White Tree Sound
Page 1
White Tree Sound
Lizzy Ford
White Tree Sound Copyright © 2018 by Lizzy Ford
www.LizzyFord.com
Cover design Copyright © 2018 by Lizzy Ford
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All rights reserved.
No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any electronic or mechanical means, including information storage and retrieval systems, without written permission from the author, except for the use of brief quotations in a book review.
This story is a work of fiction. Any references to historical events; to real people, living or dead; or to real locales are intended only to give the fiction a sense of reality and authenticity. Names, characters, places and incidents either are products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously and their resemblance, if any, to real-life counterparts is entirely coincidental
Contents
Prologue
White Tree Sound
Also by Lizzy Ford
About the Author
Prologue
From “Black Moon Draw”
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Epilogue: LF
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The End.
I consider the words. They don’t seem quite right. Deleting them, I debate for a moment and then simply leave it blank. The book may stop here, but their story is eternal.
“Best. Book. Ever.” The shih-tzu at my feet stirs when I speak, and I reach down to scratch him between the ears. “Another best seller, Wookie!” He looks up at his name, as sleepy as I am.
This book feels incredible. It flowed with unnatural ease, basically writing itself. I haven’t slept in three days, compelled to complete the story of Naia and her Shadow Knight. There are stories that seem to be channeled from outside of my imagination entirely, worlds painted so vividly on my mental canvas, that to delay sharing them is a sin.
I pull up the chat window where I’ve been talking to one of my readers. There are fans – and there are rabid fans. My last three books have been like this, inspired by the stories of rabid fans who messaged me, begging to be in a book. All three books were similar to this one – channeled writing that drove me batty until I sat down to put the worlds on paper.
I type her a message.
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Hey, Naia78! The story’s done. I’ll post the final chapter in a bit, after I edit so you aren’t bothered by any more typos!
* * *
I wait a minute. She doesn’t immediately respond. What’s odd: the other two women never wrote back after I finished the final chapters of their respective books either. I’m assuming they liked their stories. If they weren’t happy with the ending, I’d hear about it.
“Oh, well. Hope Naia likes it, too.” I stand up and go to the kitchen. Exhausted after the writing marathon, I’m also completely energized by the power of Naia’s story. It thrills me to finish a book, especially one that flowed the way this one did. Making a cup of tea, I dwell over any loose ends I might need to fix. My muses are usually good at catching them in my final round of editing.
The only thing I can think of: what happened to the Red Knight.
On this topic, my muses are quiet. He walked through the doorway ahead of Naia and disappeared. The otherworldly inspiration behind Black Moon Draw isn’t volunteering any sort of resolution to his story. Nor do I feel the desire to change that part. I love to leave a bit of mystery in each book, something to leave the readers wondering and stimulate their imaginations the way I like to dream about what happens instead of watching the end of movies.
The Red Knight is probably my favorite character. The idea of a book character being so determined to find its author makes me giggle, and I’ll admit – I had fun messing with him and watching him grow more and more frustrated.
My doorbell rings. Wookie erupts into fierce little barks and I grab my tea, heading towards the door. It’s too early for FedEx or UPS deliveries and my best friend Julia isn’t coming by to go shopping for another hour. It leaves one possible trespasser, someone I’m not too thrilled to talk to again this morning.
“Quiet, Wookie,” I tell my fluffy puppy affectionately. I push him away from the door with my foot. “Probably the neighbor complaining about me parking in his spot again, since I didn’t move my car yesterday morning.” I sigh. I was knee deep in my manic writing episode, which isn’t a reason normal people understand.
I prepare an excuse for the neighbor. There are days when I really hate living in an apartment community. Someday, when I hit the big times and become a world famous author, that’ll change. Until then, I just have to deal with the ongoing conflict for the best parking spot.
Unlocking the door, I open it.
My mouth drops open. After a moment of shock, I start to laugh. “No way!”
White Tree Sound
“Omigod!” I exclaim. “This is … wow.”
It’s every woman’s nightmare. Her ex-husband shows up at the door, forty pounds lighter and accompanied by the pretty woman he left her for.
“I wasn’t expecting this,” I manage to say and give another laugh. Shocked isn’t the right word for it. Maybe surreal is better. After an awkward moment, I open the door to let them in.
Our divorce was terrible for me mentally but not acrimonious. A fling is one thing; deciding to dedicate your life to someone else? Yeah – I wasn’t about to become the third wheel in my own marriage. He gave me everything I asked for and more in the settlement, the benefit of a guilty conscious.
Deep inside, I’m pretty lost, even a year later. But I’ve tried to be gracious. He’s happy, which is all I ever wanted for him, and her greatest sin is being thinner than I am.
“Hey, Wookie,” he says and bends down to greet my excited little fur ball. Wookie spent three of his four years with my ex in my ex’s house, before my muppet-like dog and I moved here.
“I’ll make some tea,” I say and hurry to the kitchen. I feel sick to my stomach, and I can’t help wondering why they decided to show up today of all days, when I’m feeling good after finishing my latest book.
They sit down in the living room. My traitor of a dog is all over my ex and even hops onto my ex’s woman’s lap to say hello.
My hands pause as I pour hot water into three teacups. The past year, I’ve written a lot about characters betrayed by those they trust most. Until now, I hadn’t put the two together: my writing and my life. My writing has always helped me cope with life. I feel better than I did a year ago, but I definitely don’t feel ready to handle seeing the two of them together.
I go to the living room and set down the tea. No one is comfortable. Wookie settles down and returns to my side. He squeezes his little body between my thigh and the arm of the chair.
“Saw you released another book,” my ex says. “That’s great. You’ve always been an amazing writer.”
“I’m one of your biggest fans,” says his woman. “I read everything you write.”
Has she picked up on the recent theme of bastard men and their skinny side chicks?
“Thanks,” I say. I can write thousands of words every day, but my vocabulary resembles that of a caveman when I try to communicate in person with people.
My ex clears his throat. “I figured you’d hear the news once we announced it. We wanted you to hear it from us first.”
As if I didn’t notice her engagement ring.
“We’re getting married in the fall,” he states.
“Congratulations. I’m glad you’re happy.” I’ve been excessively understanding of the whole situation. I’m not entirely surprised they decided to tell me before the news was plastered all over social media.
They glance at one another and smile. The terse quiet falls away as they discuss their plans.
I notice things about him that I didn’t when we were together that leave me wondering if I’d been with him at all, if I’d noticed them before we were married. He was never good at expressing his emotions and private thoughts, and I wasn’t happy about the one-way nature of our communication, but I chalked that up to him being a normal man. I usually felt like I was beating my head against the wall trying to get him to open up to me. His response was to ignore me or become passive aggressive, and eventually, I’d blow up, and he’d get pissed or grow even more distant. It was a vicious cycle in our marriage.
I’m glad that’s over with.
My ex leaves the living room for the bathroom. His woman is smiling. In truth, I’ve never been upset with her. I’ve always held my ex responsible for their relationship. He didn’t have to hit on her, email her, invite her out. Did he even tell her he was married before sleeping with her?
“I’m glad you’re both happy,” I say. I mean it, too. I also have the feeling they’re not going to last. Relationships that start like this one did tend not to.
“I know it’s been hard on you,” she says. “I’m sorry you were hurt.”
“I’d like to think things happen for a reason,” I reply. “Maybe you were meant to be together, and me encouraging him to attend that conference made it happen. Maybe that was my role all along.”
“If that’s the case, then I hope there’s someone out there who can make you happy like he does me.”
Familiar anger bubbles up inside me and immediately fizzles. There’s no use in me going off about something that happened a year ago that I couldn’t change. Impotent anger is the worst of all. What do I do with it? There’s no target and no point, but I can’t seem to make it go away either. It festers inside me and leaves me feeling helpless and adrift in the world.
My ex returns.
“I’m happy for you,” I say. “Thank you for letting me know.”
They’re more at ease now, as if reassured I’m okay with everything. I don’t know what I feel and need some peace and quiet to process everything. My ex tells me about our friends and his coworkers, whom I’ve met most of. His woman has, too, and they share stories about how everyone is doing. I stopped speaking to our mutual friends and his coworkers as soon as I filed for divorce. I didn’t want to be part of his life, and they were part of his life.
It stings to hear her talk about them all as if they’ve always been friends, or to imagine him taking her to lunches and dinners with him to meet his friends. Do his friends and coworkers wonder about me? Do they care or ask about me?
Does it matter if they do?
My ex and his woman don’t stay much longer. When they leave, they’re upbeat, their consciences clear.
I close the door behind them and lean against it. I can’t even begin to understand what I’m feeling or thinking, except that my good mood after finishing my latest novel is gone.
“What the hell, Wookie?” I ask my shih tzu, thoroughly confused.
He wags his tail. He doesn’t care about anything but his chewies. I wish I could be more like him.
“I think we need some ice cream.” I return the teacups to the kitchen, put everything in the dishwasher, and grab a half-gallon of ice cream. It’s not the kind of day to bother with a bowl.
I text my best friend to let her know I’m not going shopping after all. I don’t feel up for anything.
Rather than sleep, like I need to, I sit down to watch Pride and Prejudice for the millionth time.
The next morning, I’m drained, though my head is clearer. I don’t feel devastated. If anything, I’m relieved. I survived the first, and hopefully last, encounter with them. I didn’t have a meltdown. I didn’t cry. That’s progress. I’m not sure how long the anger and sadness will linger, but they aren’t as strong as I once dreaded they’d be, when I thought about how I’d feel when I saw him again. I’d classify myself as a trashcan fire, not an entire dumpster fire.
I’m kind of proud of myself. It wasn’t as bad as I thought it would be.
I still cried myself to sleep last night.
I finish packing up a few books and check my makeup. I don’t wear much, mainly because I forget to put it on. I’m not completely okay and would prefer to stay home today, but I won’t meet new readers if I avoid my plans.
“Wish me luck, Wookie!” I say. Grabbing my stuff, I head out the door.
I’m going to the local library as a visiting author. I’m not sure how many people will attend, but I’m bringing a few extra books and swag just in case.
When I reach the library, the librarian leads me to a quiet area near the fiction aisle. I sit down in the world’s most uncomfortable, plastic, child-sized chair and pull out my books. There are ten chairs in front of me in two rows – and all of them are empty. I check the clock. It’s five past ten, and my time slot started at ten.
“Guess I’ll be reading to myself.” I grin. I don’t mind at all. I’m socially clumsy; I won’t have to stumble around any questions if no one shows up.
I crack open my latest young adult release. I think the librarians would frown upon me reading my spicier romance novels in public.
I read aloud for ten minutes. A couple of library patrons pause to listen. Or maybe they’re waiting for the bathroom to open up. It’s located ten feet behind me. Either way, I pretend like they’re here for me.
Another ten minutes pass. Two people sit down to listen, check their phones and then get up and walk to the schedule posted nearby. When they realize I’m not the person they’re here to see, they walk off to look at fiction books.
If I’ve learned anything being an author, it’s to grow thicker skin. Authors face constant rejection from readers, the industry in general, other authors, and complete strangers. My hide is thick enough, a missile can’t pierce it. I’ve gotten good at smiling and nodding in my professional life – and in my personal life. I’ve been in pain since I discovered my ex was with someone else. I do my best to hide it and cover everything with a smile in public.
I read aloud to myself for another fifteen minutes. Lost in my story, oblivious to whether or not anyone else cares, I’m happy to sit alone and read. I love my books. My slot ends at ten forty five. I planned on reading for thirty-five minutes then answering questions. At this point, I think I’m just going home a few minutes early.
Lowering my book, I tuck it away and sort through my bags for my keys and phone.
“Are you taking questions?” a man asks.
“Only if someone shows up to ask them!” I say and laugh.
“I showed up.” His voice is low and quiet, his pronunciation precise, and his accent polished. English? French? I can’t tell. It’s pretty, though.
“Then ask away.” The day I remember where I put my keys is the day I’ll make the New York Times bestseller list.
“Tell me about your first book.”
I give up on my keys and straighten.
When I see him, I’m startled into silence.
Dark hair and eyes, long eyelashes, roughly hewn masculine features, an athletic body, and handsome in a way that’s hard to describe. He’s not a Hollywood pretty boy. He’s well dressed and looks a little silly seated in the second row, in one of the child-sized chairs the library stuck us with. I can’t tell if he’s brooding or just intent.
He’s looking directly at me as if I’m the only other person in the world.
I kind of wish I was.
He’s waiting for my answer. How long have I been staring at him and mentally drooling?
My face is warm. “Well, it’s about a god and a woman with special abilities who –”
“Not that first book,” he says.
I glance towards the schedule. “You sure you have the right author?” I joke
. “Because that’s my first book.”
“Your first published book, yes,” he states. “Not the first story you ever wrote.”
“I wrote a ton of stories before that one. None of them were very good. I’ve been at this since I was nine or ten or so.”
“I’m interested in the first one.”
Weird. But okay. It’s not like anyone else showed up. “Um, well …” I think back. “I think it had dragons in it.”
He waits for more.
“I was obsessed with a few movies when I was little. Star Wars, Labyrinth, Legend. It was probably awful fan fiction,” I muse. “I tended to write in a stream of consciousness at first. I didn’t even make chapters. Just wrote.”
“You don’t remember?”
“Not exactly. That was years ago. I wrote a lot of stories I never finished. They were all terrible.”
He crosses his arms. “That’s not the answer I was hoping for. I’m certain there was a story before that one.”
I laugh. How odd!
He’s not smiling. If anything, he’s disappointed.
I clear my throat, embarrassed. I always laugh at the wrong time and fail to laugh at the right time.
“Well, time’s up,” I say and stand. I want to kick myself. I’ve never talked to a man this good looking. He’s interested in my writing, and here I am, rushing to leave.
He stands as well. He’s tall, close to six four. I love tall men. He’s muscular but not thick enough to be bulky. He’s also not too wiry to be as hard as a wooden plank.
I heft my book bags.
“Do you want to grab a cup of coffee?” he asks.
“No,” I reply.
I’m not sure who is more surprised by my answer: him or me. Where the hell did that come from?