“Take time off,” she had said. “Like Harry advised. Then knock ’em dead with this next book.”
The problem, he was finding out, was he didn’t know what to do with himself if he wasn’t writing.
He had thrown himself into his career so totally and obsessively for so long that he had no hobbies and, although in possession of many acquaintances, he had virtually no close friends.
Logan cast about in his mind, trying to come up with something to occupy his time, and chose something so uncharacteristic that Marla would have been shocked. He decided his house needed to look more like a home and spent several more days doing little except roaming around the area shopping for things that were not at all necessary, but that he just liked.
He bought bright-colored hand-loomed throw rugs in craft stores in Berlin, and several huge, Amish-made baskets from a roadside stand, which he used as side tables. He bought peaceful landscape prints from a local photographer by the name of Doyle Yoder for his walls. At the pottery place he and Marla had visited, he bought a dozen hand-thrown pots. He stopped at a house advertising homemade quilts and looked through dozens sewn by an elderly Amish woman whose fingers, he noted, were knotted with arthritis. He wondered, as he purchased five of the finely made quilts, what it had cost her to make the tiny stitches.
Each item gave him a sense of satisfaction as he placed it in his house. He was no decorator, but he cherished the feeling of humanity with which he filled his home by purchasing things that local artisans had lovingly created.
The final touch involved combing antiques stores and rescuing dusty, forgotten books. Harry had suggested he read other people’s books, old books. He liked that idea. Old books, instead of trying to keep up with the latest bestseller, the latest copy of Publishers Weekly, or yet another research book.
The windows he left bare, except for piling stacks and stacks of old books upon the sills. It seemed odd not to have Marla, with her interior design expertise, here to help him, but in a way he was grateful that he was getting to create an environment that was all his own. The things he purchased felt right for this old house, and right for him.
In this way, he acquainted himself more intimately with the countryside and its people. Even though it was a constant battle, he kept his promise to Marla and did not drink or keep any alcohol in his home. Instead, he discovered overgrown paths on his land and took long walks whenever the desire to drink threatened to overcome him. As he climbed the hills and explored the paths, he was astonished at how out of shape he had become. He also marveled that the very land itself seemed to welcome him—just as the old house had.
Today he was discovering that nearly all of Holmes County closed down on Sundays. The Amish restaurants, upon which he depended heavily for sustenance, were closed. Pretty much everything was closed. There was little to do on a Sunday in Amish country except to go to church, or visit with family and friends.
He had neither family nor friends living here, and he most certainly did not have a church.
Today he felt like a complete alien driving through the streets of Berlin, Ohio, with its shuttered windows and Closed signs on all the small businesses.
As he drove past one farm, he saw about forty black buggies parked outside in a pasture. Streaming from those buggies was a line of black-clad Amish men and women, along with many children. They were in family-type clusters, talking with one another as they walked together. He thought how close the friendships must be within this group of people who had probably gone to church together all their lives.
As he watched this, it hit him how terribly lonely he felt, and he suspected he had been lonely for a long time. As an only child, he had learned to keep the loneliness at bay by making up stories with which he kept himself entertained. As an adult he had continued to do so—and gotten paid for it.
His love for Ariela, and her love for him, had made the loneliness go away for a while. The day he met Ariela, he knew he had found his other half, the person who could fill all the empty spaces. With Marla—although he was grateful for her presence in his life—things were different.
He wished he had the right to stop, park, and walk into that barn with that group of people. Had Marla known what he was thinking, she would have laughed and texted her friends about the latest funny “Logan story.” His fiancée seemed determined to present him to her friends as a rumpled, mildly attractive, absentminded writer. It had become a sort of shtick within her circle.
He slowed down as he passed the people going in to church. Then he turned around and pulled over at a wide place in the road. Just close enough that he could watch, far enough away not to be obtrusive.
In the distance, he saw a young woman with two children in tow. A little boy and girl. As she came closer, he saw a sadness in the woman’s face that caught at his heart. His writer’s mind wondered what tragedy might have happened to cause such sadness. There was no father within that small family group. Had he left her and the children? Had he died? Or was he simply at home ill? He felt a stab of empathy for the two children. There had been no father in his family group, either, when he and his mother had walked to church.
It occurred to him that the heroine in his latest novel, a psychiatrist who specialized in sociopathic behavior, needed to be made more multidimensional. Perhaps he should give her a deceased husband and two small children. That would ramp up the tension when her unhinged client turned into a midnight stalker. He grabbed his smartphone and recorded the idea before it could slip his mind. Perhaps he would give his heroine that innocent-but-sad expression the Amish woman wore. She drew even closer and he saw that she was quite beautiful in spite of wearing no makeup. Perhaps he would give the psychiatrist the same appearance. Could she have a devoutly religious background? He definitely didn’t want any more reviews accusing him of writing “cardboard characters.”
It was the first time he’d felt the tiniest spark of creativity in weeks, and it flickered out way too soon. His thoughts were interrupted by the buzz of his cell phone.
“So what are you doing today?” Marla said. “Playing cow chip bingo like I saw on TV?”
“Cow chip bingo?”
“It was on a program called Amish Mafia,” she said. “Have you seen it?”
“I don’t have a TV here, Marla,” he said. “You know that.”
“Sorry. I forgot. So, how are you doing over there in Amish land?”
“Fine.”
“You’re lying.”
She knew him entirely too well. “You’re right.”
“That’s what I was afraid of. Tell me what you’ve gotten accomplished so far.”
Marla was a task-oriented person. He had discovered early on that if he didn’t have a task, she would assign him one.
“I’ve pretty much finished putting the house together.”
“Good for you!” The tone of her voice reminded him of a schoolteacher encouraging a kindergartner. “Have you done any writing?”
“Honestly? I’ve not written a word since I got here. I’m giving Harry’s advice a shot for a while.”
“I’m almost afraid to ask, but . . . how’s the drinking?”
“I made you a promise, Marla, and I’m keeping it.”
“Good boy!” Again with the encouraging teacher voice.
He appreciated her encouragement, but he felt a flicker of resentment. He was not a child.
“One of my friends asked me how you recharge your laptop and cell phone with no electricity? What should I tell her?”
“I’m not using my computer yet, but when I do, I’ll charge it with my car battery.”
She laughed. “I can just see you tromping outside in the rain some night when your laptop dies on you.”
“Verla says that’s how the Amish teenagers keep their cell phones charged, with a car battery.”
“You are living among such interesting people.”
“I think so,” he said.
“I was joking.”
“I wa
sn’t.”
After a few more comments, they hung up. There really wasn’t much more to say. In-depth conversations were not a big part of their relationship.
chapter SIX
Logan awoke to the sound of a rooster crowing at the farm next door. He cracked open an eyelid. The sky was growing lighter, but it was barely dawn. This rude awakening, he had discovered, was going to happen every morning. He burrowed back down into his pillow, but the rooster was an insistent alarm clock that he could not shut off. He now knew from experience that he might as well give up.
A few minutes later, he was bundled in a sweater and jeans against the chill of an autumn morning, with a steaming cup of coffee in his hand, sitting on a porch rocker. The sound of the rooster was no longer an irritation, but part of the joyful cacophony of the world around him awakening.
The mist-covered, rolling farmland was a feast to his eyes, and the covered porch felt like the arms of a good friend enfolding him. He settled back and allowed the peace of the place to seep into the raw cracks of his soul.
There was no doubt about it, he loved it here.
The coiled spring that seemed to be so tightly wound inside him felt as though it were loosening a little more each day. He’d slowly begun to cut down on his depression medication and was feeling no ill effects. Although it was still a struggle, especially in the evenings, his desire for alcohol was diminishing with each day.
He had not experienced a feeling of peace this deep since before his wife had died.
Ariela would have loved it here, too.
He allowed the feeling of grief to linger only a moment before he gently put it aside. Ariela had been a generous person. She would want him to enjoy this lovely place with or without her.
It had been nearly a month, and he still had not overcome his inability to write again. It was the first true writer’s block he had ever experienced, and it was brutal. His New York editor contacted him to inquire how the book was coming, and was not amused by the news that he had chosen to bury himself here. He had built his career within easy reach of everyone who was anyone in the publishing business. He also had built a reputation for meeting deadlines on time with quality work. As Harry had pointed out during their lunch together, he had been the perfect, uncomplaining, writing machine, churning out bestseller after bestseller, until the perfect writing machine had broken down.
Now he was desperate to fix that machine and didn’t have a clue how to do it.
No writer’s trick he knew would prime the pump, and he was starting to get scared.
• • •
“Thelma and I want to help.” Bishop Schrock handed Hope an envelope filled with cash. He had stopped early in the morning on his way to work. She was glad that she had already milked the cow and hung out her wash. It would have been humiliating had he found her in the same shape that Claire had.
With reluctance, Hope accepted her father-in-law’s gift.
“You are our daughter. You are raising our grandchildren,” he said. “Neither we nor the church want you to be in want. There will be more money when you need it.”
“I am very grateful,” she said, “but I wish we did not have to take this.”
“Don’t worry right now about finances. You should concentrate on these children and keeping yourself strong and healthy so that you can care for them.”
“Thank you, Bishop,” she said.
It felt so strange to be on the receiving end. She and Titus had frequently given what they could for others. It was the Amish way, to share with those in need. They had been happy to help.
Now she was learning that having to be the taker was much, much harder for her than being the giver.
As willing as she knew her people were to help widows and orphans, the last thing she wanted was to live on alms from the church forever. She was young and healthy and a hard worker. From what she could see, she had two choices: either find a job fast, or marry someone who would support her. The last choice, in her opinion, was not an option. Unfortunately, there had been one inquiry along that line already, even though she had not yet needed to flip the calendar to a new month following Titus’s death.
Abimelech Yoder, whom she had caught staring at her after Titus’s funeral, had already brought up the possibility with her father. He was a decent enough man, she supposed, and obviously desperate to place a mother in that kitchen, but she did not love him. She would never love him.
The bishop had brought some brightly colored balloons, which he now blew up for Adam and Carrie. Then he said good-bye, leaving each of the children happily clutching a balloon.
After he left, she tucked the envelope of money away in her underwear drawer, determined to make it last as long as possible. She fixed the children breakfast, then sat down at her desk, pulled out some plain three-by-five cards, and started making up little advertisements to put in some of the shops in Mt. Hope. She knew how to clean house, cook, and sew. She hoped there would be an Englisch woman willing to hire her for a few hours each week.
She did not know many Englisch women well, but she had heard that many of them were not particularly skilled in these areas, while Amish women were taught how to keep a house from childhood on. Hopefully, whoever hired her would not mind so much if she brought two well-behaved children with her. She also hoped they wouldn’t mind too much when they found out she was pregnant.
The little card looked bare to her after she had printed her name, the type of work for which she was looking, and the phone number in her shanty. She found some colored pencils and created a small, colorful border around the card, hoping it would make it stand out from other advertisements. Five cards were finished before the children interrupted, wanting to go outside and play.
As she helped them into their warm, outdoor clothes, she gave thanks to God for her loving church and her healthy children. Then she asked God for a special favor. Would He please bless her little cards with success? Would He please allow them to attract the attention of just the right person? Someone He would choose? She did not mind working hard, but she hoped that she could find employment with someone who would at least be kind.
• • •
The house was furnished. He felt rested. The deadline was still a worry to him and he felt weird not writing. So, he decided to ignore Harry’s advice. He recharged his laptop and got back to work. Or at least he tried to.
It was a mistake.
There was a time when he had thought that writer’s block was nothing more than the excuse of a lazy writer. Now he regretted ever having held that opinion. Writer’s block was real and it was deadly. Harry had bought him some time, but the fact remained, if he didn’t produce a book soon, he would have to give back his advance and possibly even face legal action.
The minute he sat down in front of his laptop, a feeling of dread came over him, so strong that he jumped out of his chair as though the laptop were a snake ready to strike. He paced the floor until he could face touching the keyboard again. Found out again that he couldn’t do this.
He had never experienced anything remotely like it before. A professional writer doesn’t wait for the mood to strike. For him, at least in the past, the “mood” struck at precisely eight o’clock in the morning, because he had deliberately trained himself to sit down and write from eight o’clock in the morning until one o’clock in the afternoon. Every day. Rain or shine. Seven days a week. Period.
He usually kept the television on low for background noise. He found the muted sounds comforting. They helped him relax and concentrate. His writing routine then involved stopping, eating a quick lunch in front of the TV. When he had been at his best, he had always taken a long walk so that his body would not atrophy. Then a fifteen-minute nap to ease the switch from creative brain to analytical brain. The afternoon was spent self-editing, doing research, answering e-mails, writing blogs, doing PR, and dealing with the business of being a full-time writer. He broke from that only when Marla got home from her job. Then they wou
ld go out to dinner and come home to watch television until they fell asleep.
He was ashamed of the loneliness he was experiencing now. He had never realized before just how much television supplied his need for human interaction. Or how much he had depended emotionally on Marla’s coming home each night.
After the fourth attempt to write a complete sentence without breaking out in a sweat, he gave up and put the laptop away. He was in even worse shape than he had thought. Perhaps Marla was right. Maybe he did need a shrink.
chapter SEVEN
He was wasting time wandering around, poking through an antiques shop he’d noticed in Mt. Hope. He was loafing again, since it didn’t seem like he had a choice in the matter. Right now, he was fairly certain that he couldn’t force himself to write even if one of his characters held a gun to his head.
He was certainly not a stranger to antiques stores. Marla sometimes dragged him along with her while hunting for unique items to use in her decorating business.
This particular antiques store was better than average. Higher-end items. These things were not just old, they had been expensive before they became antiques. Even Marla would have approved. He made a mental note to bring her here when she came to visit.
The place resembled a Victorian home more than a store. He had almost missed the weathered sign halfway hidden behind the lilac bush.
They had quite a collection of old books. Many of them were religious, which did not surprise him, considering his geographical location. It stood to reason that in a town that practically rolled up its sidewalks on Sunday, there would be lots of religious books. He stood looking at the confusing array of titles and shook his head. When it came to religious books, he had no idea how to tell which one might have value and which one would not.
Fearless Hope: A Novel Page 5