“I’ve got a phone interview next week with a company that hires independent legal drafters for law firms.”
“That’s good, isn’t it?” Ann asked. She pulled out the sunscreen and slathered more on her nose.
“We’ll see . . .” Her voice trailed off. “What if I have to move, Ann? What if I can’t find anything here?” She looked at Ann, tears in her eyes.
“Oh honey. We’ll cross that river when we come to it, and hopefully we’ll never come to it.”
Sarah rolled her eyes at Ann’s muddled cliché.
“That’s right,”—Rob reached over and patted Sarah’s leg—“no sense borrowing trouble.”
Ann jumped up when Lily got tangled up with another player and fell.
Rob grabbed her wrist and tugged her back down. “She’s fine,” he told Ann. “Shake it off, sugar,” he yelled to Lily.
“Ann, do you remember that manuscript I wrote back in college?”
“Yeah, I wondered why you never did anything with it. You always were a good writer.”
“Well, I’d forgotten about it until Sam reminded me of it when she was here last weekend. I found it, and you know something . . . it’s not half bad.” Sarah smiled as she thought about how she’d read through it after a sleepless night. She couldn’t make herself put it down. She’d sat right there in the attic and read at least the first hundred pages, before her stomach spoke up, reminding her that she hadn’t had breakfast yet.
“I think I’ll work on it again, maybe clean it up, try submitting it. Sam said she’d thought it was good back in college, and it’s something I can do while I’m looking for a job.”
Ann’s eyes lit up. “I think that’s a great idea. You could be the next Jane Austen.” She wore an impish grin. “But if you want my advice, I think you should spice it up with a bare-chested hunk or two . . . and a lot of rowdy sex.”
Sarah had her head in a tall cardboard box when the doorbell rang. Who could that be?
She caught her reflection in the hall mirror. She looked a mess. Her hair was twisted into an unkempt ponytail that hung slightly askew after her submersion into the box. She had on shabby sweats and a ragged, holey T-shirt that didn’t match, and her big toe stuck out of a hole in her sock.
She tentatively opened the door, and breathed a sigh of relief when she saw Ann’s astonished face.
“Well, look at you. Don’t you look like something the stork dragged in.” She stepped into the foyer where Sarah was cleaning out the coat closet. “What are you doing?” She looked around in disgust. “Don’t tell me you’re cleaning out another closet.”
It’d been two weeks since she’d told Ann about the manuscript, and she hadn’t written or edited the first word, but her closets and attic were well-organized, and Goodwill had scored a windfall in donations.
“I thought you were supposed to be clearing your head and getting in touch with your inner Jane Austen. Not cleaning your closets and getting in touch with your inner maid.”
“Just because I’m cleaning out closets doesn’t mean I’m not getting in touch with my inner Jane Austen. The mindless work gives me lots of time to think . . .” she finished lamely.
“Honestly, Sarah, you’re wasting precious time. Once you get a job, you won’t have time to devote to creating the sensitive, sexy, well-muscled hero we’ve all been yearning for.”
Ann had been so excited about Sarah’s writing scheme she’d already planned what to wear to the premier of the implausible blockbuster movie based on her currently unfinished, unpublished manuscript.
Sarah didn’t know what was wrong with her. It wasn’t like her to procrastinate. When she set a task for herself, she started on it right away.
“I know, I know. And I leave for England next week.” And that’s another thing, she berated herself. She should have her head examined for jetting off on a two-week vacation when she was currently out of work.
But the trip was paid
“That’s good, isn’t it?” Ann asked. She pulled out the sunscreen and slathered more on her nose.
“We’ll see . . .” Her voice trailed off. “What if I have to move, Ann? What if I can’t find anything here?” She looked at Ann, tears in her eyes.
“Oh honey. We’ll cross that river when we come to it, and hopefully we’ll never come to it.”
Sarah rolled her eyes at Ann’s muddled cliché.
“That’s right,”—Rob reached over and patted Sarah’s leg—“no sense borrowing trouble.”
Ann jumped up when Lily got tangled up with another player and fell.
Rob grabbed her wrist and tugged her back down. “She’s fine,” he told Ann. “Shake it off, sugar,” he yelled to Lily.
“Ann, do you remember that manuscript I wrote back in college?”
“Yeah, I wondered why you never did anything with it. You always were a good writer.”
“Well, I’d forgotten about it until Sam reminded me of it when she was here last weekend. I found it, and you know something . . . it’s not half bad.” Sarah smiled as she thought about how she’d read through it after a sleepless night. She couldn’t make herself put it down. She’d sat right there in the attic and read at least the first hundred pages, before her stomach spoke up, reminding her that she hadn’t had breakfast yet.
“I think I’ll work on it again, maybe clean it up, try submitting it. Sam said she’d thought it was good back in college, and it’s something I can do while I’m looking for a job.”
Ann’s eyes lit up. “I think that’s a great idea. You could be the next Jane Austen.” She wore an impish grin. “But if you want my advice, I think you should spice it up with a bare-chested hunk or two . . . and a lot of rowdy sex.”
Sarah had her head in a tall cardboard box when the doorbell rang. Who could that be?
She caught her reflection in the hall mirror. She looked a mess. Her hair was twisted into an unkempt ponytail that hung slightly askew after her submersion into the box. She had on shabby sweats and a ragged, holey T-shirt that didn’t match, and her big toe stuck out of a hole in her sock.
She tentatively opened the door, and breathed a sigh of relief when she saw Ann’s astonished face.
“Well, look at you. Don’t you look like something the stork dragged in.” She stepped into the foyer where Sarah was cleaning out the coat closet. “What are you doing?” She looked around in disgust. “Don’t tell me you’re cleaning out another closet.”
It’d been two weeks since she’d told Ann about the manuscript, and she hadn’t written or edited the first word, but her closets and attic were well-organized, and Goodwill had scored a windfall in donations.
“I thought you were supposed to be clearing your head and getting in touch with your inner Jane Austen. Not cleaning your closets and getting in touch with your inner maid.”
“Just because I’m cleaning out closets doesn’t mean I’m not getting in touch with my inner Jane Austen. The mindless work gives me lots of time to think . . .” she finished lamely.
“Honestly, Sarah, you’re wasting precious time. Once you get a job, you won’t have time to devote to creating the sensitive, sexy, well-muscled hero we’ve all been yearning for.”
Ann had been so excited about Sarah’s writing scheme she’d already planned what to wear to the premier of the implausible blockbuster movie based on her currently unfinished, unpublished manuscript.
Sarah didn’t know what was wrong with her. It wasn’t like her to procrastinate. When she set a task for herself, she started on it right away.
“I know, I know. And I leave for England next week.” And that’s another thing, she berated herself. She should have her head examined for jetting off on a two-week vacation when she was currently out of work.
But the trip was paid
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