deal at Fox, said he didn’t want to play second fiddle to a dog.”
“Wow, it’s impressive how you do Hollywood-speak,” I said.
“Francesca, you don’t have to try to be funny. I know you’ve got to be feeling a little disappointed.”
That was like saying someone who has just been through a tsunami is feeling a little waterlogged. What I was was numb. “Have you had a chance to meet Sheryl?” I asked, so we wouldn’t have to dwell on me and my feelings.
“She’s a sweetheart,” he said.
Sheryl was a little more cryptic about Jake. “I think he’s the kind of man who doesn’t like to be alone,” she said. Then she paused, and I could feel her picking her words carefully. “He’s so … outgoing. And I don’t think he really understands how important your writing is to you, Francesca.”
When Jake came back, I tried to explain it. “I feel like I’m fighting for my life!”
“Don’t you think that’s a little over the top? It’s just a book, Francesca.” He gave me a kiss—was it my imagination, or was it the kind of kiss you’d give your mother?
“I can’t seem to do all the running around we do and work. I need to lie low—just for a little while.”
“How long?”
As long as it takes! I wanted to scream at him. “Give me a few months.”
“You’ve already had months.”
The point of telling you all of this is: There were signs. But I was so busy trying to beat Second Book Syndrome, I didn’t pick up on them. No, let me be really honest: I didn’t want to. I should have known better. I did know better. I’d learned that lesson the hard way when I was a kid.
CHAPTER 6
I’d finally reached our apartment building. I checked the clock in the lobby; it was still too early for Jake to have left for Andy’s awards dinner. It wouldn’t take me more than five minutes to get ready if I dressed fast.
“When did my husband get in?” I asked the doorman, as I walked by him.
“I don’t think he’s back yet, Ms. Morris.”
That stopped me for a second. But doormen working at big New York City apartment buildings don’t always see everyone who goes in and out. This guy could have been on the phone when Jake came in; there were dozens of other possible scenarios. I got into the elevator and went up.
None of the lights were on. I was greeted at the door by Annie, who made a frantic break for the hallway. Clearly she hadn’t hadher evening potty break yet, which meant the doorman was right; my husband hadn’t come back home. I called out, “Jake, are you here?” just to make sure. There was no answer. I grabbed Annie’s leash and the pooper-scooper—Annie and I are good citizens—and we hurried outside so she could do her thing.
A part of me expected to see Jake in the lobby when I walked out of the elevator. He’d be pressing the button anxiously, and he’d say he was sorry he had worried me. But he wasn’t there. When Annie and I went outside, I couldn’t help waiting for him to come up the street, running because he was so late. I promised myself I wouldn’t get mad or demand to know where he’d been. I’d just be grateful that he was back. But Jake didn’t rush up to me on the street with his hair mussed, breathing hard. Jake wasn’t anywhere.
And now the memories that were flooding through my mind were getting scary. I stood next to the curb outside my apartment building, while Annie sniffed around for that one perfect spot, and tried to block them, to stop remembering what I’d done—and hadn’t done—during the time when I was trying so desperately to recapture the lightning in a bottle that was Love, Max . But memory is a pesky thing; once you start it rolling it’s almost impossible to turn it off.
IT TOOK ME a year, but I finally finished the first half of my new book—at least, I hoped that was what I’d done—but after my editor, Debbie, read it she didn’t seem happy.
“Why did the dog get so mean?” she asked.
Because I got
“Wow, it’s impressive how you do Hollywood-speak,” I said.
“Francesca, you don’t have to try to be funny. I know you’ve got to be feeling a little disappointed.”
That was like saying someone who has just been through a tsunami is feeling a little waterlogged. What I was was numb. “Have you had a chance to meet Sheryl?” I asked, so we wouldn’t have to dwell on me and my feelings.
“She’s a sweetheart,” he said.
Sheryl was a little more cryptic about Jake. “I think he’s the kind of man who doesn’t like to be alone,” she said. Then she paused, and I could feel her picking her words carefully. “He’s so … outgoing. And I don’t think he really understands how important your writing is to you, Francesca.”
When Jake came back, I tried to explain it. “I feel like I’m fighting for my life!”
“Don’t you think that’s a little over the top? It’s just a book, Francesca.” He gave me a kiss—was it my imagination, or was it the kind of kiss you’d give your mother?
“I can’t seem to do all the running around we do and work. I need to lie low—just for a little while.”
“How long?”
As long as it takes! I wanted to scream at him. “Give me a few months.”
“You’ve already had months.”
The point of telling you all of this is: There were signs. But I was so busy trying to beat Second Book Syndrome, I didn’t pick up on them. No, let me be really honest: I didn’t want to. I should have known better. I did know better. I’d learned that lesson the hard way when I was a kid.
CHAPTER 6
I’d finally reached our apartment building. I checked the clock in the lobby; it was still too early for Jake to have left for Andy’s awards dinner. It wouldn’t take me more than five minutes to get ready if I dressed fast.
“When did my husband get in?” I asked the doorman, as I walked by him.
“I don’t think he’s back yet, Ms. Morris.”
That stopped me for a second. But doormen working at big New York City apartment buildings don’t always see everyone who goes in and out. This guy could have been on the phone when Jake came in; there were dozens of other possible scenarios. I got into the elevator and went up.
None of the lights were on. I was greeted at the door by Annie, who made a frantic break for the hallway. Clearly she hadn’t hadher evening potty break yet, which meant the doorman was right; my husband hadn’t come back home. I called out, “Jake, are you here?” just to make sure. There was no answer. I grabbed Annie’s leash and the pooper-scooper—Annie and I are good citizens—and we hurried outside so she could do her thing.
A part of me expected to see Jake in the lobby when I walked out of the elevator. He’d be pressing the button anxiously, and he’d say he was sorry he had worried me. But he wasn’t there. When Annie and I went outside, I couldn’t help waiting for him to come up the street, running because he was so late. I promised myself I wouldn’t get mad or demand to know where he’d been. I’d just be grateful that he was back. But Jake didn’t rush up to me on the street with his hair mussed, breathing hard. Jake wasn’t anywhere.
And now the memories that were flooding through my mind were getting scary. I stood next to the curb outside my apartment building, while Annie sniffed around for that one perfect spot, and tried to block them, to stop remembering what I’d done—and hadn’t done—during the time when I was trying so desperately to recapture the lightning in a bottle that was Love, Max . But memory is a pesky thing; once you start it rolling it’s almost impossible to turn it off.
IT TOOK ME a year, but I finally finished the first half of my new book—at least, I hoped that was what I’d done—but after my editor, Debbie, read it she didn’t seem happy.
“Why did the dog get so mean?” she asked.
Because I got
Similar Books
