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  When Emma joins the others, she takes the opportunity to study the siblings, Libby and Mick.

  Libby’s shoulder-length hair, a captivating shade of sable with a few strands of silver, is tucked behind ears adorned with hammered-silver hoops. A silver necklace studded with moonstones lay on the neckline of her turquoise top, and a matching bracelet circles her wrist.

  Emma turns her head to observe Mick, who’s speaking with Fran and Cynthia. She takes in his striking green eyes and a cheeky little quirk in the corner of his close-lipped smile. A few silver threads at his temples looks distinctive in his otherwise jet-black hair. Emma’s heart accelerates in appreciation for the way his body enhances his pristine white shirt and smart dark gray trousers.

  Mick’s gaze changes direction, catching Emma’s. In her eyes, he sees undeniable appreciation.

  Emma smiles, noting that the resemblance between brother and sister is strong, but there are striking differences. Unlike Libby’s straight, delicate nose and flawless facial features, Mick’s nose is crooked, making him look rakish. A thin scar creases his forehead at an angle, from his hairline down through his left eyebrow. Both imperfections compliment his square jaw and chiseled features.

  Glass in hand, Jason stands near the others with studied casualness, appreciating two of his favorite things, alcohol and listening for information he can use to his advantage.

  Behind the lower portion of the Dutch door, Hemingway watches with unveiled interest.

  “Dinner’s ready,” Niall announces, adding two more covered dishes to the already-laden table. “Belly up to the bar, or table as the case may be.”

  Libby, adept at breaking the ice, primes the pump for conversation while Niall serves the meal. An author herself, she knows that part of a writer’s job is reading. Turning to Cynthia, she asks, “What book are you reading?” Then she sits back in satisfaction as each person, in turn, shares their current book.

  Niall takes great pleasure in pairing a vivid and citrusy chardonnay with dinner. After a toast to “Inspiration and the flow of creativity,” they begin their meal. Between the ooh’s and aah’s of enthusiastic appreciation for the grilled salmon with mustard and crisp potato crust, steamed asparagus drizzled with lemon butter, garden-fresh organic salad, and aromatic garlic bread—homemade this morning—Libby orchestrates the conversation with ease. “If you were stranded on a desert island,” she asks, “and can only have one book, which book would it be?” She smiles at the resulting avalanche of animated conversation.

  Fran can’t remember the last time she enjoyed a meal this much. “Niall, did you make the dressing, too? It’s delicious!”

  Niall smiles at Fran, who, to his way of thinking, is too pale and too thin. “Yes. It’s barrel-aged balsamic vinegar blended with pomegranate-infused olive oil. I’m glad you enjoy it.”

  Fran continues, turning to Libby, “And I wanted to thank you for the beautiful scent you put in Dickens cottage. I love it. Did you blend it yourself?”

  Before Libby can answer, Emma and Cynthia chime in, thanking her for the fragrance in their cottages, too.

  “I’m glad you enjoy them,” Libby says, smiling at the women. “I found the infusers at a local shop that carries a variety of handblown glass. And yes, I dabble a bit with essential oils. I couldn’t resist.”

  Curiosity piqued, Fran asks, “Do we all have the same scent or are they different?”

  “I try to create a unique blend for each writer in residence based on our email or phone conversations,” Libby answers.

  “You’re right on target with mine,” Emma says. “It’s blended for creativity.”

  “Mine’s blended for clarity.” Cynthia smiles.

  “And mine for comfort,” Fran adds, a hint of pink touching her cheeks.

  If it seems strange that Jason doesn’t say a word about the scent in his cottage, no one mentions it.

  Around the table, with strains of James Taylor singing “Carolina in My Mind” in the background, the formalities begin to slip away. The conversation expands and contracts, voices rise and fall, and faces flush with the exhilaration of the discussion and the wine.

  Niall, the epitome of efficiency, interjects, “Okay, everyone, it’s time to adjourn to The Ink Well. I’ll join you soon.”

  “Thank you for the exquisite meal. I’m stuffed,” Emma says, patting her stomach for emphasis.

  “Yes, thank you,” Cynthia and Fran say in unison, then look at each other and laugh.

  Jason still doesn’t chime in.

  Does the man have no couth? Cynthia wonders. And though no one else seems to find it odd, she’s on high alert for his glaring omissions. Something is amiss.

  Jason watches Niall scrape some leftover scraps into Hemingway’s bowl, observing how the dog devours what’s put in front of it. “That dog’s got a hearty appetite,” he says to Niall.

  “This fella will eat anything.” Niall laughs. “And lots of it.”

  Before they adjourn to The Ink Well, Jason decides, I’m going to poison that beast, then wipes his mouth with a napkin to cover his smile.

  CHAPTER 6

  “All readers come to fiction as willing accomplices to your lies. Such is the basic goodwill contract made the moment we pick up a work of fiction.”

  —STEVE ALMOND

  The living room, with floor-to-ceiling bookshelves on either side of the massive fieldstone fireplace, serves as the after-dinner gathering place for guests to continue visiting over dessert while enjoying drinks from the MacCullough’s small, but well-stocked bar.

  With her appetite satisfied, Emma surveys the large cozy room, enjoying its welcoming ambiance.

  Mick notices red toenails peeking out of her sandals. The deep olive-green tone in the medallion pattern on her dress is a perfect foil for her dark auburn hair. That she tucks phantom strands behind her ears makes him smile. That, and the fact that the soft fabric of her dress caresses her curves.

  “Didn’t I read something online about a special journal?” Emma asks.

  “Yes, you did.” Libby walks to a thick book on an oak stand, rests her hand on the open page and continues, “We encourage guests to make entries during their stay. We have entries dating from 1980 when Pines & Quill opened its doors. It’s become somewhat of a living legacy, a way for writers to connect with those who’ve come before, and those who’ll come after.”

  From a deep leather chair, Fran asks, “And if memory serves me well, didn’t it also say that on more than one occasion the journal has provided clues that were helpful in solving mysteries that occurred here?”

  Jason, who seldom misses an opportunity for a negative barb or a cynical thrust, holds his tongue. I don’t remember reading about that.

  “That’s right, Hemingway too,” Libby says, smiling at Fran. “Snoopy as all get out, he’s our resident Sherlock Holmes. But we’ll share those stories another evening. I’m curious to know what each of you is working on.” Directing her question at Jason, she asks, “What is your book about?”

  Adept at redesigning the truth to fit the occasion, Jason answers, his words not quite slurred. “I was a limousine driver in The Big Apple for years, and the stories I can tell would curl your hair. My book is titled, Rearview Mirror: Reflections of a New York Limo Driver.”

  “That sounds like an interesting read,” they all agree.

  “Do you share stories about famous people?” Emma asks.

  Though sitting down, Jason’s voice has a distinct swagger. “Sure. It’s going to be a tell-all.” He raises his glass high and swirls it before downing the rest.

  “You’ve got something on your elbow.” Emma points to the fern leaf she noticed on Jason’s right elbow when he lifted his glass. “You must have taken the scenic route,” she says, smiling.

  Heads turn in unison when Niall enters the room with a large, dessert-filled tray. “Can I interest anyone in some crème brûlée?”

  “I’m going to have to jog in the morning,” Cynthia says, takin
g a colorful ramekin from the proffered tray.

  “You offer tai chi classes in the morning, right?” Fran asks Libby in a hopeful voice, as she, too, accepts a calorie-laden dessert.

  Emma moans as she lifts a ramekin from the tray. “If it went to my arms, I’d be okay. They get worked out on a regular basis. But this is going straight to my hips,” she says, laughing.

  “I’ll pass on the dessert, but I’ll take another scotch,” Jason says.

  Niall and Libby exchange glances. Libby says, “I’ll pour you a short one, and then the bar’s closed for the evening.”

  The look that passes between Niall and Libby doesn’t go unnoticed by Cynthia.

  Mick accepts a crème brûlée from Niall, knowing from experience that it’s delicious. He doesn’t worry about weight gain because he makes daily use of the workout equipment in his cabin. Mick looks into Emma’s moss-green eyes and asks, “What’s your manuscript about?”

  “The working title is Moving Violations: A Sassy Look at Life from a Wheelchair. It’s about observations I’ve made since finding myself in this chair.” She pats the top of a wheel before taking a spoonful of the delicious dessert. After an appreciative moan, she returns Mick’s question. “Do you have a work in progress?”

  Mick clears his throat. “Yes, I’ve been working on it for some time now, and it seems to be going nowhere fast. It’s titled, Collateral Damage: Incidental Devastation, but it’s been years on the back burner.”

  “I noticed your limp.” Jason’s words have a faint slur. His fingers roll the edge of his cocktail napkin. “Is your book based on personal experience?”

  In the now-quiet room, they can hear the wind-muffled sound of the distant surf.

  “Yes,” Mick answers. “Although it’s a work of fiction, it’s based on true events.” The steel in his measured response warns Libby.

  Accompanied by cold, gray eyes, Jason asks, “What are those events?”

  Mick interlocks his fingers to avoid clenching his fists.

  Aware of imminent disaster, Libby shifts gears, pretending she hadn’t heard Jason’s rude question. “Cynthia, what are you working on?”

  Cynthia accepts the verbal baton with grace. “As a palm reader, I can tell you there aren’t too many books that address that topic. I’m working on a book titled, Guide Lines: The World In the Palm of Your Hands.”

  “That’s an intriguing title,” Emma says. “I’ve read that a book has less than thirty seconds to grab a reader’s interest. Your title will do it.”

  “What are you working on?” Libby asks Fran.

  Fran’s soft words are directed onto her lap. “My manuscript is titled, Mother in Waiting: The Stigma of Childlessness. I want to share the lessons I’ve learned from my personal experience and how they’ve changed the way I see the world. And by extension, change the way the reader sees the world—for the better.”

  “That’s a wonderful and worthy goal,” Libby says, smiling at Fran. “And to help us all with our tasks at hand,” she turns to the side table and lifts a small box, “I’ve brought The Observation Deck: A Tool Kit for Writers by Naomi Epel. I find it helpful in priming the writing pump.”

  “How does it work?” Emma asks.

  “Most writers tailor it to their own needs, but at Pines & Quill, each evening after dinner, when we gather in The Ink Well to decompress, one of the guests draws a single card from the box. There are dozens to choose from. Each flash card contains a word or phrase that will be our focus—food for thought—for the next day’s writing.” Handing the box to Emma, she says, “You select the first card.”

  Emma picks a card from the middle of the deck.

  “What does it say?” Fran asks.

  “It says ‘Flip it Over.’” With brows scrunched together, Emma turns to Libby and asks, “What does that mean?”

  Libby opens the accompanying book, finds the correct page and begins reading. “It says, ‘Jog yourself out of a rut by turning things around and doing something different. You don’t need to make these changes permanent. Tomorrow you can return to your old routine, refreshed.

  “‘The opening chapter of Midnight in the Garden of Good and Evil was originally chapter nine. Chapter one became chapter two when John Berendt realized that he couldn’t wait until the middle of the book to introduce the murderer, Jim Williams.

  “‘Truman Capote began writing Answered Prayers with what he thought would be the last chapter. He then wrote the first, fifth, and seventh chapters, claiming he was able to keep the threads of the plot straight only because he knew how each story ended in real life.

  “‘Phillip Roth told the Paris Review, ‘For all I know I am beginning with the ending. My page one can wind up a year later as page two hundred, if it’s around at all.’”

  Libby looks up smiling. “There’s more, but you get the idea. Start anywhere, just start.”

  “I like it,” Cynthia says. “I can see how having a focus word would be helpful.”

  “Are the rest of you game?” Libby asks the room at large.

  “Bring it on,” Mick says, laughing.

  “How about you, Jason?”

  “Sure,” he says, with a tight smile and curt nod. “Count me in.”

  Niall enters The Ink Well with a dish towel draped over his shoulder and Hemingway at his side. “Okay, everyone, you rise at the butt-crack of dawn tomorrow so you may want to get some shut-eye.”

  Emma bursts out laughing. “The butt-crack of dawn?”

  After rolling her eyes at Niall, Libby explains, “For those of you who are interested in tai chi lessons, I’ll see you at the pavilion at six-thirty. It’s located on the east side of the property between Cynthia’s cottage and Mick’s cabin. If you walk toward the sunrise, you can’t miss it.”

  Through exaggerated moans and groans at the suggested hour, the guests make their way to the front door.

  “Good night, everyone. We’ll see you in the morning,” Libby says.

  Jason breaks away from the others and appears to head toward Thoreau cottage. Maybe not everyone.

  CHAPTER 7

  “You learn to write the same way you learn to play golf . . . You do it, and keep doing it until you get it right. A lot of people think something mystical happens to you, that maybe the muse kisses you on the ear. But writing isn’t divinely inspired—it’s hard work.”

  —TOM CLANCY

  On her way to Austen cottage, Emma pauses to admire the night sky scattered with sparkling stars. She revels in the crisp air, inhaling the myriad of night scents before continuing. She hears the soft lap of water against the shore in the far distance and the call of the brown Barred Owl overhead. “Who cooks for you? Who cooks for you?” it seems to ask. When she arrives at her cottage, she rolls up the ramp, pushes the door-activation button, and smiles when it opens on a whisper.

  After changing into her nightgown, Emma sets her toothbrush, toothpaste, and floss on the counter and prepares for her evening challenge—practicing standing and leaning against the sink long enough to brush and floss her teeth. Even though her legs shake from the effort, Emma smiles at herself in the mirror because she knows that means her muscles are hard at work. A little cocky now, she leans away from the counter, but grabs it again when she begins to tip.

  That’s okay, she thinks, sitting back down. I’m further today than I was yesterday, and I’ll be further tomorrow than I am today. On that positive note, she pulls her hair up into a ponytail, and washes her face.

  Emma wheels herself to the bed, pulls back the downy covers, transfers herself into the crisp linens and folds her wheelchair, slipping it next to the nightstand. With an air of contentment, she picks up the book she’d placed there earlier, leans back into the plush pillows, and begins to read.

  “Niall, Hemingway and I’ll take out the trash and make the rounds tonight. I need to clear the cobwebs in my head, and this big galoot could use the exercise.” Mick teases the tall, lean dog, tousling the wiry hair on his head. “If he
wants, I’ll let him stay the night at my place. He makes pretty good company.”

  Hemingway shows his agreement with a near table-clearing wag of his tail.

  “All right already, I’m coming.” Mick laughs. With a bag of trash in either hand, he and his excited, four-legged companion leave through the mudroom. At this late hour, the temperature has dropped, the cooler causing a mist that swallows Hemingway’s tall frame in the distance.

  After depositing the trash in the raccoon-proof bin, Mick follows the pathway north to check on Dickens cottage. No light, not even a glimmer, pierces the tall curtain of Bigleaf Maples. Fran must already be asleep.

  Little does he know that she’s lying in bed, determined to ask Cynthia to go clothes shopping with her. After the palm-reading session and their whispered conversation on the drive from the airport, Fran knows this three-week retreat is going to be about more than writing a book. It’s going to be a turning point in her life.

  Where the heck is that dog? He’s usually right by my side. The luminous mist slides ghostlike past the walkway lights as Mick continues. With a soft whistle and a pat on his thigh, he calls “Here boy, come on.” He stops to listen and hears a woman’s laugh. Faster now, he moves along the pathway and sees light streaming from the windows and open doorway of Austen cottage—Emma’s cottage. “Oh no.” He murmurs. “Hemingway’s let himself in.”

  At the front door, Mick stops short. Through the open bedroom doorway, he sees Emma. Propped up in bed with her hair pulled up in a high ponytail, big moss-colored eyes, and the smattering of freckles across the bridge of her nose, Emma looks about twelve years old except he sees the enticing curves of her body. He’d have to be dead to miss those.

  Hemingway knows Mick’s there, but Emma—face now buried in his long, well-arched neck asking him how he got in—hasn’t seen him. She’s beautiful.

  “Ahem.” Mick coughs into his hand, not wanting to startle her.