Of course, Bonnie hadn’tseemedlike she was pumping me for information just then. It seemed like she was genuinely sympathetic and concerned—which made no sense considering how I’d treated her.
Frankly, I couldn’t imagine what was going on in that head of hers, and it was foolish of me to waste even a few minutes thinking about it.
The last thing I needed right now was a distraction.
If there was any chance of finishing this book on time, I had to keep a clear mind and laser-like focus.
But with every step I took away from her, my thoughts only grew more confused. My old fears crept back in, and the writing inspiration drained from my body.
It was going to be a long night.
Chapter Eighteen
You Were Right
Bonnie
Jack’s verbal barb had stung. But I knew it had come from a troubled heart. He was afraid. It was obvious, and my own heart went out to him.
He was afraid of disappointing his loyal readers, afraid of what the critics would say, and most of all, afraid he wouldn’t be able to deliver the book on time.
Deeper than that, he seemed to fear admitting any sort of weakness or allowing any softness in himself. And he obviously felt like he had to keep his past a secret.
I might not be able to relate to his exact situation, but I understood the underlying feelings.
Insecurity and fear had stymied my own creative spirit in the past. I wasn’t angry with Jack. I felt sorry for him. It was a wonder he’d been able to write a single word with such inner turmoil going on.
In spite of his best efforts to keep me at arm’s length, Iwasgetting to know him. And in spite ofmybest efforts not to… I cared.
If only he could write for the simple joy of it again. If only he’d open up and let someone in.
If only he’d let me help him.
But he wouldn’t, the poor lonely wretch. I had a feeling that after last night he’d be even more of a ghost than he’d been the past week.
I wrote for a while in the morning then, after lunch, went back to the library to read. The chair in front of the fireplace had become my go-to spot, and today I sat in it sideways, my legs draped over the thickly padded leather arm.
In my peripheral vision I spotted a figure moving slowly past the open library door. Glancing up, I caught Jack’s eye for one brief second before he picked up his pace and moved out of sight.
It happened several times a day over the next few days, becoming a sort of bizarre ritual. Jack would stroll by unusually slowly, I’d look up and catch him, and he’d rush away.
What was he doing?
Did he want to come in? It wasn’t like he had to wait for an invitation. It washislibrary, after all.
On the third day when he walked by, I said as much, calling out to him, “You know you’re welcome to come in if you need to use the library. There’s plenty of room. Or I can leave if that makes you more comfortable. I can make some great recommendations from your book collection, if you like.”
He’d already hurried past the opening, but I heard his shouted response from the hall.
“I don’t have time. I’m busy writing.”
I laughed to myself.
Sure you are, Jack. Sure you are.
* * *
Another daily ritual had developed. Eating dinner in the kitchen with the staff.
