But maybe I don’t have to write a nonfiction book to acknowledge the sacrifices Iris made for her country and king. When I first moved to Maple Ridge, I told Delores I was writing a thriller. The next thing I knew, the lie took root, and several people now think I’m actually writing one—including Simone, Zara, and Emily.
I told them the thriller was on pause while I did the renovations. The excuse was so I didn’t have to write said thriller.
But why not write a novel? A historical novel based on what’s in the journals? Some of the World War II historical novels I’ve read were based on real-life people.
For the first time in months, an idea I’ve had makes sense. I could really see this for me—I can feel it. The fulfillment I’d gain from writing the story.
Is this the purpose I’ve been seeking?
My blood thrums with the same excitement as earlier. Excitement that I now have a new purpose—which hopefully will get me further than wedding photography. Excitement and aneedto do this. A need to show the world just how amazing Iris Bromfield was. To give her the recognition she so rightly deserved.
And then I can give Anne not only the journals and their transcriptions—I can give her the novel manuscript. She would have final say if I could query the book to agents…assuming it was worthy of that. It’s one thing to write an article about PTSD and the impact it has on the individual and their family; it’s another to write a novel.
I don’t even know where to start.
But I know someone who does. Garrett.
I can’t tell him what I’m writing though. I can’t tell Troy or anyone else either. The subject of my novel will need to remain a secret until after I’ve shown it to Anne—and that’s only if she lets me show it to anyone else.
I’m going to do this. I’m really going to do it.
You can’t write a novel. You can’t do anything right.
The words slithering through my thoughts are in my dead husband’s voice.
You’re not smart enough to write a novel. It takes a skill you don’t have.
“You’re wrong,” I tell myself. Or him. “I can do this. It won’t be easy, but I am a good writer. I have awards stating as much.”
I push the self-doubt aside. The desire to write the story tingles on my tongue, pulsates through my veins. I’m smart. I can learn to write a novel. With the right guidance and resources, I know I can do this. It won’t be easy, but I can’t improve if I don’t at least try.
I check the time on the truck dashboard. Troy and his brothers won’t be home yet from their training. I’ll have to wait until tomorrow to talk to Garrett.
My phone rings. I accept the call.
“Hey, how’re things going?” Troy’s voice comes through the truck’s speaker. A car drives past me, heading toward Ash Falls.
“Good. I’m almost in Maple Ridge.”
“Any trouble?” Worry colors his voice, noticeable even over the phone. Unlike the day of the accident, the road to Ash Falls isn’t empty of traffic. Nor is there a steep slope on either side of it. If a deer does dart onto the road, the outcome won’t be like last time. I won’t be stranded overnight in a storm.
“No. Things are good.”
“Okay. I’ll see you soon.” The worry in his voice diminishes to a fine wisp but doesn’t entirely go away.
My mouth widens into a smile. “I’ll be waiting for you.”
“In your sexy purple bra and panties?”
I choke out a chuckle. “You’ll just have to wait and see.”
18
TROY
August, Present Day
Maple Ridge
