The Unquiet - J. D. Robb [144]
“You broke his heart.”
She grinned. “Well, there was this hot blond math nerd he’d had his eye on for a while . . . he was relieved and we parted friends.”
“And you married Jack Bonner.”
“I did. The same summer we graduated from college . . . for almost five years.”
“Mind if I ask what happened?”
“No. I . . . well, two writers can easily starve to death if one or both of them don’t get a day job, for one thing. For another: There are as many methods of writing as there are writers. Jack is the kind who thinks of himself as a pure artist, who needs to feel inspired in order to write, who labors over each word like he’s carving it in stone. And that’s okay, it works for him. But then there’s someone like me who thinks writing is as much plain old-fashioned hard work as it is talent and luck. One’s no better than the other, but put one of each in the same house and it can get complicated.”
“And did one or both of you get a day job?”
“We both did originally. He was . . . arty, not unrealistic. But he needed to write when he needed to write—there’s no controlling the Muses, you know—and they don’t always coincide with a work schedule.”
“So you kept your day job and he stayed home to write.” She nodded, put the fruit back on the table, and took a piece of bread from the container. “You became resentful.”
“I’d be lying if I said I didn’t but”—she took another chunk of bread and a slice of cheese—“I wasn’t the only one.”
“You fell in love with a coworker and he resented it.”
“No,” she scoffed. “Too simple.”
“ A coworker fell in love with you and he resented it.”
She shook her head. “Too cliché.”
He looked askance.
“I published first—also cliché, I suppose, if you consider that one of us had to be first eventually.” She leaned over to pinch more bread and cheese. “In the beginning it was okay. It was a dumb kid’s book, after all . . . and probably a fluke, but wasn’t it great that I’d found an outlet for my little sketches at the same time? The money would come in handy and until I got serious about my writing and produced something worthwhile, it might be kind of fun.”
He grimaced. “Ouch.”
She laughed, though that last barb still made her angry. “He was a good sport about Patty Ann Pettigrew Learns to Swim, too. It was Patty Ann Pettigrew’s Tree House and the contract for three more Patty Ann stories that finally got to him.” She turned a vapid smile his way. “I was stifling his creative spirit with my nonsense—he had to leave.”
She very much liked the perceptive and sympathetic expression on Craig’s face. Her words were blithe, her tone sarcastic, but he could tell it was a tender subject for her even three years later.
“I’m blathering . . . and you’re not drinking. How am I supposed to extract secrets from you if you don’t drink something?”
“Believe me,” he said, reaching for the Coke and filling the rocks glass from atop the decanter of Scotch. “I haven’t got one secret less risqué than both of yours put together.”
She hooted out a laugh and then frowned as she replayed his words—several times. “That means . . . all yours are worse?”
He grinned. “You’re not as drunk as I thought.”
“No. Unfortunately.” And to his quizzical look, she said, “Normally, I’d be sound asleep after this much wine.”
“You’re not sleeping well? You should have told me to stay home.”
“The wine wasn’t working and I wanted the company more.” Abruptly she put her feet on the floor and pivoted her backside into the opposite corner of the couch. “Come on, get comfy and tell me all your juicy secrets.”
He complied.