and one in L.A. They’re grown up. One is still in grad school, the other two are married. They fled Kentucky when they left for college, and they’re not interested in coming here. It’s too quiet for them.”

  “I suppose I’ll get to that point eventually with my daughter, but not for a while. She still likes it here, and I’ve really kept the property for her to enjoy one day. She’ll probably hate it and head straight for London.” But Alex loved it here now too. It was so full of memories of Miles and their days together. It suited her and was a great place to write, it was so peaceful. “My husband had two older children too. They both live in South Africa now, and haven’t been here in two years.”

  “Once they fly the nest, it’s all over,” he said, with intimate knowledge of it. “And my ex-wife would have hated it here. She liked New York and Paris. This would have been much too quiet. And she’s not fond of horses.”

  Alex laughed. “Well, then, she wouldn’t like it here. You know, I was thinking today about your interest in my south pasture. I might be willing to sell it to you. We really don’t use it anymore, now that we have fewer horses, and it borders your land. I don’t think I’d miss it.” She had enough land and had decided that she could give that one piece up to him. Having met him and seen his horses, she realized that it would be far more useful to him than it was to her.

  “That’s very good news.” He looked pleased as he ate a scone himself, with jam and cream. “If you ever want to sell the whole property, I’d be interested in that too.” He wanted to set up a real horse farm, like the one he had in Kentucky, and spend more time here.

  “Now, don’t get greedy. You’ll have to settle for the south pasture,” Alex said and he laughed again.

  “Sorry. But I hear you have a wonderful house, with a moat and a lake.”

  “Why don’t you come over and see it tomorrow, though not as a potential sale. It will be my daughter’s one day. My stepchildren have no interest in it. And I’m afraid our tea is not as elegant as yours.”

  “I’d love to take a look,” he said, and he was still intrigued by her knowledge of crime thrillers. She left a little while later and they set a time for him to visit her the next day. She invited him to come at four, so she could show him around. She liked him. She didn’t know why, but she felt comfortable with him, as if they’d known each other before, and she was amused that he was reading one of her new books.

  She was curious about Jerry Jackson. When she got home, she Googled him and sat reading about him for half an hour. Princeton undergrad, Harvard MBA, owner of several Kentucky Derby winners, his breeding farms were legendary, and their bloodlines. He had started several major corporations, was a well-known philanthropist, had an engineering degree, and had invented a laser that was used worldwide for medical procedures. He was a scientist, an engineer, and a businessman. He bred racehorses, was divorced, had three children who had attended Stanford, Yale, and Columbia, and he seemed like a pleasant, kind person. He was forty-nine years old. Reading about him was impressive and daunting. She couldn’t think of anything he couldn’t do.

  And it was serendipity that he lived right next door and was such an interesting person and liked her books.

  She spent her days and nights with Desi now, and never traveled anywhere to see her friends. She didn’t get a chance to speak to intelligent adults, unless she called them in other cities, like Rose, Brigid and the nuns, or Fiona, living in a suburb of London. She still missed Bert acutely. And Miles beyond words.

  Jerry arrived promptly at the appointed hour the next day, and said he loved her house. They walked around, looked at the moat, and wandered down to the lake, which had scared Alex when Desiree was little. She didn’t want her to fall in, and she could have. But they never left her alone for a minute. They wandered through the gardens, and she had a maze. They looked in the barns briefly and he admired her horses, and then they walked into the house for tea. Hers was also set up on a silver tray—she had done it herself—but her house and lifestyle weren’t as formal as his. She led a country life, and he was a man of many facets and great sophistication.

  “All right,” he said before he sat down to tea. “I want to see your collection of Alexander Green books.”

  “I don’t keep them,” she said breezily, and he looked shocked.

  “I treasure mine forever. They’ll be collectors’ classics one day. He’s right up there with some of the best crime writers of our time. How can you give them away?”

  “So someone else can enjoy them,” she said simply.

  “You have a point.” He hadn’t thought of that before. “I’m too selfish. I want to keep them for myself, to read again.” She smiled as he said it and didn’t comment.

  They enjoyed the tea and sandwiches she had made, and he asked her more about herself.

  “Do you work?”

  There wasn’t much one could do far out in the country, except what she really did. She
didn’t want to lie to him, nor tell him the truth. “I write, or I did before my daughter was born. I took a number of years off after I had her and lost my husband, and now I’m writing again.”

  “I wish I had that talent,” he said enviously. “Like Alexander Green. It takes an incredible mind to write thrillers like that. I can never guess the ending.”

  “Me neither,” she said, grinning. “The murderer is never who I think it will be.” She was telling him the truth. There were always surprises for her as she wrote the books too.

  “It’s an extraordinary gift. What kind of things do you write?” Jerry persisted.

  “Mystery, crime.” She didn’t know what else to say, and she no longer wanted to hide what she wrote. And claiming she wrote women’s fiction or romance novels would make her feel ridiculous, because it was so far from the truth.

  “You’ll have to let me read one.” She nodded and changed the subject.

  As he left, he invited her to dinner the next day. “My chef makes the best southern fried chicken ever. I brought him over from Kentucky, now he’s more English than the English.” They both laughed at that.

  “That happens here. And thank you for the invitation. The British used to give wonderful house parties, for centuries, to make country life more interesting. Now we sit in solitary splendor and listen to the birds sing. I think they had the right idea.” Alex smiled at him.

  “I agree,” he said. “I keep meaning to have friends here, but I never have time. I’m always too busy. And sometimes when I get here, I enjoy the peace and quiet and solitude. It’s nice to have a break.”

  She’d had a five-year break after Miles died, and her life was still very quiet, but she didn’t say it.

  “What did your husband do?” He was curious about him too.

  “He was a television producer, at one time for the BBC, then on his own. He produced TV series.” She mentioned a few of them. Jerry knew them all, and was impressed.