shout really loud and jump up and down, but it didn’t accomplish much.
At noon she made and gobbled down a PB and J sandwich with a glass of milk, promising herself the cheesecake for that night’s dessert.
If
she completed at least the main characters’ sketches and committed to those characters’ backstories and motivations, she’d allow herself to eat the cheesecake. Yes, that was better. The cheesecake would be her reward.
At two thirty she admitted temporary defeat. Tucking the journal into her bag, she left her apartment with no clear destination in mind. Which was not at all surprising since her mind hadn’t been clear about much of anything but
Downton Abbey
for most of the day.
It’s all right, she told herself as she walked north on Peachtree where she cruised the aisles of CB2 before making her way toward Piedmont Park. Today might not have been the jackknife off the high dive and into the book that she’d anticipated. But surely now that she was a full-time writer there was nothing wrong with wading in slowly. When you had three-hundred-fifty-plus days of writing time left you didn’t have to maximize every available moment of every possible day, right?
She picked up her pace as she entered the park. But even as she sought to reassure herself, one of her critique partner’s favorite sayings echoed in her mind: “Writing time is like closet space. The more you have, the less efficiently you use it.”
That night, the character sketches unfinished, she ate the cheesecake anyway. Because she could. And because as Scarlett O’Hara so famously pointed out, tomorrow was another day.
* * *
DUE TO THE IMPORTANCE OF THE CLIENT BEING wooed, Samantha had arranged an intimate catered dinner served in their dining room instead of at a restaurant or even one of the exclusive clubs to which Jonathan belonged. She would have preferred not to entertain on a Wednesday, which was jammed with committee meetings stacked around the weekly lunch with her mother-in-law, but it was the only night both the coveted client and his wife were in town and free. By the time Samantha got home late that afternoon, fresh flowers had been delivered and the caterer and his staff had begun to set up in the kitchen. She’d just finished dressing when she heard Jonathan arrive. “Be right out,” she called as she hurriedly opened the bedroom safe to pull out her jewelry. She was fastening the clasp on her bracelet and holding the pearl necklace Jonathan had given her for their last anniversary as she hurried into the living room. “Do you mind?”
She turned and lifted the hair off her neck. The pearls were cool and solid against her skin as he hooked the clasp then turned her to face him.
“Ready?” Jonathan asked her when the front desk buzzed up to announce their guests’ arrival.
“As I’ll ever be.” Samantha smoothed a hand down the side of her black cocktail dress.
“How was lunch?” he asked.
“Fine.” She dropped her eyes to double-check the drinks cart. She tried to be honest with Jonathan, but she was also careful not to criticize his mother—that was Jonathan’s prerogative. She lied only to keep the peace or avoid giving offense. But those lies were small and white.
“I hope you’re not letting her push you around . . .”
She’d been no match for her mother-in-law when she was twenty-one and had lost tons of skirmishes and a good number of battles. The only reason Cynthia hadn’t won the war she’d waged to dislodge the unsuitable and unwanted daughter-in-law was that Samantha couldn’t even consider defeat because she wasn’t fighting for creature comforts for herself as her mother-in-law had believed, but for a life and some version of family for her sister and brother.
“Who, me?” Samantha teased looking up into her husband’s blue eyes, which could be harsh and commanding like Cynthia’s but which could also be far kinder and gentler. His blond hair was sun streaked from the
At noon she made and gobbled down a PB and J sandwich with a glass of milk, promising herself the cheesecake for that night’s dessert.
If
she completed at least the main characters’ sketches and committed to those characters’ backstories and motivations, she’d allow herself to eat the cheesecake. Yes, that was better. The cheesecake would be her reward.
At two thirty she admitted temporary defeat. Tucking the journal into her bag, she left her apartment with no clear destination in mind. Which was not at all surprising since her mind hadn’t been clear about much of anything but
Downton Abbey
for most of the day.
It’s all right, she told herself as she walked north on Peachtree where she cruised the aisles of CB2 before making her way toward Piedmont Park. Today might not have been the jackknife off the high dive and into the book that she’d anticipated. But surely now that she was a full-time writer there was nothing wrong with wading in slowly. When you had three-hundred-fifty-plus days of writing time left you didn’t have to maximize every available moment of every possible day, right?
She picked up her pace as she entered the park. But even as she sought to reassure herself, one of her critique partner’s favorite sayings echoed in her mind: “Writing time is like closet space. The more you have, the less efficiently you use it.”
That night, the character sketches unfinished, she ate the cheesecake anyway. Because she could. And because as Scarlett O’Hara so famously pointed out, tomorrow was another day.
* * *
DUE TO THE IMPORTANCE OF THE CLIENT BEING wooed, Samantha had arranged an intimate catered dinner served in their dining room instead of at a restaurant or even one of the exclusive clubs to which Jonathan belonged. She would have preferred not to entertain on a Wednesday, which was jammed with committee meetings stacked around the weekly lunch with her mother-in-law, but it was the only night both the coveted client and his wife were in town and free. By the time Samantha got home late that afternoon, fresh flowers had been delivered and the caterer and his staff had begun to set up in the kitchen. She’d just finished dressing when she heard Jonathan arrive. “Be right out,” she called as she hurriedly opened the bedroom safe to pull out her jewelry. She was fastening the clasp on her bracelet and holding the pearl necklace Jonathan had given her for their last anniversary as she hurried into the living room. “Do you mind?”
She turned and lifted the hair off her neck. The pearls were cool and solid against her skin as he hooked the clasp then turned her to face him.
“Ready?” Jonathan asked her when the front desk buzzed up to announce their guests’ arrival.
“As I’ll ever be.” Samantha smoothed a hand down the side of her black cocktail dress.
“How was lunch?” he asked.
“Fine.” She dropped her eyes to double-check the drinks cart. She tried to be honest with Jonathan, but she was also careful not to criticize his mother—that was Jonathan’s prerogative. She lied only to keep the peace or avoid giving offense. But those lies were small and white.
“I hope you’re not letting her push you around . . .”
She’d been no match for her mother-in-law when she was twenty-one and had lost tons of skirmishes and a good number of battles. The only reason Cynthia hadn’t won the war she’d waged to dislodge the unsuitable and unwanted daughter-in-law was that Samantha couldn’t even consider defeat because she wasn’t fighting for creature comforts for herself as her mother-in-law had believed, but for a life and some version of family for her sister and brother.
“Who, me?” Samantha teased looking up into her husband’s blue eyes, which could be harsh and commanding like Cynthia’s but which could also be far kinder and gentler. His blond hair was sun streaked from the
Similar Books
