It’s not easy being a mystery writer and it’s especially difficult when your literary agent is your girlfriend. One thing is sure—there are no days off—from either role.
I figured if I got out of the rat race and settled in a small town, the main aspects of my life would improve, but I forgot one small detail—when Thoreau retreated to the backwoods, he went alone.
I could have backed out of the deal at any point, but not me—once I commit to a plan, I think it’s fatal not to continue.
So, here I was stranded in a small town where everyone knew what I had for dinner and then to add to the problem, I make the mistake of leasing the in-law flat to Melody Bride, my girlfriend/agent, figuring it’d be handy for both of us.
Two boneheaded decisions duly signed and ratified.
No wonder I sit around most days envying dead people.
“Hey, Jay—I’m going into town for the day—do you want anything?”
I try hard not to smile. “No, I’m good. Go have fun.”
She eyes me trying to read my motive and I’ve got to hand it to her—she can read me like a book. But I avoid her gaze, keeping my eyes fixed on the computer screen.
A minute later, I hear the screen door slam and hear her revving the SUV.
Mission accomplished!
Now, don’t get me wrong. Melody’s a great girl and I’ll probably marry her—it’s just that she could probably teach Simon Legree how to get more work out of his slaves.
Once I’m sure Melody and the SUV are really gone, I kick back and put my feet up on the coffee table. I’m just starting to doze off when the doorbell rings—Actually; it’s not a ring per se, more like a grinding noise. I own an 1881 Victorian two storey and I try to keep everything in its original condition.
I open the door and there’s a beautiful blonde girl standing on my porch.
“Hi. I was wondering if I could paint your house?”
“Naw, it doesn’t need painting—Maybe in a few years.”
“Not that kind of painting,” she smiles and points to an easel set up on the sidewalk. “Your house is old and beautiful. I want to do a watercolour of it.”
I notice her huge blue eyes and long shiny blonde hair.
“Ya…okay. I suppose so—so long as I don’t have to get involved.”
A look of amusement crosses her face. “I just want to paint your house. I’m not proposing marriage.”
I feel my cheeks colouring. “I didn’t mean that kind of involved—I’m a writer—Jay Randall. I write The Jay Randall Murder Mysteries.”
She totally ignores my remark. “Okay then, I’ll just make a sketch and get to work. I’ll be no trouble, I assure you.”
“Suit yourself,” I say, trying to act nonchalant, all the while feeling I’ve made a complete ass of myself.
I close the door, meaning to go back to the couch, but I’m intrigued. I sneak a peek at her walking back to her easel. She looks sexy and sassy in her tight jeans.
Maybe I was too tough on her.
She uses her fingers to comb through her long hair; drawing it into a ponytail she ties with a scrunchy she retrieves from her tight jeans.
Definitely too tough on her.
I take myself by the ear and head back to the couch, but ten minutes later, I’m still sitting there stewing.
I get up, go over to the window and surreptitiously pull back a corner of the white lace curtains.
The girl’s out there scowling at her canvas looking vexed and frustrated—probably unable to capture some aspect of the architecture.
Poor kid. She looks flushed. I should offer her a cold drink.
I head to the fridge and take out the pitcher of lemonade Melody made for me this morning. I fill two glasses and place them on a tray, then head outside.
The girl’s nowhere to be found. Her easel’s still there and I steal a peek at the painting. It’s good—looks like something Trish Romance might paint.
Ahem. She comes up behind and startles me. I almost drop the tray.
“Don’t you believe in giving people warning before sneaking up behind them?”
I’m ticked.
“I was just checking the perspective for my picture. Besides, I’m not the sneaky type—I don’t spy on people behind their backs.”
“I wasn’t spying on you.”
“Oh no? Then what were you doing at the window—are you a Block Parent, or the Neighbourhood Watch—or maybe just nosey?”
“How do you know I was watching you?”
“I could feel the vibes.”
“Oh great! Is everyone in this burg wacko or what?”
Her eyes darken. “You think I’m wacko?”
I feel my opportunity slipping away.
“No, look—I’m sorry—I’ve just been having a few problems adjusting to a small town.”
“Sure the problem’s not you?”
The tray’s starting to get heavy. “I saw you looked flushed and it’s hot out here, so I made us a drink.”
She eyes me suspiciously. “What’s in it?”
“What’s in it? Lemonade. Hey, you don’t think I’m trying to slip you something, do you? I’m not a pervert.”
“Could have fooled me,” she smiles, then takes a long drink.
“Say, this is good—did you make this yourself?”
“Sure,” I say, taking a sip.
“I doubt that,” She sniggers. “Your girlfriend made it and she’d be pissed you’re trying to seduce me and get into my pants.”
“You’re kidding, right?”
“Nope. You’re the one who’s kidding. I got your number.”
My face falls. She’s staring at me critically.
“That’s okay. I know your type. Guys like you can’t help yourself, but you’re too much trouble and I don’t feel like fighting you off.”
She hands back the empty glass. “So, thanks for the drink, but I’ve got to get back to work—and I think you should do the same.”
I spend the rest of the afternoon in a morass of self-flagellating guilt, writing to keep my mind occupied and then writing to expunge my pain. By six o’clock I manage to finish two chapters. Then, I hear Melody at the door.
“Did you see the sunset out there? This is big sky country! I’m so glad we came out here.”
She comes over and hugs me and sees the chapter heading on the screen.
“Oh, Jay—I’m so proud of you. I knew you could do it.”
She then spots the empty pitcher of lemonade and the two glasses.
“Did you have company?”
“No, I don’t like reusing the same glass.”
I see a faint smear of pink lipstick on the rim. Melody doesn’t seem to notice.
She opens her mouth to speak, but then changes her mind.
“I don’t feel much like cooking tonight. I’ll go and get us some Chinese. You stay and finish your writing.
She heads to the door
“Melody…”
She stops and turn to face me. “What?”
“I’m sorry.”
She smiles at me—a shy, uncertain smile—part hurt and part compassion.
“The good ones always are trouble—that’s what Mom says. Besides, I know you can’t help yourself.”
I watch her go out and hear the revving of the SUV.
She can read me like a book, but she averted her gaze.
I shut down the computer and sit staring straight ahead. The murky screen reflects the face of a guilty man.
It’s not easy being a mystery writer and it’s especially difficult when your literary agent is your girlfriend.
One thing is sure—there are no days off—from either role.
