Authors: Carol Rose
“And this breakdown you’re suffering doesn’t have any similarity to an attack of idiocy?” he asked wearily. “If you need a respite from work, I’ll arrange something.”
“Don’t strain yourself.” Nicole eyed him with curiosity. “And don’t go to any trouble. Just give me a day off.”
“If I do that,” he said patiently, “I lose an entire day of your productivity. I’d like to find another antidote to what ails you.”
“I’m almost afraid to ask what you think will cure what ails me,” she commented suspiciously, her mind suddenly filled with hot, steamy possibilities. Didn’t men always think sex was the cure to what ailed a woman? Not that she hadn’t been struggling with some pretty sexy inclinations herself.
He looked meditatively at the computer screen for a long moment. “Do you like Ruth?”
“Sure,” Nicole said, jolted out of her fantasy, but not sure how this connected to the subject at hand. “She’s great.”
“I’ll call Ruth,” he said, getting up.
“You think she’ll want to go out bar hopping with me?” Nicole inquired, mystified.
“No,” he said, shooting her a sardonic glance. “I think we can make an early day of it and have dinner with Ruth and her family. You did specify ‘human faces.’ You didn’t say anything about them needing to be completely unrelated or all adult. Ruth has two young sons and a husband. They all qualify as human faces.”
“Yes,” she said slowly. “And you’ll be coming with me…to have dinner with Ruth’s family?”
“Of course,” he said with an ironic smile. “I’m your jailer, aren’t I? I have to come along to make sure you don’t stray or stop to visit with any of the idiot reporters hanging around.”
“Do you socialize with Ruth much?” she asked. Maybe he had a bigger world than she’d realized.
“Sometimes,” he responded indifferently. “I try not to intrude on her family time, but sometimes I do socialize with them.”
“You know them well enough to just invite the two of us over there for dinner?”
“Yes,” he responded patiently. “You need social interaction to continue functioning. I need you to continue functioning. Ergo, we must provide you with social contact.”
“I hope Ruth sees it that way.”
“She will,” he responded in an absent voice.
“And you’re going to eat with us?” she enquired, trying to understand what he was doing.
“Yes,” he said impatiently as he walked out.
Nicole watched him leave the room, her mind struggling with the significance of what had just happened. She’d asked for an adjustment of her working hours—which required an adjustment of him, she knew…and he’d made the adjustment. She hadn’t worked here these past few weeks without realizing his work was all-important to him.
But he was coming with her to Ruth’s? Why would he really do that? With her father’s financial well-being and peace of mind on the line, it wasn’t like she’d leave and never come back to finish the job. Still Max was giving her a little time off…and he was coming with her.
Feeling the smile on her face grow, Nicole wondered at the small surge of power radiating through her. Max was doing something he didn’t normally do…for her.
CHAPTER SIX
“No, Josh,” Ruth said, matter-of-factly, “you cannot turn on the television until you’ve taken your shower and gotten into your pajamas.”
Max grinned, enjoying as always Ruth’s rock solid parenting style.
“Before you do anything else,” Ruth’s husband, David, told their youngest son, “carry your plate to the sink.”
“Okay!” Seven year-old Josh scooted off his chair and disappeared into the kitchen, his dinner plate in his hand.
“Mom,” Jake, the older boy, said, looking worried, “I’ve got that paper that’s due in two days. Do I still have to gather the trash?”
Ruth raised her eyebrows. “The trash will take you about three minutes. I think you can do your chore and still have time to work on your paper. Remember, you begged us to let you take this special writing class this summer, so now you’ve got homework when your friends are staying up late playing Nintendo.”
“All right, all right,” he said with an exaggerated, over-burdened sigh. “I’ll do the trash and then get busy on my paper.”
As he got up from the table and followed his brother into the kitchen, Max thought again of the contrast between the atmosphere in Ruth’s family and the cold formality he and Pete had grown up enduring. It was no wonder Ruth and David’s sons were such pleasant, charming kids. The past several years he’d enjoyed seeing them grow up.
For a fleeting moment, he wondered how his nephew did in school. Did he have any familial tendencies toward the written word?
“The meal was great, Ruth,” Nicole said with a warm smile. Sitting beside Max at the table, her elbows comfortably propped, she seemed more relaxed than he’d seen her in days. And this change in her had been wrought by the simple diversion of eating a meal with other people. Amazing.
As Nicole and Ruth laughed over some joke, Max realized how narrow his world must seem to others. To him, the work had always been enough. He rose from sleep with his mind possessed by the characters and plots that brought his books to life. Most of his waking hours were spent in the world of his fiction.
Every now and then, he allowed himself to intrude into Cynthia’s family, which consisted of her sister and their elderly mother. Neither sister, now in their forties, had ever married.
Ruth, David and the boys also insisted on him joining their family from time to time. Intelligent, articulate and warm-hearted, they fascinated him and made him feel tremendously welcomed. He’d never been able to fully convey the importance of the connections he’d built with them.
Aside from these borrowed, adopted families and the natural bodily urges he answered—food, exercise, sex—his work was his life. The few women he’d dated for any length of time had hardly dented his preoccupation with his writing.
Ruth’s husband stood up and began removing the serving dishes from the table.
“Since Anna’s gone home, I’ll clean up in here so you three can talk,” David offered handsomely, slanting his wife an affectionate glance.
“Thanks, sweetie,” Ruth said, returning his smile before going back to her conversation.
“So you’ve always lived in the city?” Nicole asked, warmth and genuine interest on her face.
“I grew up in Manhattan,” Ruth responded, smiling.
Nicole shook her head. “It’s such a different world. Don’t you feel crowded sometimes?”
Ruth shrugged. “Sure, but who doesn’t? Fortunately, David and I make enough to afford a decent-sized apartment. Living in the shoebox that most people rent here in Manhattan, now that would make me feel crowded!”
Sitting back listening to them chat, Max felt oddly detached, as if he were seeing his friends for the first time through Nicole’s eyes. It was difficult to be objective about these people who were so important to him.
Nicole seemed as comfortable and at home here as he’d always felt, and he’d know Ruth and David for years.
When Nicole erupted today, declaring herself in need of a break, he’d realized to his surprise that she wasn’t merely complaining. Thinking of her and the way she interacted with others—watching her silly talk show, her occasionally talking on the phone with her friend back home—the hackneyed metaphor of a plant and the sun occurred to him. She needed other people in a basic way—not so much specific people in the way he sometimes felt a need, but people in general. She was so unlike him, requiring human contact almost like sunlight to power her photosynthesis.
And he apparently needed Nicole to be fully functional, at this point. The thought gave Max a pang. In his career, he’d scorned the image of writers needing a muse. He’d envisioned his creative process rather like the workings of a terrarium. Little external resources were necessary to keep him functioning on all cylinders.
It was, however, undeniable that this irritating, intriguing, amusing, really sexy woman had somehow helped him jumpstart the writing process for this book. Perhaps it was the very things he found most annoying about her that stirred the words in his mind. To his surprise, he found himself enjoying their verbal sparring too much…almost as much as he’d enjoyed kissing her. And he’d very much enjoyed kissing her.
Often during the day—and even more often at night-he allowed himself to envision making love to Nicole. She stirred more than his mind.
He’d never admit it, but he’d actually missed her the morning he’d let her sleep in late. With the purely selfish motive of making sure Nicole didn’t burn out and desert him before he’d finished the book, he’d called Ruth and arranged for her to cancel the wake-up call at the hotel. Then he’d found himself missing her interruptions and smart comments, much to his own disgust. But the book would be finished soon enough and he could let go of her.
He’d found that different books “lived” different places. His third book had come to him with the playing of the same INXS compact disc. A book several years ago required him to eat pasta everyday and listen to Italian opera. He’d been particularly grateful to finish that book and it had been six months before he could again face a plate of linguini.
Soon this book would be finished and so too would his interest in Nicole Cavanaugh, thank God. Needing Cynthia and Ruth and their families in his life was one thing, needing Nicole in a closer, more intimate way presented…far too many problems.
* * *
Trying to find Ruth’s powder room, Nicole headed down the darkened hallway after dinner. It had been great to actually sit down to a regular meal with a regular family. Max’s agent was a nice woman with a decent husband and surprisingly well-behaved kids. As a teacher, Nicole realized with amusement, she always noticed well-behaved kids.
She walked further along the hall, the sound of Max’s voice in a room ahead catching her ear.
“Yes, I think it would be difficult to work up much enthusiasm for that topic,” he said. “You’re certain she asked you to write an entire paper on trees?”
Coming abreast of the open bedroom door, Nicole couldn’t resist peeking in. There sitting on the bed next to Ruth’s oldest son’s desk was Max.
“I’m sure,” the thirteen year-old replied. “See? She even gave us a list of kinds of trees with their biological names. Ms. Garcia is a big environmentalist. She says living here in the city, we especially need to appreciate what little natural environment we have left.”
Still paused at the door, Nicole smiled. The boy’s comment sounded like a direct teacher quote.
“Ms. Garcia’s right, I suppose,” Max said, his voice different than Nicole had ever heard. He was quiet as he sat on Jake’s bed, his manner surprisingly comfortable. There was a gentle note in his words and she heard none of the mockery he so often directed at adults. Max appeared to give the matter his total concentration. “It is hard to know what to do with such a broad topic.”
“That’s what I thought,” Jake agreed. “I mean, there have to be a million different things to say…and none of them are, you know, very interesting.”
“True,” Max agreed.
“At first, I thought I’d just do a straight report,” the boy confided. “But that seemed really boring. I mean, it doesn’t take much intelligence to write how many kinds of trees grow in New York.”
“No.”
“Then, I thought I could do something more scientific. You know, like how many trees are cut down to make room for buildings and how some species are disappearing.”
“Did Ms. Garcia indicate she preferred that kind of slant?” Max asked, watching the boy’s face from where he sat on the bed.
“No.” Jake shuffled through a folder, finally drawing out a sheet of paper. “Look. She just said to do a report on
trees
. Nothing more.”
“And she hasn’t said you’re to do only research papers?”
“No,” Jake replied positively. “This is a writing class so we get to do different kinds of papers.”
“Well,” Max said, “if you like the scientific angle, go for it. But you could also consider using a different perspective.”
Interest flared in the boy’s face. “I had thought about writing about a certain person. How that person enjoyed the trees, maybe. You know, try to find a way of looking at the tree. Maybe even a specific tree.”
“That’s a good idea.” Max nodded, his voice genuine. “You could even carry that idea further, if you wanted. Use the point of view of an inhabitant of the tree—“
“Like a bird or a bug or something,” Jake said with enthusiasm.
“Yes, like that,” Max agreed, the gentleness still in his face. “You wouldn’t have to go all schmaltzy or have your characters say anything like ‘Please don’t hurt my home.’ You could maybe write it from a young squirrel’s point of view. He could talk about his ‘neighborhood’ and who he hangs out with—“
“And the dogs that bark at him and chase him! He could really love making them crazy,” Jake declared, grabbing up a pencil. “That’s a great idea. Thanks! You always have the best ideas!”
“You’re welcome,” Max responded, smiling.
Nicole pulled back out of view, not wanting to disturb a truly sweet moment. The great Max Tucker giving writing tips to a thirteen year-old and seeming to enjoy doing it! It seemed a terrifically human thing of him to do. She’d guess from observing their interaction that Max frequently served as Jake’s mentor when it came to the boy’s schoolwork.
Sneaking past the open doorway so as not to draw their attention, she went on to the powder room, her mind filled with the new sides of Max she was seeing tonight. At dinner, he’d talked like a regular guy, pretty much. She’d been surprised how well he related to Ruth’s husband, but this sweet moment with Jake really struck her. He was great with that kid! He’d talked comfortably and had stayed on the same level with the boy. Some adults tended to talk down to kids that age, usually to make themselves feel more intelligent. But Max apparently had no need to be that way with Jake.