Sing it, Sam

by Jennifer Ryder

Janice pushes her glasses up her nose. “Well, you know what? One day they will. But they’re not talking to you now. They’re still trying to sort their shit out, and that’s okay. It’s a pain in the arse, but it is what it is. You can’t force it. You want to get your first book right. You want to hit it out of the proverbial ball park. We all understand the position you’re in, because we’ve all been there.”

  Nods from around the table confirm this.

  My heart warms with the knowledge that I’m not going through this alone. Whilst Janice’s advice is a little ‘tough love’, every woman here has overcome struggles and self-doubt in publishing, whether it be with their first, second, or fifteenth book, in Janice’s case.

  “I want it to be perfect,” I admit to the group. “Not just for me. I want my family to be proud too.”

  I want to put the best book out there that I possibly can. If it takes longer, so be it. It’s not like I’m on deadline anyway. This is my journey, and it won’t be complete until I’ve created something that my grandmother would be proud of.

  “Of course,” Hannah says. “And that’s so important. You care. I can’t tell you how essential that is to the process. The moment you stop caring about it, the second you make a decision to take a shortcut, readers will know that your heart wasn’t in it.”

  I push my cheesecake towards Hannah, but she waves me off.

  “When you go home today,” Hannah continues, “whatever you’re doing, whether it’s walking the dog, or hanging out your washing, for as long as you can, focus on Sam. Think about how you met, how you interacted from there. All the thoughts and feelings and struggles that you’re wrangling now—use them.”

  I close my eyes for a moment and imagine Sam’s smiling face. Sam down by the river. Sam’s lips crusted with cinnamon sugar. The pain yet the sweetness that flickers in his eyes when he holds my hand.

  Thinking about Sam will be a piece of cake. Transforming those ideas and feelings into words on a screen will be the real challenge, but I’m up for it. I can do it—I know I can.

  “You girls are incredible. Thank you. Here’s hoping I succeed in translating these thoughts,” I say and sigh.

  “You sit down at your computer and let it bleed through your fingers,” Leonie says. “Hemingway said something like that.”

  “I agree,” Janice says, piping in. She flips over two pages in her diary in front of her. “Now, just checking that we’re all good for Hannah’s practice pitch on Friday afternoon in two weeks’ time? Say two o’clock?”

  Her pitch? I look around the table. Britt and Leonie nod.

  “Hope that’s okay with everyone,” Hannah says, and smooths the hair from her forehead. “I’ll be having dinner with my literary agent a few days later, so I want to get my next pitch just right.”

  I’ll have to take the afternoon off but making up the time over the next week or so won’t be an issue. Besides, I’ll do anything to help these wonderful women.

  “I’ll be there,” I say, and smile.

  ***

  After a kayak expedition to clear my head and spending some quality stick-throwing time with Butch, I take Leonie’s advice.

  Set with a steaming cup of hot chocolate, I sit down at my laptop. In pride of place beside the photo of Nan is the framed photo Sam left behind as a gift. I take a snap of the image of us with my phone, and save it as my Facebook profile picture. That way, if I get online and get distracted, I’ll have an image of Sam there to push me back into my words.

  With each sip of my drink, it’s almost as if I’m unlocking the doors of my mind. With each open door, the words and the ideas flow. My fingers can barely keep up. I’m making mistakes, forgetting about spelling for a change, and just going for it. It’s liberating.

  I write about me—the girl who’s trying to make it on her own. The woman who’s going to show people that she can do it and have confidence in her abilities in the process.

  After a chapter of my fingers blurring over the keyboard, my brain shifts gear. It’s time to write about my hero. I stare at the photo of Sam and I together and then close my eyes, recounting the first time we crossed paths.

  I write notes for later input about Sam’s attitude in those first few weeks, and how I cherished the first glimpses of his smile, his sense of humour, and how my heart melted when he laughed. I even make a note of how adorable his frown was.

  At ten o’clock, my phone buzzes. My heart swells when I see his name.

  Sam: Sorry I didn’t call today. I had two physio appointments and then had a heap of shitty medical paperwork to sort out. Talk tomorrow? X

  I imagine him snuggled in bed, ruffled hair and tired eyes. I hope he’s adjusting okay.

  Me: Hey :p That’s okay, talk to you then. I had my writers’ group meeting this morning and after wearing out Butch and kayaking, I’ve been writing. I’m making progress x

  Three bubbles blip below my text.

  Sam: That’s my Janie. Go get em x

  I take in a deep breath and try to get back into my story. Our story.

  As I work through a few scenes where we’re getting to know each other, I try to focus on his body language, and the things he might’ve been thinking but was unwilling to share with me at that point. I really would’ve loved to know what was on his mind after I threw myself at him that time. The beaten-down Sam I first met is so different to the capable man who left town yesterday.

  At three in the morning, I close my laptop, proud of chapter after chapter which bled from my fingers, Hemingway-style.

  As I land against my pillow with a thud, I look up to the heavens. I finally get it, Nan.

  It’s a good start—a great one, really. I know there’s a lot of work to do. I’m a long way off having the perfect story, but I’m on the road there.

  Chapter Thirty-Seven

  “So, once you’ve rolled the cookie dough into balls, place the balls evenly on the pre-greased tray, making sure you have about five centimetres space on each side to allow for spreading.”

  I move around the group, helping everyone do just that. I’m sure half of the women here could kick my butt in a bake-off, but for them it seems to be more about the chatting than the baking.

  Much to my delight, Shirley has even joined in today, taking a break from her books. Shirley and Mrs Lee have hit it off, which I’m certain has made Mrs Lee’s transition easier. I had no idea that Shirley could speak three different languages, Mandarin being one of them.

  “How are you, love?” Frederick asks, as I reach his place at the end of the table. “I know it’s only been a few days since he left.”

  “I’m good,” I reply in a higher-pitched tone than before.

  “But not great,” he says, as if finishing my sentence for me.

  I pick up one of his rounded scoops of dough and space it a bit farther from its gooey neighbour. “Is it really that obvious?”

  “Painfully so,” he says with a nod. “Mr Trouble made quite the stir in here, didn’t he?”

  I dust my hands off on my apron. “Yeah, he did.”

  “The old bats are still talking about him, you know. I’d say he’s stolen more than one heart around here.”

  I bite back tears. There’s no doubt that Sam has my heart. It’s slowly ticking without him.

  “When are you planning on seeing him again?” Frederick asks.

  “He’s coming up for the pumpkin festival in nine days.”

  “Not that you’re counting or anything.”

  “Believe me, Frederick. I’m counting.”

  ***

  Over the next week, I keep busy at work, making up extra time for the upcoming writers’ group meeting. Tensions have been running high since Gloria fell ill and was taken to hospital. Turns out she had a blood clot, which split in two as it wedged its way into her lungs. Thanks to other health complications, she’s now in intensive care. Thief or no thief, I can’t help but feel down about it. We could potentially lose another one, and so soon after Mr Thom
pson.

  Since Sam left, the two of us started off with lots of texting back and forth. Thankfully it’s only two days until he’s within my grasp.

  I check the time on the clock and am taken aback when I see it’s nearly six-thirty. I pack up my desk, grab today’s paper, and drop into Kathleen’s office on my way out. She’s still slaving away at her computer. I place the folded newspaper on the corner of her desk.

  Kathleen snatches it up and flattens it out in front of her. “My word, it’s Thursday already?” she says, and lifts her glasses and sits them on top of her head. “How’d that happen?”

  “It’s kind of dragged for me, if I’m honest,” I say with a shrug.

  “Yes, love. Of course. Oh, I meant to let you know that I spoke with Mr Carmichael this morning. He seems to have settled in nicely,” she says with a weary smile.

  Whilst I’m happy with the news, the fact that he’s settled in nicely in my Sam’s room comes with a sting.

  “That’s great to hear.” I nod and rub at my eyes. “I’m gonna head home. Just came in to remind you that I’ll be leaving after lunch tomorrow.”

  “Ah, yes,” she says. “The big weekend with Sam.”

  As I yawn, I think about telling her about the writers’ group meeting but decide not to. I don’t have the energy to open up that conversation now, and besides, I think it’d be best to do it when I’m closer to finishing my book. Firstly, I don’t know how long it’ll take me and secondly, I’d hate for her to think that my writing might interfere with my responsibilities here. “Yeah. I can’t wait to take him to the festival.”

  “I hope that boy knows just how lucky he is to have you, Jane. And if he doesn’t, you be sure to let him know.”

  I chuckle as I make my way to her door. “I’m pretty sure he knows, but I’ll make doubly sure.”

  ***

  Once Butch and I have eaten, and I’ve tidied the house, I pick up the phone and call Sam.

  “Two days,” I blurt out before he gets a chance to say a word.

  He chuckles and makes a muffled noise through the phone. “You betcha.”

  “Oh, I thought I’d better tell you to bring another blanket for Ben. It can get pretty chilly at night, and I only have one spare knitted one. Probably only big enough to cover half of him.”

  “No worries. I’ll sort it. If it’s easier, though, we could stay in a hotel. As in, you and me. Ben can still take the couch.”

  “Ha ha. Funny man,” I tease.

  Whilst a night alone in a hotel room with Sam would be a dream, I can’t afford that, and I can’t expect him to pay for it when he has no income. There’s no way I’d tell him that I blew my budget to smithereens in the week he left.

  “I want you both to stay with me,” I insist. “My place isn’t big, but there’s my room for us, and the fold-out sofa bed for Ben. You should warn him that the sofa isn’t the best. He might need to book in a chiropractor afterwards.”

  “He won’t care. Trust me. He’s slept on worse.”

  “Okay, well, you’re the one who has to listen to him moan about it on the way home.”

  “He’d moan anyway,” Sam drawls.

  I chuckle softly to myself, imagining just that.

  Silence grows between us. Just hearing him breathe on the other end of the line is almost enough. Almost.

  “Anyway, sorry. I know it’s only been a quick call but I’d better go. I’m knocking off early tomorrow to meet the writers’ group after lunch, and I want to get some serious words tonight.”

  “’Kay,” he says on an exhale. “Tell me one thing, though, before you go.”

  “Sure.”

  “Have your characters got down and dirty yet?”

  “Sam!” I shout. Heat rises to my cheeks as an ache centres in my lower stomach. I close my eyes, wishing more than anything that we were at that stage. Slowly, the tension between Jane and Sam in my WIP is building, but as for a sex scene? They’re not ready yet. Very unlike me.

  On Saturday, I’ll have to pick my moment to tell Sam that I’ve ditched Brandon and Ally and substituted us in their place. I have no idea how he’s going to react to the news, which is why I need to do it in person.

  “Well, for what it’s worth, I’m hoping one day soon I can give you some inspiration.”

  I clear my throat. “Um, how soon?”

  “Oh, I dunno,” he says, as casual as ever. “I’m free this weekend.”

  My jaw drops. This weekend.

  He’ll be staying here. In my bed. Sure, I thought about the idea of us being together, but the fact that his big brother is going to be on the couch right outside my door kind of put a kybosh on that.

  I’m gonna have to do some serious prep. I should wax tonight, because it takes me a day or two for the redness to go down. God, I hate being a woman sometimes. Not that I would want a penis or anything.

  “Jane? You there?” Sam prompts.

  “Yeah, sorry. Just thinking ahead.”

  Sam chuckles. “Hmm. Me too.”

  Chapter Thirty-Eight

  When I arrive at the café on Friday, everybody is waiting for me.

  I slide into the vacant seat at the table, and Hannah gets underway with her pitch. She talks eloquently about a guy who vanished after finishing college, and ten years on he finds himself back in his old neighbourhood stalking the girl who was once the love of his live.

  Hannah describes a woman who has been lost ever since her true love disappeared without a trace. Her missing ex has never strayed far from her thoughts, and she hasn’t been able to move on without answers. In time, the woman gets the feeling her lover is back, but by the time she realises it, they are both in danger. Someone is watching them.

  Chills run down my spine as Hannah continues on with such passion as she describes the story’s climax and the resolution.

  “Brilliant,” I say with gusto and clap my hands. “Can I just say, though, I can see why the policeman was a little wary of you.”

  “Ah, yeah. For good reason,” Leonie says and laughs. “Incredible, H. Your agent is gonna have offers coming out her wazoo.”

  “Love it,” Britt says and claps. “I’m a little scared of you right now, but great pitch.”

  “How can they say no to that?” Janice says with a nod.

  “I’m almost beta ready, so if any of you want to read for me, that’d be great,” Hannah says, a dark blush surfacing on her cheeks.

  My hand shoots up in the air. “Pick me!”

  Once we finish discussing Hannah’s upcoming novel, everyone else gives an update on their works. Then they all look at me with expectation in their eyes.

  “I started writing mine and Sam’s story, and the words are coming so easily. Our story is forming. I can’t believe it. I’m at twenty thousand words.”

  “Ooh-wee!” Leonie calls out. “I can’t wait to get my grubbies on this.”

  “Wow, those fingers must have been flying!” Hannah cries.

  Janice leans in closer and taps the table top with her flattened hand. “Bravo,” she says.

  Britt gives me a nod. Her brow is wrinkled, but she doesn’t offer any words of encouragement or congratulations. Is something up with her today?

  Before too long, Janice excuses herself, mumbling about her deadline. Leonie leaves shortly after to go back to work. Hannah is on such a high and says goodbye to Britt and me, promising to get a copy of her novel to us in the coming days. I feel so honoured to have a sneak peek of her work before anyone else. Calm yourself, inner fangirl.

  Britt and I stand out the front of the café. I don’t have anywhere in particular to be and Britt hasn’t rushed off. I was going to take Butch for a bushwalk, but that can wait.

  “Do you want to go for a walk?” I ask, and point to the rose gardens near the town hall across the street.

  “Sure,” she says, and starts off in that direction. “That’d be nice.”

  “How are things in the aromatherapy world?” I ask to break the silence
between us as we walk through the gardens.

  “Oh, you know. Steady. The candles become a bit more popular this time of year, though. Especially the spiced pumpkin scent.”

  “Yeah, of course. Do you have a stall tomorrow?”

  “Sure do,” she says, and pulls her lips into a tight smile.

  “I’d be happy to help you set up in the morning if you need? I’ll just be twiddling my thumbs here until Sam arrives.”

  “Sure. Thanks.”

  I kick at some wayward stones on the path. “I’ll bring Sam past to meet you. He should be arriving after lunch. I want him to have the full festival experience, you know? The food, the stalls, the produce judging, the scarecrows, and, of course, the dance.” I want to squeal with excitement at the thought, but rein it in.

  “I need to tell you something,” Britt blurts out.

  I breathe a sigh of relief. Whatever’s on her mind, she’s going to come out and tell me. Even though we haven’t known each other all that long, I’m glad she feels she can talk to me. “Okay. Whatever it is, I’m here.”

  She stops short and shoves her hands in her jacket pockets. “It’s about Sam.”

  I halt mid-step and shuffle my feet to face her. “Sam?” What can she possible have to tell me about Sam?

  “Before I say much more, have you spoken to him today?”

  Huh? I chew on the inside of my bottom lip. “No. Why?”

  Britt toys with her rainbow knitted scarf. “I tend not to say things when Janice is around, because of her views on certain things, but I have visions from time to time.”

  “Visions? What? Like a psychic or something?”

  She shrugs. “Ever since I was young, I’ve always been very spiritually aware.”

  “O-kay.” Is there a particular reason that this has something to do with Sam?

  “Sam’s been on my mind today. Actually, from about eleven o’clock last night, if I’m honest.”

  Is that why she was funny when I mentioned I was writing our story?

  I scratch at the skin beside my thumbnail. Britt reaches out with one hand and curls it over my shoulder. “I’m sensing that he had a fall.”