The platform bed was the largest I’d ever seen—did they make anythingbiggerthan a California King? It had to be custom. Behind it, an accent wall covered in rustic looking horizontal wood panels made the large room look cozier, as did the comforter which resembled an enormous gray cable-knit sweater. It was pulled back on one side to reveal the softest looking white sheets I’d ever seen.
Ididmanage to resist testing those out—barely. What a nightmare it would be if he walked in and caught me taking his bed for a test drive. He’d instantly re-visit that stalker-put-the-real-reporter-in-a-trunk theory.
Instead, I walked over to appreciate the view from the floor-to-ceiling windows before leaving the bedroom.
Once in the hallway, there was no confusion about which way to go—I could see the top of the grand staircase down the hall.
On my way there I passed several doors I assumed led to other bedrooms and then a narrow opening with a smaller staircase leading up.
How intriguing.
I stopped walking and leaned forward into the gap, craning my neck upward. It was impossible to see where these stairs led because the staircase curved out of sight.
The turret.That’s where these stairs led. Had to be. Jack’s office—where all that writing brilliance took place—was up there.
Just steps away.
I stood for a few moments, torn by indecision. Looking back and forth between the grand staircase and this far more tempting one, I waged a battle with myself, feeling a bit like the dual-sided character Gollum from one of my favorite childhood fantasy books, The Hobbit.
He said no one goes in there but him and Mrs. Potts.
Yes, because it wasmessy.You won’t be offended by a little mess. You’re a little messy yourself.
That’s true. And it’s not like I’d rummage through his drawers. I won’t touch a thing.
My feet were already on the bottom step by the time I got to the crux of the matter. I bit down on my bottom lip.
This is a mistake.
I know. I know. You don’t have to tell me that.
And, overcome by curiosity, I took the next step.
At the top, the stairwell opened directly into a small, circular room with stone walls and richly colored Persian rugs. There was a simple wooden writing desk topped by a lamp and a laptop computer.
It wasn’t nearly as grand as the rest of the house, but for a writer who adored Jack Bestia’s work, it was the equivalent of seeing the Sistine Chapel in person. I stayed in place, drinking in the details.
I didn’t even intend to enter the room, not wanting to disturb anything. But then I spotted the blue of the ocean-facing window.
How amazing would it be to see the very view Jack saw when he sat down to write? I’d take a quick peek and memorize every detail, save it for later to treasure each time I sat down to work on my own books.
Of course, I’d never presume to sit at his desk. Instead, I crossed the room to stand in front of the window. I cracked it a bit, so I could feel the ocean breeze from up here. When I did, something fluttered beside my head.
I turned to see a plotting chart on the wall. I’d learned a similar method in college and used it to plan the one book I’d finally managed to finish. Scenes tended to come to me out of order, and the chart method had helped me organize them into a workable story flow.
Handwritten index cards were taped in various spots across Jack’s chart. But there were also lots of blank spaces.
Interesting. He must plan out only the major turning points. What a genius he is. I had to plot out every scene before I was truly ready to write a first draft.
Though it was maddeningly tempting, I disciplined myself not to read the writing on the cards. I didn’t want to violate Jack’s writing process any more than I’d want someone peeking at my work before I was ready.
Instead, I turned and headed for the staircase.
Oh. The window.
I’d left it open. I spun and rushed back into the room to shut it. But before I could reach the window, a gust of wind blew a stack of papers off the printer table and scattered them across the floor.
Great. Just wonderful.
