Читать книгу Something Wicked - Susan Johnson-Kropp - Страница 4

Chapter 2

Still wounded from my night of self-loathing, I made my way downstairs, through the lobby, out the main door, and over to my favorite coffee shop around the corner (not Starbucks). While standing in line, I glanced at my phone for my email messages. I have two email accounts. One is for my pen name, Paige Turner, and one is a private one that I rarely give out but use for shopping, paying bills, etc. I often complain about all the emails I receive from fans gushing about my work on my public address, but I actually never go a day without checking them. I secretly find them reassuring.

As I was reading, someone touched my arm from behind. I looked up to see a man, a man I recognized. He was a really handsome man who’d recently moved into my building. Tallish and tan, he had light-brown hair, blue eyes, a medium build, and an affable grin.

“Hello,” he said with a smile.

“Hello,” I replied timidly.

“We live in the same building, don’t we?” he asked, with a half nod of his head to indicate that the line in front of me had moved forward.

“Yes, I think so.” I was playing it cool.

“Yeah, that’s what I thought. So, what’s your name?”

“Jill Van Doren,” I told him with a tilt of my head.

“Jeff Spiegel,” he said, still smiling. “So, how long have you lived there?”

“Five or six years. You?” I asked, already knowing the answer to be two months.

“Couple o’ months now.”

“You like it?”

“Sure,” he said with a shrug. “I love my neighbors.” He was smiling more broadly now. What had he meant by that? Was that a biblical reference? Did he mean someone in particular or all of his neighbors?

“Okay,” I said, raising my brow.

“You seem to spend a lot of time at home. I mean, I don’t see you rushing off to work or anything. Are you cooking meth in there?” he asked playfully.

“Yes, I am. Please don’t tell the cops. I just can’t do any more hard time.”

He laughed and nodded at the line again. I felt a slight nervousness, and I knew from past experience that my face had flushed bright red. I looked down at my choice of clothing and was horrified: A dirty, too-big pink sweatshirt over torn jeans and tan UGGs. Ugh!

“Seriously, what are you? A writer or something?” he asked soberly.

“Yes, I am a writer or something.”

“Really?”

“Really.”

“What kind of writing? Would I have heard of it … or you?”

“Unlikely,” I said flatly. “I’m an unfulfilled romance novelist.”

“Why unfulfilled? Writer’s block?” He chuckled at his own cleverness.

“How do you know about writer’s block?”

“I’m an unfulfilled writer as well.”

A writer. Wow! “What kind of writing do you do?” I asked.

“I write about the history of sports.”

“You mean like books?”

“Yes, and I do freelance articles for magazines.”

“That’s great. Why unfulfilled? Couldn’t get a good interview?”

“Something like that.” His seemingly ever-present smile faded slightly.

I turned away to order but I didn’t want anything anymore; too nervous. “Tall black coffee, please,” I said to the frazzled barista. She filled, capped, and handed me my cup. I turned to say good-bye, but my neighbor was already being helped by the other girl, so I simply nodded toward him, mouthed good-bye, and started out. I wasn’t a block back down my street when he came up beside me.

“Hey, what’s your hurry?” He was rather out of breath for a guy who wrote about sports.

“Nothing. I was just heading back home.”

“Mind if I walk with you?”

“If you can keep up,” I said teasingly.

“So, tell me. Why are you unfulfilled?” he asked.

He seemed genuine, but I was suspicious. “Well, I really want to write a serious novel—you know, mainstream, but I just can’t seem to put it to page, so I am very frustrated,” I said truthfully.

“You must be doing well to live where you do. Why not stick with what works?”

“Because it’s nonsense, that’s why.”

“So, you don’t respect your own work. Is that it?”

“Look, I respect my work as much if not more than most in the genre. I just don’t respect the genre.”

“Funny, you sound both proud and wretched at the same time. I didn’t think that possible.”

“Wretched? Such an old word for a man in 2016.” I commented.

“Did I mention that I, too, am a writer?”

“Yes. You write about sports, and you don’t find it fulfilling.”

“Not like I used to. I mean, I like it, but …” He trailed off ruefully. “I would love to write a novel. I mean … that is to say … I am attempting to write one now.”

“Really? Have you a story yet?”

“Yes, I have. I thought it would be fun to write a murder mystery. You know, like Agatha Christie.”

“I’d have thought Stephen King.”

“Nope, Agatha Christie. She wrote with style.”

“I haven’t read anything of hers for so long, I really don’t remember it well. I saw Murder on the Orient Express when I was little. I don’t really remember it well either.”

“Yeah. Great movie. Better book,” he said.

“That’s usually the case, it seems,” I responded, sounding more smug than I’d meant to. “Well, here we are. Nice talking to you.” I started toward the elevator of our building. I knew he lived on the first floor.

“Hey, I’d like to get together and discuss books and movies and lack of fulfillment with you sometime.”

“Oh, you would, huh?” I asked jokingly, my face flushed again.

“I would indeed,” he said grandly.

I was beginning to think he was trying to impress me with eloquence and sophistication. It was working. “Perhaps,” I told him with a sly smile.

“Oh perhaps, huh?”

“Yes, perhaps, per happenstance, perchance … a distinct possibility, while not certain.”

“You are one to be reckoned with, I see.”

I’d gotten onto the elevator and pushed the button, so the door had begun to close when I employed my best Jeremy Irons voice: “You have no idea.”