Love Bugs (Excerpt of novel-in-progress), Part 2
Today’ I’m sharing another excerpt from my novel-in-progress, Love Bugs. Rather than provide a ton of backstory that might influence your response, I’ll let the words speak for themselves here. Thanks to all of you who let me know you’d like to keep reading it.
If you missed the previous excerpts, I suggest you go look at those first to better uinderstand the story. Here’s the first part.
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December, 2018
She was sure she’d be late. And she knew it was her own damn fault.
You just couldn’t allow Leslie to pick you up, could you? Damn pride, she thought.
Anastasia threw her purple notebook into the worn leather briefcase along with a couple of gel pens and a hairbrush. She hadn’t even had time to brush her mop, and now her wayward curls flopped this way and that without any sense of decorum. Anastasia didn’t really care, but Leslie would be apoplectic if she showed up at the publisher’s office like this.
She grabbed a scrunchie that had been abandoned on the mantelpiece and tied back her hair. As she moved backward, the oversized sleeve of her caftan caught on the armchair and almost pulled her off her feet.
“This had better be worth it, Leslie,” she said aloud as she tugged on the flowing fabric, releasing it from the armrest, and pivoted toward the door. She’d always hated these publisher’s meetings, and today was no exception.
Except today was even worse than usual, since Anastasia had nothing to show them. Of course, no one else knew this fact, not even her daughter. She’d been unable to write a word since Bradley died. And it was beginning to worry her.
By the time she exited the elevator, she could see the cab already waiting outside.
“Good morning, Mrs. Carr!” The doorman held the door for her. “Off to another press trip?”
“Not this time, Rupert, as lovely as that might be.”
She nodded as he took the briefcase from her and led her to the waiting taxi, pulling open the back door. Anastasia attempted to slide onto the seat in what she hoped would be a smooth, graceful movement, but her hips weren’t what they used to be, and Rupert caught her by the elbow just as she began to slip out toward the driveway.
“There you go, Mrs. Carr,” he said, proffering the briefcase and tucking the hem of her caftan onto the seat. “Well, you have a great trip, then.”
Anastasia frowned. “Such as it is,” she said, before the taxi took off.
Leslie waited for her outside the door of the building.
“I thought I’d walk up with you,” she said, taking Anastasia’s briefcase.
Whenever Leslie was solicitous like this, it meant she was worried about something. As Anastasia suspected, Leslie began by reminding her of the stakes for My One--how the readers had been patiently waiting for almost two years, their sympathy for Anastasia’s personal loss finally wearing thin.
They’d already deferred the release date by almost a year, and Paramount had purchased the movie rights over eight months earlier, which meant they were holding up production until the book was released. What Leslie didn’t realize was that Anastasia was already well aware of all this nonsense, and every word out of her agent’s mouth only intensified the existing sense of panic and dread in the pit of her stomach.
“It’s just us and Bridget today, Hon,” Leslie finished as they approached the publisher’s office.
“She wanted to hear a little about the story and how the process is going for you. And of course, how you’re doing since, well. . . Bradley.” She pouted and offered Anastasia an “I know it’s hard” look before knocking on the door.
Bridget was one of those tall, elegant women whom people described as “well put together.” Anastasia always marvelled at how Bridget could perfectly match the color of a pair of shoes--usually pumps with a fairly high heel--to some obscure shade in the pattern of her blouse (which, itself, was always perfectly coordinated with her designer suit). Today, it was a bright tangerine that made an appearance as one of the many checks in her blouse, and corresponding pumps.
“Anastasia, hello, so lovely to see you again,” she said, moving out from behind the desk to take both of Anastasia’s hands in her own. Her touch was dry and cool, like her demeanor.
“Come in, please, have a seat.” She swept her hand across the room.
Leslie took the chair by the window, which meant Anastasia had to sit opposite Bridget, who walked back behind her desk and sat down. She’d have to stare Bridget right in the eyes and tell her she still hadn’t been able to produce a single word.
The caftan had been a bad idea, even if it was Anastasia’s “signature look.” She’d never planned it that way, but over the years, the audience had just come to expect her long, flowy, brightly colored tunics with the kimono sleeves, after that first tour when she’d made such a splash in a real kimono that she’d brought back from Japan. Today, though, the silk sleeves kept snagging on the edges of chairs, making Anastasi even more uncomfortable than she already was.
“How are you holding up?” Bridget proffered a cup--a real, ceramic one--with tea and milk, just as Anastasia always requested it.
“Well, I can tell you, it hasn't been easy.”
Anastasia took a sip. “I’m grateful for my daughter, Cassie. She has been a godsend since Bradley passed. I honestly don’t know what I’d do without her.”
She saw Leslie squirm in her chair. “Not to mention my other savior, over here,” she motioned at Leslie--”who keeps me on the straight and narrow.”
“Well, I’m glad you’re adjusting,” Bridget said. “I know how close you were with your husband, and how much he meant to you.”
Tears sprang unannounced and without her consent to Anastasia’ eyes. She dabbed at them with a tissue, annoyed at her body’s reflex.
“Yes, he was my world,” she said.
Bridget leaned forward and patted her hand. “Anastasia, I would never want to pressure you,” she went on. “But as you know, we established these dates only after you insisted we could. And now that the release is set, there’s already quite a bit of buzz built up. . .”
“Oh, I know, those media types are like vultures.” She hoped they couldn’t see her hand shaking as she drew the tea to her lips. Then again, why care? She had earned shaky hands at her age.
Bridget nodded. “Oh, I know. But in this case, they kind of have a reason. I mean, everyone is on tenterhooks about the book!” She searched Anastasia’s face.
“But that’s a good thing! Your work is so beloved, Anastasia. It’s just people who care about the characters--and you.”
“Well, that’s nice,” Anastasia said.
She placed the tea on the desk, across from Bridget. “But I tell you what, dear, there’s no reason to worry about it. The book is coming along just fine.”
“Oh, that’s marvelous!” Bridget clapped her hands. Her smile broke open, showing Anastasia her perfect, white teeth.
“It’s just that Mr. Knox upstairs--oh, and legal, of course--have been asking me about it. And now I can tell them.” She waited, but Anastasia didn’t volunteer anything.
“So what can I tell them, exactly?”
“Well, tell them I’m about halfway done, and the rest of the book is in my head. It just needs to be transferred to the page.”
Bridget smiled again. “Splendid! And you’re sure you can complete it all within the next 6 months?”
“Of course I can, dear,” Anastasia responded. “If not before.”
What was compelling her to lie this way? But something in the back of her mind believed it.
Once she found her stride, she could write the whole damn thing, start to finish, in less time if necessary. Hadn’t she scribbled the full manuscript for Hills of Arcaea in only three months? There was no way this would be any more difficult. She had almost 50 years experience behind her now, crafting sentences, plumbing her memory for the exact right word, scratching outlines and ideas on restaurant napkins. Of course she could do it.
As soon as she got home, Anastasia marched over to her desk by the window. She pulled the purple notebook from the briefcase, smoothed it open, cracking the spine as she did. Oh, crap, she thought, maybe a little too enthusiastic.
She plunked herself down and turned to the first page, still pristine.
This was how she’d begun every novel since she was nine years old and wrote that first book, The Formula of Y, during a summer holiday from school. She’d done it before, and she could do it now. She pulled out the green gel pen and smoothed the page again, then wrote:
My One
By
Anastasia Carr
Now she was on a roll. She flipped to the following page and thought for a moment. The snow outside was soothing to look at, still white and glistening and soft and clean. The snow will invigorate me, she thought. She took a sip of tea and looked over to Bradley’s photo on the mantelpiece.
Bradley.
“Ever since she was a child, Satsana knew to fear the Sbarac,” she wrote.
Yes. This would be it. She was on her way.
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