Libby opens the accompanying book, finds the correct page and begins reading. “It says, ‘Jog yourself out of a rut by turning things around and doing something different. You don’t need to make these changes permanent. Tomorrow you can return to your old routine, refreshed.
“‘The opening chapter of Midnight in the Garden of Good and Evil was originally chapter nine. Chapter one became chapter two when John Berendt realized that he couldn’t wait until the middle of the book to introduce the murderer, Jim Williams.
“‘Truman Capote began writing Answered Prayers with what he thought would be the last chapter. He then wrote the first, fifth, and seventh chapters, claiming he was able to keep the threads of the plot straight only because he knew how each story ended in real life.
“‘Phillip Roth told the Paris Review, ‘For all I know I am beginning with the ending. My page one can wind up a year later as page two hundred, if it’s around at all.’”
Libby looks up smiling. “There’s more, but you get the idea. Start anywhere, just start.”
“I like it,” Cynthia says. “I can see how having a focus word would be helpful.”
“Are the rest of you game?” Libby asks the room at large.
“Bring it on,” Mick says, laughing.
“How about you, Jason?”
“Sure,” he says, with a tight smile and curt nod. “Count me in.”
Niall enters The Ink Well with a dish towel draped over his shoulder and Hemingway at his side. “Okay, everyone, you rise at the butt-crack of dawn tomorrow so you may want to get some shut-eye.”
Emma bursts out laughing. “The butt-crack of dawn?”
After rolling her eyes at Niall, Libby explains, “For those of you who are interested in tai chi lessons, I’ll see you at the pavilion at six-thirty. It’s located on the east side of the property between Cynthia’s cottage and Mick’s cabin. If you walk toward the sunrise, you can’t miss it.”
Through exaggerated moans and groans at the suggested hour, the guests make their way to the front door.
“Good night, everyone. We’ll see you in the morning,” Libby says.
Jason breaks away from the others and appears to head toward Thoreau cottage. Maybe not everyone.
CHAPTER 7
“You learn to write the same way you learn to play golf . . . You do it, and keep doing it until you get it right. A lot of people think something mystical happens to you, that maybe the muse kisses you on the ear. But writing isn’t divinely inspired—it’s hard work.”
—TOM CLANCY
On her way to Austen cottage, Emma pauses to admire the night sky scattered with sparkling stars. She revels in the crisp air, inhaling the myriad of night scents before continuing. She hears the soft lap of water against the shore in the far distance and the call of the brown Barred Owl overhead. “Who cooks for you? Who cooks for you?” it seems to ask. When she arrives at her cottage, she rolls up the ramp, pushes the door-activation button, and smiles when it opens on a whisper.
After changing into her nightgown, Emma sets her toothbrush, toothpaste, and floss on the counter and prepares for her evening challenge—practicing standing and leaning against the sink long enough to brush and floss her teeth. Even though her legs shake from the effort, Emma smiles at herself in the mirror because she knows that means her muscles are hard at work. A little cocky now, she leans away from the counter, but grabs it again when she begins to tip.
That’s okay, she thinks, sitting back down. I’m further today than I was yesterday, and I’ll be further tomorrow than I am today. On that positive note, she pulls her hair up into a ponytail, and washes her face.
Emma wheels herself to the bed, pulls back the downy covers, transfers herself into the crisp linens and folds her wheelchair, slipping it next to the nightstand. With an air of contentment, she picks up the book she’d placed there earlier, leans back into the plush pillows, and begins to read.
“Niall, Hemingway and I’ll take out the trash and make the rounds tonight. I need to clear the cobwebs in my head, and this big galoot could use the exercise.” Mick teases the tall, lean dog, tousling the wiry hair on his head. “If he wants, I’ll let him stay the night at my place. He makes pretty good company.”
Hemingway shows his agreement with a near table-clearing wag of his tail.
“All right already, I’m coming.” Mick laughs. With a bag of trash in either hand, he and his excited, four-legged companion leave through the mudroom. At this late hour, the temperature has dropped, the cooler causing a mist that swallows Hemingway’s tall frame in the distance.
After depositing the trash in the raccoon-proof bin, Mick follows the pathway north to check on Dickens cottage. No light, not even a glimmer, pierces the tall curtain of Bigleaf Maples. Fran must already be asleep.
Little does he know that she’s lying in bed, determined to ask Cynthia to go clothes shopping with her. After the palm-reading session and their whispered conversation on the drive from the airport, Fran knows this three-week retreat is going to be about more than writing a book. It’s going to be a turning point in her life.
Where the heck is that dog? He’s usually right by my side. The luminous mist slides ghostlike past the walkway lights as Mick continues. With a soft whistle and a pat on his thigh, he calls “Here boy, come on.” He stops to listen and hears a woman’s laugh. Faster now, he moves along the pathway and sees light streaming from the windows and open doorway of Austen cottage—Emma’s cottage. “Oh no.” He murmurs. “Hemingway’s let himself in.”
At the front door, Mick stops short. Through the open bedroom doorway, he sees Emma. Propped up in bed with her hair pulled up
