“Yeah, well, I haven’t,” Wes said. He touched Nora’s shoulder and she laid her head briefly against his hand. Wesley’s touch and Nora’s response was light and chaste, but Zach felt he’d witnessed something very private between them. “I’ll see you later.”
“Be safe,” she said. “It may snow again tonight.”
Wesley left them alone and Nora returned to her typing. Zach didn’t wait for an invitation that was likely not forthcoming. He sat in the armchair across from her desk and watched her. He heard the house door open and close and Wesley’s car start and back out of the driveway.
“Nora, will you please look at me?”
“I can’t. I’m working. I’ve only got three weeks to get the last three hundred pages out of the gutter.”
“The rewrite is in fantastic shape. I think you’ve earned a night off, too,” Zach said.
Nora stopped typing. She swiveled in her chair to face him. She pulled her knees to her chest and wrapped her arms around her legs.
“Can I tell you something?” she asked.
“Anything, of course.”
“My books,” she began, and Zach saw the bright shadow of a tear forming in her eyes turning them from black to green, “are the only thing I do that isn’t selling myself. No, it’s not even something I do—it’s what I am. And no one can buy that part of me. Not you, not Royal, not some psychotic ass**le who thinks my books are letters written straight to him.”
“I’m sorry, Nora. I didn’t mean to blame you for that madman’s behavior today. I haven’t been scared like that in a long time. I just took my fear out on you since Wesley beat me to the person who actually deserved it.”
Nora stared past him and seemed to watch something only she could see. Whatever it was, it brought a faint, sad smile to her face.
“You know I didn’t start writing books until after I left Søren. I could barely get out of bed that first month. I thought I was losing my mind. Some days I thought I was dying. I started creating worlds in my head, other people, other lives. I slipped out of my skin and into theirs, and while I was there I wasn’t grieving anymore. I was feeling what they were feeling. Writing resurrected me, Zach. Trust me, I know what it feels like to sell yourself. Writing my books is the opposite of selling myself. Do you believe that?”
Zach swallowed.
“Yes, I believe that.” He met her eyes.
“Okay,” she said. “We’re okay. I could have told you all this over the phone, you know.”
“I know. But you pegged me as a Scouser the day we met. So I thought I’d say ‘I’m sorry’ the way a Scouser does.”
“And how is that?”
Zach reached inside his trench coat and brought out a brown paper bag. From it he pulled a bottle of Irish whiskey and set it in front of her on her desk.
“Interesting,” she said eyeing the bottle.
“What is?”
Nora opened the bottom drawer of her desk and brought out two shot glasses and placed them next to the bottle.
“How much Catholics and Scousers have in common.”
Zach stared at her across her desk and suddenly found himself doing something he hadn’t done in a very long time—he laughed loudly and freely and it felt so foreign and wonderful that if he’d been braver, he might have kissed Nora right then and there.
Standing, Zach reached for the bottle. But Nora beat him to it. She held it in her hand and gave him the most dangerous smile he’d ever seen.
“Zach…let’s play a game.”
It took five minutes before Zach regretted coming to Nora’s.
“Truth or drink?” Zach asked as he shed his coat. “You will recall I’m in my forties.”
“There’s no age limit on alcohol-induced stupidity,” Nora countered. “And this is an easy game. I ask a question and either you answer it or you take a shot. Same rules for me. Whoever gets the drunkest loses, or wins, depending on your mood.”
“This game is hardly fair. You are far more forthcoming than any other person I’ve ever met.” Zach tossed his coat over the back of Nora’s armchair.
Nora leaned forward across her desk.
“Trust me, Easton. You’ve got secrets you want to keep. I’ve got secrets I have to keep. I think we’re pretty evenly matched here.”
“Is that so?” he asked, his curiosity piqued. “Let’s find out then.”
“Game on,” Nora said. “You go first.”
Zach knew his first question immediately. “I’ll ask you the question you didn’t answer today—who is, excuse me, was Ellie?”
“Ellie was me once upon a time. My mother and friends always called me Elle or Ellie. Søren, being rather formal, calls me Eleanor. I was born Eleanor Schreiber.”
“A German Catholic then. This poor Jew is even more intimidated. So Nora Sutherlin is your pen name?”
“It’s the name I work under, yes,” she said, and Zach thought he saw a shadow of one of her secrets cross her face. “But that’s two questions. My turn—why did your wife leave you? Or was it you who left her?”
Zach leaned forward, poured his whiskey and took a shot. He swallowed a cough as the liquor burned his throat and stomach all the way down. He hadn’t done any hard drinking in a long time. He was afraid if he started he would never stop. Here with Nora he still felt as if he was at a funeral but now at least it was a jazz funeral.
“Be safe,” she said. “It may snow again tonight.”
Wesley left them alone and Nora returned to her typing. Zach didn’t wait for an invitation that was likely not forthcoming. He sat in the armchair across from her desk and watched her. He heard the house door open and close and Wesley’s car start and back out of the driveway.
“Nora, will you please look at me?”
“I can’t. I’m working. I’ve only got three weeks to get the last three hundred pages out of the gutter.”
“The rewrite is in fantastic shape. I think you’ve earned a night off, too,” Zach said.
Nora stopped typing. She swiveled in her chair to face him. She pulled her knees to her chest and wrapped her arms around her legs.
“Can I tell you something?” she asked.
“Anything, of course.”
“My books,” she began, and Zach saw the bright shadow of a tear forming in her eyes turning them from black to green, “are the only thing I do that isn’t selling myself. No, it’s not even something I do—it’s what I am. And no one can buy that part of me. Not you, not Royal, not some psychotic ass**le who thinks my books are letters written straight to him.”
“I’m sorry, Nora. I didn’t mean to blame you for that madman’s behavior today. I haven’t been scared like that in a long time. I just took my fear out on you since Wesley beat me to the person who actually deserved it.”
Nora stared past him and seemed to watch something only she could see. Whatever it was, it brought a faint, sad smile to her face.
“You know I didn’t start writing books until after I left Søren. I could barely get out of bed that first month. I thought I was losing my mind. Some days I thought I was dying. I started creating worlds in my head, other people, other lives. I slipped out of my skin and into theirs, and while I was there I wasn’t grieving anymore. I was feeling what they were feeling. Writing resurrected me, Zach. Trust me, I know what it feels like to sell yourself. Writing my books is the opposite of selling myself. Do you believe that?”
Zach swallowed.
“Yes, I believe that.” He met her eyes.
“Okay,” she said. “We’re okay. I could have told you all this over the phone, you know.”
“I know. But you pegged me as a Scouser the day we met. So I thought I’d say ‘I’m sorry’ the way a Scouser does.”
“And how is that?”
Zach reached inside his trench coat and brought out a brown paper bag. From it he pulled a bottle of Irish whiskey and set it in front of her on her desk.
“Interesting,” she said eyeing the bottle.
“What is?”
Nora opened the bottom drawer of her desk and brought out two shot glasses and placed them next to the bottle.
“How much Catholics and Scousers have in common.”
Zach stared at her across her desk and suddenly found himself doing something he hadn’t done in a very long time—he laughed loudly and freely and it felt so foreign and wonderful that if he’d been braver, he might have kissed Nora right then and there.
Standing, Zach reached for the bottle. But Nora beat him to it. She held it in her hand and gave him the most dangerous smile he’d ever seen.
“Zach…let’s play a game.”
It took five minutes before Zach regretted coming to Nora’s.
“Truth or drink?” Zach asked as he shed his coat. “You will recall I’m in my forties.”
“There’s no age limit on alcohol-induced stupidity,” Nora countered. “And this is an easy game. I ask a question and either you answer it or you take a shot. Same rules for me. Whoever gets the drunkest loses, or wins, depending on your mood.”
“This game is hardly fair. You are far more forthcoming than any other person I’ve ever met.” Zach tossed his coat over the back of Nora’s armchair.
Nora leaned forward across her desk.
“Trust me, Easton. You’ve got secrets you want to keep. I’ve got secrets I have to keep. I think we’re pretty evenly matched here.”
“Is that so?” he asked, his curiosity piqued. “Let’s find out then.”
“Game on,” Nora said. “You go first.”
Zach knew his first question immediately. “I’ll ask you the question you didn’t answer today—who is, excuse me, was Ellie?”
“Ellie was me once upon a time. My mother and friends always called me Elle or Ellie. Søren, being rather formal, calls me Eleanor. I was born Eleanor Schreiber.”
“A German Catholic then. This poor Jew is even more intimidated. So Nora Sutherlin is your pen name?”
“It’s the name I work under, yes,” she said, and Zach thought he saw a shadow of one of her secrets cross her face. “But that’s two questions. My turn—why did your wife leave you? Or was it you who left her?”
Zach leaned forward, poured his whiskey and took a shot. He swallowed a cough as the liquor burned his throat and stomach all the way down. He hadn’t done any hard drinking in a long time. He was afraid if he started he would never stop. Here with Nora he still felt as if he was at a funeral but now at least it was a jazz funeral.
