hooked up. A giant cottonwood tree provided ample shade, and on the side of the building opposite the coffee shop, a green grassy meadow stretched all the way to a hill and the tree line.
'So how much would you say it was worth?' Bert asked.
Barry was about to say he'd be willing to pay a hundred a month plus utilities when Doris quickly stated, 'Fifty a month.' It was an offer, not a beginning bargaining point, and the flatness of her voice made it sound as though this were a take-it-or-leave-it proposition. She walked slowly around the room. 'Lot of work to be done here, and Mr. Welch'll only be using it to write in. It's not like he's a lawyer or doctor renting a first-class suite with all the fixings.'
Bert nodded. 'Fifty a month's reasonable.' Doris held out her hand for Bert to shake. 'Thanks, Bert. We'll go back to my office and discuss it, and I'll call you back. If everything's jake , I'll get some papers drawn up and we'll seal this agreement.'
'I can kick you out anytime,' Bert warned. 'I bought that place because I want to expand, and if I need more parking lot or have to add on to the restaurant, I'll kick you out.'
Barry nodded. 'I understand.'
'Okay then.'
In the car on the way back to the real estate office, Doris laughed.
'Kick you out. That's a hoot. Old Bert probably forgot he even had that place until we showed up and mentioned it to him.'
'Thanks for stepping in there,' Barry said. 'I was about to offer a hundred a month.'
'I thought you might go high.' She smiled. 'Didn't want you to cheat yourself. Even if it would've upped my commission.'
'I can't commit to anything yet,' he told her. 'I have to call my wife first.'
'Call her? Bring her on down! Look at it, think about it, discuss it.
That shack ain't goin ' anyplace. And no matter what Bert says, he has no other plans for that place. You're a godsend to him. Take all the time you need.'
'Thanks,' Barry said.
Doris winked at him. 'Just doin ' my job, sugar. Just doin ' my job.'
In a way, the homeowners' association had done him a favor.
As much as Barry hated to admit it, working out of an office had opened up both his life and his work. He found that he liked spending his day in town, liked the contact with local characters and the sense that he was part of Corban’s day-to-day life. His new novel had undergone a shift since he'd gotten out of the house, acquired depth and texture and a real-world sensibility. It was more mainstream now, more accessible, less insular and self- referential, and in an indirect way the homeowners' association was responsible.
He smiled wryly. Maybe he should thank them on the acknowledgments page.
Outside the window, a redheaded woodpecker swooped out of the cottonwood tree and disappeared into what looked like a microscopic hole in the eave of the coffee shop. It was a hot day, and the cicadas were out in force, their chirruping overpowering the fan hum of his computer and fading all other noise into background static. Inside, shaded by the massive cottonwood's thick foliage and giant branches, the ah- remained pleasant and temperate, but he could see shimmering heat waves distorting the air above the dirt road and knew that out in the open the temperature was anything but pleasant.
Barry saved what he'd written, shut off his computer, leaned back in his chair, and swiveled around. It was pretty neat having an office.
He liked it. Ray Bradbury had an office. A lot of famous writers did.
And there was something official about it. He felt more professional, more successful, his writing suddenly seeming more like a vocation than an avocation.
Besides, he and Maureen were getting along better now that they were out of each others' hair.
And no longer had to share computers.
He checked his watch. Nearly noon--although his stomach could have told him that. Grabbing his wallet from the desktop, he locked up and walked across the field to the coffee shop.
He'd taken to eating lunch here each day rather than going home or bringing something he'd made himself. He was not the only one. The coffee shop seemed to be a favored hangout of many locals. And the food was not half bad. Besides, it couldn't hurt to patronize the business of his landlord. He might be able to stave off potential rent increases. Or get some free work done should the plumbing act up or the roof leak.
Barry pulled open the smoked glass door and felt the welcome chill of air-conditioning. The place was already starting to fill up, but his usual table by the restroom was free and he waved to Lurlene , grabbed himself a menu off the counter, and sat down.
He'd felt awkward the first time he'd come in here. He was not one for eating alone, was not one of those people who was comfortable without companionship in social settings. Being by himself in restaurants or movie theaters always made him feel self-conscious, as though everyone were staring at him, and though intellectually he knew that was not the case, he'd been sorely tempted to get his food to go and eat it in the office. But he forced himself to sit down at the counter and order lunch, and while he was fidgety and ill-at-ease, he managed to get through the meal unscarred.
He returned the next day. Barry was not good at meeting new people, at injecting himself into existing groups or conversations, but he was lucky enough this time to have Bert do it for him. He was seated at the counter, eating a cheeseburger, pretending to be proofreading a manuscript, and behind him, two old-timers were talking about Kingdom of the Spiders, a William Shatner horror movie that had been on one of the Salt Lake City stations the night before. The movie had been filmed in Camp Verde, Arizona, which was where one of the old- timers was from, and he was tearing apart the topography of the film, complaining that in one scene Shatner was driving away from the ranches he was supposedly heading toward, and that editing and selective shooting made the movie's downtown seem very different from what it was.
'It wasn't that they just shot the flick at Camp Verde,' the old man said. 'I could understand that. But they claimed it was Camp Verde.
It wasn't supposed to be no made-up town or nothing. They were pawning it off as a real place.'
'This guy here writes scary stories like that,' Bert said from behind the counter, nodding toward Barry. 'Maybe he knows why they do things like that.'
Barry hadn't attracted any attention in the coffee shop on his first visit, had been ignored by the other customers as though he wasn't there. But all of a sudden the old man and his cronies took an interest in him, and Barry found himself the subject of serious attention. One old-timer even reached into his shirt pocket and put his glasses on in order to see better.
'I rent him the old museum out back,' Bert went on. He sounded almost proud. 'He writes his books back there.'
The old man who'd been complaining about the movie squinted at him.
'You a famous writer?' he asked.
Barry laughed. 'I don't know how famous I am, but I make a living at it.'
'What's your name?' one of the other men asked.
'Barry Welch.'
There was shaking of heads all around.
'Never heard of him,' someone said.
The complainer pushed his chair back, walked over to the counter, held out his hand. 'Name's Hank Johnson. Pleased to meet you.'
Barry smiled, shook the hand. 'Likewise.'
'So, as a writer, would you do something like that? Put in false stuff about a town even if you knew it wasn't true?'
'Writing is lying,' Barry said. 'We make things up, and if we put in real places or actual events, we change them to suit our story. We don't care about reality.'
