“Are you talking about me or you?” She grabbed a diet drink and faced Blanche. Maybe she should’ve held out for a Stella. Flawed characters were often described that way because they were crazy, and sometimes crazy could kill you.

  “You know damn well that I want more than a working relationship, so don’t give me that.” If they’d been standing on a snow-covered mountain, Blanche’s shrieking would’ve caused an avalanche by now. “I love you, and I’ve given you space and everything else you wanted. All I want is for you to love me back and get back to work. Think of what a marriage between us could accomplish.”

  She took a moment to do what Blanche asked and thought about it. The possibility of being trapped in a house with Blanche scared her more than kidney pie. There were certain things not meant to be eaten or contemplated. If there was a list, kidneys and any other internal organs should be on it, right there beside marriage to someone like Blanche. “It’s not like you’re living in squalor, Blanche. Your commissions have made you a rich woman, but now it’s time to give it a rest.”

  She glanced around to see if she’d forgotten anything and noticed, like she always did, the character you never saw in new construction. Her father had spent days working with his crew to restore the house to its original look. She loved this place, and it was the best thing her book royalties had gotten her. Now the writing awards and fame weren’t going to change the fact that the part of her mind that’d percolated with so many stories had gone cold. That was a death knell to a writer. Imagination was as important as being a good storyteller. You could write beautifully, but without a good story it was just words.

  “You’re under contract, Wyatt. Leaving isn’t going to be that easy.” Blanche had gone from hysterical to venomous as fast as Superman got out of his business suit. Now was the time to wonder if Blanche kept a cattle prod in her purse. “You don’t disappoint the publisher and expect to work again on this level.”

  “I’ll be gone at least a month.” She was tired, and she could almost feel her mom tugging her by the ear to get her going.

  “Wyatt, I need you to listen to me.”

  She took a few deep breaths, trying to calm the need to run even if it took tackling Blanche to get to the door. That thought actually lightened her mood. “What I need is to get out of here, so move.” Damn if Blanche didn’t have a way of sucking the life and air out of the room.

  “It’s a phase, and it’ll pass. Virgil will understand, considering your parents. All you need to do is get back in your study and start writing.”

  Venomous with a side of syrupy was hard to swallow. “Do I have to spell it out for you? There’s not one story in my head. That’s called writer’s block, and if you mention my parents, Virgil, or getting back in the saddle, you’re fired.” She hadn’t strung that many words together in weeks. She’d developed a readership through what the reviewers said was excellent dialogue, but her real-life conversations seldom lived up to the written word. From the look on Blanche’s face, her words had made an impact.

  “What happens after a month?”

  She could tell Blanche was trying to hold back, and she was almost successful. The clenched jaw and fists meant holding her temper in check was like holding a wild stallion with a yo-yo string. “I don’t know. We’ll see.” She pointed to the door and locked it when Blanche made it to the sidewalk.

  “We’ll see? That’s not good enough.”

  “That’s all I got. Take some time and concentrate on your other clients. I’m sure they’d love the attention.” She kissed Blanche’s cheek and left her standing there. It was time to start over and maybe dedicate herself to something else. She was getting good at staring at ceilings.

  Chapter Four

  Hayley woke to pouring rain and a cold room. “So much for my day of exploration and eating out.” She’d been too tired the night before to head to the restaurant, so she’d eaten a doughnut and called it a night. The alarm had gone off at six, and she’d come close to beating it to death. It was now after ten, so she threw on an old sweater, mentally bracing herself to sit on the toilet. There was no experience like sitting on an ice-cold seat in an old house first thing in the morning. “Shit,” she said loudly.

  The freezing bathroom made her consider getting back in bed under a pile of blankets instead of making coffee, but she needed it like she needed peanut butter and books. Those were her three life obsessions, and they really were safer than crack, STDs, and Jack Daniel’s. After surviving the toilet horror, she headed down to her Wolf Gourmet coffee maker. It was a splurge that was totally worth it.

  She poured her first cup and hit speed dial. “Hey,” she said when her friend Lucy Nguyen answered. Lucy had a way of sounding like she’d awoken from death whenever Hayley called her this early. “Want to come over for breakfast?”

  “It’s raining and I worked until two. Why do you hate me so much?”

  “It’s ten in the morning, so get up.” She’d gone grocery shopping before visiting her parents to save a trip now. Coming home to an empty refrigerator sucked. “It’s disgusting outside, so we can eat and watch a movie.”

  “You expect me to go out in the rain after dealing with drunken bridal parties all night? I swear, I still haven’t gotten the smell of vomit out of my nose yet.” If there was an Olympics for whining and bad attitude, Lucy would have won her weight in gold medals by now.

  “I promise I’m not hiding any bridesmaids in my house, so put on underwear and get over here.” She took out everything she needed to make pancakes, hash browns, and bacon.

  “If the underwear is a deal breaker, you’re going to have to wait until I do laundry.”

  She laughed so hard she snorted. “You have thirty minutes. After that you tempt fate by leaving me alone with the syrup.”

  “Is that a proposition for sex?”

  Lucy had been her one and only internet date, and they made better friends than lovers. Not that Lucy wasn’t sexy, beautiful, and smart, but she was not at all her type. Hayley was a femme in search of the perfect butch who wasn’t obnoxious or a total player. She and Lucy had that in common. God only knew why they’d been matched on the dating site in the first place.

  “Wait,” Lucy said, “you’re using me as bait to avoid George, aren’t you?”

  “George will be too busy trying to keep all his rabbits dry to worry about you.”

  “All right already, but I have to shower and brush my teeth. Last night really was disgusting, and I was too tired to care when I got home. Can I use your washing machine if I promise to be gentle?”

  “Yes. Should I get you an Uber? You can’t ride your bike in this.”

  Lucy’s grandparents had immigrated from Vietnam, but Lucy and her parents were true New Orleanians. She lived near Hayley in a small apartment, didn’t own a car, and seldom left the Marigny or the French Quarter unless forced to do so. The thing in her profile that’d drawn her to Lucy was that she loved to read, but her job at the Irish pub in the Quarter left her little time for much else. Their only official date had been a long conversation over dinner about their favorite books and lip gloss.

  They’d ended up as friends, and Lucy was the sounding board and best friend she’d never had.

  “I’ll get Larry to drop me off. You can bring me back after you feed me three meals and entertain me.”

  The batter was done as the sky outside really got dark, and the rain came down hard enough to make it almost impossible to see past three feet. She opened the door to Lucy, who hadn’t bothered to change out of her pajamas. “You’re soaked.”

  “Give me your robe, and I’ll wash my pj’s first.” Lucy kissed her cheeks and dropped a large sack of laundry at her feet. “I’d eat my pancakes in the buff, but George is probably watching us through a high-powered telescope, the weirdo.”

  “That’s why I’m glad the kitchen and my bedroom are on this side of the house.” She started heating her griddle while Lucy stripped and filled the washer. “How’s work?”

  “Work is like a revolving door of assholes sometimes, but I love the people I work for and with.” Lucy sat at her kitchen island and rested her head in her hand. “I can never convince my mom of that. She wants me to come work for her at the restaurant.”

  “Wants you to or is insisting?” She flipped the pancakes and glanced back at Lucy. “If she’s anything like my mom, it’s a barrage of demands.”

  “You’re an editor,” Lucy said laughing. “What’s the problem? Does she think you’ll read yourself to death?”

  “She wants me to move closer because New Orleans isn’t safe.”

  “That argument would make sense if you were from a small town with a population of a hundred, where everyone is pasty white and fond of fanny packs. You’ve spent most of your life in New York.” Lucy used her hands a lot when she talked and now was no different as she pointed at her with both index fingers before going back to some sort of sign language only she knew.

  “The small town part I understand, but pasty white and fanny packs escape me.” She flipped the pancakes again before plating everything.

  “Scary white because the weather permits them to be outside for, like, two days before it starts snowing again…duh. They’re fond of fanny packs because they’ve established gathering tendencies like squirrels preparing for winter.” Lucy smiled as she poured an unhealthy proportion of syrup on her plate. “You’ve been in the Quarter when these kinds of tourists descend on us, so you know what I’m talking about. They’re usually in big shorts with legs so white you want to give them money to wear pants. That’s the exact opposite of what usually happens on Bourbon, when they start to show even more skin after they’ve decided to give absinthe a try.”

  “You should work for the tourism bureau. And I’m not sure, but I think you might have insulted me and my pasty-white skin.” She joined Lucy in trying to use up all the syrup in the house.

  “You’ve lost the Casper-white thing you had going when you first got here, but we’ll have to accept you’ll never tan. It makes your blond hair really pop, so it’s not a problem you should obsess about.” Lucy took a bite of the pancakes. “My point is your mom’s crazy in an overprotective kind of way. She’s only going to get worse while you’re here, and she’s got no one but your father and the goats to talk to.”

  “Mom doesn’t have goats.” A bolt of lightning lit up her kitchen, followed by a boom strong enough to rattle her dishes. “Don’t worry, I’m not going anywhere. I love my job in the city.”

  “Don’t lie, girlfriend.” Lucy was now using a fork to make a point. “New Orleans is a pit stop for you. The action you want is in New York.”

  “Eventually, but being here has changed my mind about my timeline. Besides, there’s talent here, and I want to develop it.” Fleur-de-Lis had a great group of authors writing mostly romances, but they were expanding into mystery and paranormal. Given they were in New Orleans that made sense, but Hayley wanted to put their fledgling LGBTQ branch on the publishing map. “I got Marlo to go for the anthology.”

  “That’s great. Any good stories you want to share? If I can’t find the perfect woman, I can at least read about her.”

  “I’ll let you know this week. Marlo assigned it to Cheryl, and there’s been some sort of problem.” There’d have to be some reshuffling of her schedule if she took on the project as well as whatever else was wrong.

  “Cheryl? Like in Southern Baptist, I-probably-have-a-pet-rattlesnake-for-when-I-praise-the-Lord girl?” Lucy’s description was accurate, but she hoped Cheryl was a tad more professional than that.

  “That’s her, but she does have a unique gift when it comes to finding errors in manuscripts.”

  “Of course—it’s God-given,” Lucy said.

  The joke made Hayley spit out a mouthful of hash browns. “Today isn’t the day to tempt God. I’d miss you if you got hit by lightning.” She had a circle of friends in New York she still kept in touch with, but no one made her laugh like Lucy. “I’ll give her a pep talk, and I’m sure she’ll be fine.”

  “The girl boycotted Disney because they offered partner benefits. Never mind that she’s never been to Disney in her life.”

  “Bambi is her favorite movie, though, and it was a huge sacrifice to vow to never watch it again.”

  “How’d she get hired, anyway?”

  “By not mentioning her questionable views during her interview. There’ll be hell to pay now if we fire her because of her devoutness.” It really did suck that people couldn’t practice what they were supposedly learning on Sunday. Being a devout Christian didn’t give you permission to sit in judgment of everyone else, especially on issues like who they loved. “I’ve always said Cheryl’s repression would unravel with the right woman. She gives off that kind of vibe.”

  “Do Baptists use holy water? Believe me, you’ll be swimming in it if you decide to test your theory.”

  “I’m not sure. I was raised by two Episcopalians who were allergic to going to church, and eww. Don’t be disgusting, or it’ll ruin my pancakes.”

  They kept talking until they finished eating what she’d cooked, and then they hit the sofa and Netflix. The storm raged outside, and she watched it sheet down her windows. This was her life, and she was content. Would finding someone who provided what Lucy did as well as sex be welcome? Of course, but she was still young, and that would come in time. It had to. She wasn’t built to be alone for the long haul, yet she wasn’t one to settle.

  Chapter Five

  “There’s a few things you should remember, Whitlock.” Wyatt spoke loudly to hear herself over the wind rushing in from the window. It was freezing, but that and talking to herself kept her awake. This drive was as monotonous as the background of a cartoon. The Flintstones had been way before her time, but she’d seen endless reruns. When Fred and Barney drove in their stone car to the bowling alley, the background was all the same. Rock, rock, tree, shrub, repeat. That was it.

  “Kind of like this homage to Children of the Corn.” The radio seemed programmed to only play country-western songs from the sixties. All these ballads of unrequited love and heavy drinking made her sure that she wasn’t as mentally unbalanced as she thought if people really did sit in bars, crying into their beers over some woman.

  “You were talking about things you should remember,” her father said. “Aside from not pushing my baby over sixty-five, that is.”

  “One thing for sure is that a tropical island would be a good place to go if I’m going mental, or maybe Paris. I could’ve flown and saved myself all this driving.” The only real conversation she’d had aside from with her deceased parents was with Virgil Billingsley. He hadn’t been thrilled with her but understood her reasoning. She’d phoned the bank right after and sent the advance back, so now she was free of her obligations. At least her contractual obligations.

  The thing about her was she was wired to always have some goal in mind. That made her flip through possible book ideas in her head yet again to see if something came to her. It was like flipping through index cards at the library—back when libraries had such things. Society was trying to eliminate paper, but she loved paper as much as the crooner on the radio loved whiskey and loose women.

  “Maybe that’ll be my next hobby. Whiskey, women, and romance novels.” All this angst and talk of drinking, fantasizing about women, and admiration of horses made her sure she could write a romance. All she had to do was replace her trademark murder, intrigue, and the broody cop with flowers, long beach walks, and goats. Women loved goats. She was sure there’d been studies.

  Basically, that kind of book was the exact opposite of what she was known for, and it would kill Blanche if that’s what she pitched. Her brain was way off the mark, but hell, she was way off the grid of her normal. All this corn, and where she was going weren’t in her norm either, but she figured the only way back was to explore the unknown.

  “Good Lord.” Getting philosophical before lunch was an invitation to massive heartburn. She took the next exit off the interstate that had signs of life—well, aside from the corn—and filled up. It was her strong opinion Starbucks should venture to places like this if only to show the truckers what they were missing. A good latte could open anyone’s horizons and prove there was a God.

  “What can I serve you, baby?” The waitress at the truck stop was friendly and chewed gum as if it was a competitive sport.

  “Coffee and a burger.” With all the corn in the area, she figured the cows were eating well.

  The woman screamed her order through the opening to the kitchen and grabbed a mug. She was getting a big tip for dumping the carafe and brewing a fresh cup. “Where you headed?”

  “New Orleans.” Her characters tended to provide short answers, giving as little information as possible, and at times that trait bled into her life. Hell, if the killer talked right off, the book would be boring.

  “That’s exciting.” The woman popped her gum with impressive loudness.

  The judge from New York gives her a ten, giving Mindy the waitress a perfect score in her gum chewing. She smiled at her running mental dialogue as the woman who might or might not be named Mindy poured her coffee. “It’s been a while since I’ve been back, so I’m looking forward to it.”

  “I’m saving to go one day.” It was too late for breakfast and too early for lunch, so her new friend parked in front of her on the other side of the counter and smiled.

  “It’s a great place if you like to have fun.” She added way too much sugar and a little cream to her coffee, wanting the boost for the hours of driving she still had left.