Buoyed by his thoughts, Jason arrives back at the retreat. Careful not to be seen, he slips behind the wall of Western Red Cedar trees and enters the confines of the simple, natural cottage named after Henry David Thoreau. He pauses in front of the all-glass southern wall. A glint of reflected morning sun winks at him through the foliage. He leans forward and squints to get a closer look. He can just make out two figures, one walking with a limp, the other in a wheelchair. He remembers how Mick and Emma talked, laughed, and looked at each other during dinner last night.
The coin drops.
Emma is Mick’s Achilles’ heel—his weakness, his vulnerable point. I can use her to get to him. Jason’s slow smile is self-congratulatory, having nothing to do with the breathtaking view.
CHAPTER 9
“The less attention I pay to what people want and the more attention I pay to just writing the book I want to write, the better I do.”
—LAWRENCE BLOCK
Heading back to Austen cottage after the early morning tai chi session, Emma says, “Mick, that was amazing! I would have started tai chi a long time ago if I’d known I’d feel like this afterward. My body’s relaxed, my head’s clear, and I feel revved up and ready to tackle my manuscript.”
“That’s why it’s called ‘meditation in motion,’” Mick says. “The combination of low impact circular motions, slow movement, and deep breathing focuses attention. And because nothing is forced, it initiates flow—in your case, creative flow.”
“I think it should be called ‘medication in motion.’ I feel like I just drank a healing elixir. It’s like I’m a new person.”
Mick looks at Emma’s dew-kissed face. God, she’s gorgeous. “You’re glowing.”
She scrapes a hand through her hair. Freed from the scrunchie, her dark auburn mane falls to her shoulders. “What I am, is burning to write. I want to dive into my manuscript while I still feel energized.” The cloth-covered elastic gets a vigorous workout on her lap. A tell-tale sign of her excitement.
After passing through the glade of Blue Elderberry, they reach her cottage. “What’s that?” Emma asks, pointing to something on her porch.
Mick picks it up and shakes his head. “It looks like you have an admirer. Hemingway’s left you a gift,” he says, holding a dirt-crusted bone out for Emma to see.
“The feeling is mutual.” When they realize they’re talking about each other, Emma tips her head forward to hide her blush behind a curtain of hair, and Mick uses the moment to activate the button on the outside wall. The door to Austen cottage opens, revealing the soft hues of its sage and lavender interior.
“If that big hairy galoot comes around and bothers you, send him home. Can I bring you anything for lunch?”
“I assume you’re referring to Hemingway.” Emma laughs. “He’s welcome company. And Libby saw to it that my kitchen is stocked, thank you.” She turns, looks at the sky, and notices cracks in the blue-violet clouds giving way to golden rays that cause the still-damp leaves to shimmer.
“If it doesn’t rain, how about a picnic tomorrow afternoon?” Mick asks.
“I’d like that.” Emma smiles.
“We can work out the details tonight at dinner.”
Emma watches Mick’s thatch of charcoal-colored hair until he vanishes in the distance.
He thinks about her clear green eyes and the vibrancy of her voice. Her enthusiasm is contagious. Mick whistles a merry tune, his feet barely touching the ground all the way back to his cabin.
Emma sits before her laptop and readies herself for a day of writing. Before starting, she picks up a smooth rectangular stone and runs her fingers over it. It makes her smile every time she handles it.
While attending a writing conference in Los Angeles, she and the other attendees were told that they’d encounter every author’s nemesis. Writer’s block.
Determined to make a preemptive strike and embrace this thing rather than run scared, she shifted her perspective and sought out a physical reminder when she returned home. She scoured San Diego to find what she was looking for and found it in a crystal shop near the beach in Encinitas.
A beautiful piece of jade, or “yu” as it’s called in China, it symbolizes the five virtues of humanity: wisdom, compassion, justice, modesty, and courage. I love my writer’s block. It’s all about flow.
“Niall. Niall!” Libby calls from the mudroom before bursting through the bottom half of the Dutch door. “Where’s that man gone off to?” she asks the empty room. “Niall!” she begins again with exasperation.
Niall pokes his head around the wall of the hallway entrance. “Where’s the fire?” he asks, with mock fear in his blue eyes shining under bushy eyebrows.
With hands clasped in front of her chest in childlike glee, Libby says, “The fire’s in Mick. He’s hot for Emma.” She laughs at her play on his word. “And I think the feeling’s mutual. After this morning’s session, they left together, and they didn’t take the direct route to Austen cottage. They took the southern route behind Thoreau,” she says, waggling her eyebrows suggestively.
Niall loves Libby’s pixie nose that tends to wrinkle in disapproval or disdain. The same nose whose delicate nostrils flare when aroused.
“Good heavens, woman. It appears you got some extra exercise this morning.”
“What do you mean?”
“You’ve been jumping to conclusions again. It’s none of your business, Libby. Stay out of it.”
“But—”
“No buts. I know how much you want Mick to be in a relationship again. But he’s a grown man and doesn’t need you to interfere.”
It’s difficult for Niall to hold a stern look while facing Libby. There she is, tendrils of hair spilling from the loose ballet bun she wears while working around the house. Now and then she raises her hand and fingers the rosewood hair-stick Mick carved for her. A long and slender bird, he says it reminds him of Libby holding the crane pose in tai chi.
“I’m
