The Writer (3 page)

“Wow.”

Decklan turned around and looked at the visibly awe-struck college newspaper reporter behind him.

“It’s just wood and concrete with an old, washed up writer hiding out inside of it.”

Adele snorted far louder than she would have liked.

“I think it’s a lot more than
that
, Mr. Stone.”

“Please, just call me Decklan. Mr. Stone sounds so…old.”

Adele shook her head with enough force that it made her cheeks jiggle.

“You don’t look old! You don’t look old
at all
!”

Adele was mortified at her behavior. She had rehearsed this moment a hundred times in her head and yet she was doing exactly what she had promised she wouldn’t – come off as some star-struck, half-psycho fan.

The author chuckled, both surprised and grateful for Adele’s overly enthusiastic defense of his allegedly not-yet-old, appearance.

“Well thank you, Ms. Plank. I’m more than vain enough to admit I enjoy knowing someone your age sees me as something other than a decrepit relic of some bygone era. Let’s go inside. Would you like some tea?”

Adele nodded while silently reminding herself to calm the hell down; though, inwardly she was screaming that she was about to have tea with Decklan Stone inside his home.

Oh my god! Oh my god! Oh my god!

Decklan stepped up onto the expansive porch and then pushed open the custom-made, dark-wood-stained front door. He looked down at Adele and gave her a reassuring wink.

“Here we are, Ms. Plank. Welcome to my home, and thank you for coming.”

The interior of the Stone residence was as tasteful as its exterior. The handcrafted furnishings were sparse, simple, and yet they exuded quality and class. The floors were wide, reddish planks that softly creaked and groaned when walked upon. Decklan tapped his right foot lightly against the wood.

“The floors came from a decommissioned wood-hulled trans-Pacific sailboat from the late-eighteenth century, shipped here from Taiwan when the house was first built. I’ve always appreciated the idea of something old finding a new purpose, a kind of immortality.”

Adele wanted to sigh, but made certain she didn’t. She had never heard anyone say anything quite like that, and it left her feeling like the luckiest person alive to have heard it spoken in the wonderfully low, soft, yet masculine voice of Decklan Stone.

“Can I use that quote?”

Decklan’s head tilted to the left as his right brow arched upward.

“I’m sorry?”

“Uh, for the story, I’d like to use what you just said.”

The author paused, and then his eyes widened as he seemingly remembered why Adele was there in the first place.

“Oh, of course! Yes, feel free to use what you want. I don’t have any preconditions, Ms. Plank, though my publicist has demanded approval of the final piece prior to publication.”

Adele nodded quickly, not wanting to ruin the time with her literary-hero host with the more mundane, real-world talk of business.

“Yes, Mr. Stone…Decklan.”

Decklan flashed his brilliant smile again and motioned for Adele to follow him into the A-framed great room. Massive floor-to-ceiling windows offered up sweeping views of the San Juan Islands and the surrounding waters.

“Have a seat, Ms. Plank and I’ll be out with some tea in just a moment.”

Adele stared through the windows and then scanned the room. A wood-framed couch and two matching chairs faced the windows with a coffee table made entirely of driftwood. A large bookshelf dominated the left wall. On the right was a massive stone fireplace, and next to it, a hallway into which Decklan disappeared. Adele assumed it led to the kitchen; she could hear water running. Aside from the couch and chairs, there were no other furnishings. Even the walls were absent of any artwork.

Everything about the room is intended to focus you on the view, and what a view it is!

Adele took out her phone and snapped a couple pictures of the postcard-like scenery outside. She felt a slight breeze and looked up to see a large ceiling fan repeating a slow, circular path directly above her. The home smelled of Decklan Stone, his woodsy-leather cologne with just a trace of tobacco.

I’d love to wake up to that scent every morning.

“Oh, you’re still standing! Please, have a seat, some tea, and let’s see about getting this little interview of yours started, shall we? I hope you like white tea. My mother introduced it to me years ago and it has become something of a daily ritual.”

Adele lowered herself into the chair to the left of the couch while Decklan, after handing her a teacup, did the same on the right. He took a slow sip, savored it, and then lifted his eyes to his guest. Adele willed her hands to stop trembling as she brought the teacup to her lips.

The tea had a light, floral scent with an almost undetectable hint of honey.

“Mmmm, it’s good. Thank you.”

The author appeared genuinely pleased at the compliment. He took another sip from his own cup and then cleared his throat and shrugged.

“Well, shall we begin?”

Adele reached into her backpack and withdrew a small tape recorder, a gift from her mother when she was a little girl who dreamed of being a reporter. She preferred it instead to the more modern digital options because of its sentimental value. Decklan pointed to the device.

“It appears you value old things as well. I haven’t seen one of those in years!”

Adele responded with a sheepish grin.

“Is it OK I record our conversations?”

Decklan nodded while he swirled the contents of his cup.

“Of course, that’s what reporters do, right?”

Adele opened her mouth to say something, but momentarily lost her train of thought. Her hands trembled again when she finally replied.

“To be honest, I don’t really know, Mr. Stone. I’ve done a few stories for the newspaper, but this is really something way beyond my experience. And the fact is I’m a big-big fan of yours.”

Decklan folded his hands and placed them against his stubbly, salt-and-pepper chin.

“I’m confident you’ll do just fine, Ms. Plank. Please proceed. Perhaps we should start with the proverbial elephant in the room. Ask the question everyone wants to ask of me, the question that has been my primary reason for my retreating from the all-too-superficial world of literary celebrity.”

Adele felt her eyes blinking rapidly as she fought a terrible panic rising up from within her. She had planned to avoid the subject of Calista Stone’s death, at least initially.

But now he’s demanding I start with it. Is he testing me? Could I end up being thrown out of here without an interview?

Adele took a slow, deep breath and stared into the author’s eyes. She found them reassuring, willing her to do what, just seconds earlier, she had no intention of doing. The words came out rushed, sounding pathetically amateurish to Adele’s ears. She was left instantly horrified at having spoken them.

“Did you kill your wife?”

Outside, the prehistoric squawk of a great blue heron flying over the island reverberated off the home’s interior walls. Decklan Stone’s eyes narrowed as he leaned forward with his tightly folded hands resting against his chin. From somewhere else in the home, Adele could hear the faint ticking of a clock. Though the author only paused for a few seconds, that brief span of time felt like an eternity to the young reporter. Decklan’s voice was sad and distant; its tone wrapped tightly around the pain of some terrible regret.

“Yes, Ms. Plank, I believe I did.”

Sunlight broke through the massive great room windows and washed over a suddenly still and silent, Decklan Stone. It was then Adele saw the hints of age illuminated on his face, the lines that extended beyond the corners of his eyes, and the strands of gray that ran through the otherwise dark and unkempt hair atop his head. The author might have been remarkably well preserved, but he was not entirely immune to the toll of time.

Adele was surprised by how much she had expected the author to say what he did. She didn’t believe she had just been witness to an admission of outright murder, but rather a man’s belief in his responsibility for his wife’s tragic demise. The two sat staring at one another for a half moment that felt much longer before Decklan held up his right hand and shook his head.

“I’m sorry, that was too much. I know now we should not have started there. I apologize, Ms. Plank. I hope I didn’t make you too uncomfortable, but if you are, I certainly understand.”

Adele straightened in her chair, determined to expand the parameters of the interview to include that which remained unspoken.

“Just the opposite, Mr. Stone…Decklan, your instincts are right. It’s the issue that has pretty much defined how people think of you and maybe then, it’s the issue that defines how you think of yourself. We
should
talk about it, though if you want to wait until later, I’m ok with that.”

The author’s mouth extended into a thin, almost-smile, while his eyes moved out toward the expansive view beyond the windows.

“Yes, I think perhaps it is best we wait to cross that rather unstable bridge. I promise to speak with you about it, just not right now.”

Decklan continued to look at the waters and islands beyond his home as Adele proceeded with another question that was just slightly less pressing to her than the first.

“Why me?”

“I’m sorry?”

Adele waited for the author’s gaze to return to her before answering. His head turned and he again regarded her with a slightly arched right eyebrow.

“Why did you choose
me
to for your first interview after so many years of silence? Why pick some college girl with hardly a resume to her name?”

Decklan’s eyes softened as he folded his arms across his chest.

“Is that how you see yourself, Ms. Plank? As merely some naïve and inexperienced
college girl
?”

Adele did in fact wonder what Decklan Stone saw when he looked at her. She knew she was somewhat attractive, more cute than beautiful; though, she was unable to shed a nagging ten pounds she felt made her more “round” than she would like. Her medium length, brown hair was most often kept back in a ponytail. What little makeup she wore was both simple and subtle, and her attire, such as it was, rarely went beyond a comfortable pair of blue jeans and a sweatshirt.

High class she was not.

“I know I’m not really a reporter yet. A few stories in my college newspaper but that’s about it. You could have a New York or Los Angeles or Seattle reporter up here the next day if you told them you were going to grant an interview, right?”

Decklan shrugged. It was such a slight and simple gesture and yet it elicited a silent revelation from Adele.

He’s elegant. I’ve never thought of a man as elegant but that’s what he is.

“Perhaps they might after they get on that Internet thing and find out who I am, or rather,
who I was
.”

It was Adele’s turn to shake her head.

“Don’t sell yourself short, Decklan. I looked up your author ranking.
Manitoba
still sells thousands of copies a year.”

The author finished his tea and then set the cup down onto its saucer on the coffee table.

“Ah, I guess that explains why those royalty checks keep making their way to me!”

“You haven’t answered my question, Decklan. Why me?”

Decklan shifted his left leg over his right and pretended to straighten the crisp crease of his khakis as he considered the question.

“I liked your letter, the one you sent to my publicist requesting the interview. It was friendly without being pretentious, had a hint of the curious but not overly fawning, and most important, you sounded sincere. The older I get, the more I value sincerity. I would add the timing of your letter helped as well, it being thirty years since
Manitoba’s
publication. I don’t necessarily care for overtly maudlin reflection, but I’m not entirely immune to it, either.”

Adele felt her heart pounding inside her chest. The interview was proceeding. Decklan Stone was talking and she knew it was her job to keep him doing so.

“Why haven’t you published anything since
Manitoba
?”

The tips of the author’s fingers on his right hand lightly massaged his right temple. His lips pursed and then he refolded his arms over his chest.

“I guess it’s because I didn’t feel I had anything left in me to say after Calista’s death, at least not anything of value. I could have faked it like so many other writers do, but that would have been a betrayal of her, and I had already betrayed her enough. She was a big part of
Manitoba’s
success, you know. She pushed me to continue working on it, revising it, and then to have the courage to put it out there in the hopes someone would be willing to publish it.
Manitoba
was my story, but we wrote it together. When it was turned down the first time, she told me to keep trying. Then it was turned down for a second time, and a third, and yet her belief in me and the story
never
diminished. Not even a little. She was more than I deserved.”

“Why do you think that?”

Decklan’s eyes lowered slightly as the right corner of his mouth curled slightly upward.

“You’ve researched me, my history and reputation when I was a younger man?”

Adele nodded.

“Yes, you were greatly admired following
Manitoba’s
success. That must have been a lot of pressure for someone still so young. You loved your wife, but you loved other women too?”

For the first time since they met, Adele detected a hint of anger in Decklan’s voice.

“NO, I never loved anyone but Calista. None of the others meant anything to me. I was vain, arrogant, pathetically insecure and incomprehensibly inconsiderate. And yet despite all that, her belief in my potential remained. It’s partly what brought us here from New York, to the islands, to
this
island.”

Adele remained silent, allowing the author to gather his thoughts again before proceeding. Decklan’s mind had retreated into the mist of memory. It was a journey he had struggled to avoid for a very long time.