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Chapter 7
Los AngelesWill attempted to settle his affairs in LA. It was difficult, as he seemed to be permanently functioning in a state of euphoria. He felt absolutely giddy as he deposited $20,000 of his advance in his bank. He figured that the remaining $5000 would be more than sufficient for his needs in Canada. Fortunately, he didn't smoke! His landlord had taken a fishing trip to Canada last summer and had complained—loudly and often—that he had paid $90 for a carton of cigarettes!
Will wrote a check for the next three months' rent and decided to drop it off in person, letting Mr. Spinelli know he could possibly be gone until May. He reconciled himself to hearing again about the $90 cigarettes, but that was the trade-off for assuring that his landlord would keep an eye on his place.
He purchased a lap-top computer that really was approximately the size of a notebook, and a compact printer. He packed his warmest clothes and bought a sturdy pair of hiking boots. Harriet was providing a microwave, hot plate and several space heaters to make his stay more comfortable. He thought he might want to pick up some extra comforters, an electric blanket and a down parka, but he could buy those in Toronto instead of lugging them on the plane.
Finally, all was in readiness. He was as prepared for his Great Adventure as it was possible to be. As he took a cab to the airport, he really hoped someone on the plane would ask what he did for a living. He was looking forward to answering, “I'm a writer.”
**********
Quebec
The cottage was small, but perfect for his needs. He thought of it as his 'Fortress of Solitude', as the nearest neighbors were a mile and a half away.
Harriet had arranged for a local woman to come in daily, until he had gotten the hang of banking and rekindling the stove and fireplace. She was a kind woman, and also a superb baker—she rarely arrived empty-handed, providing Will with a daily supply of home-made breads, pies, cakes and cookies. She was the bringer of warmth and goodies. If she hadn't been nearly 60 and happily married, Will would have been tempted to propose!
Will soon settled into a routine. He got up, put the coffee on and checked his e-mail while waiting for Mrs. Hatcher. When she arrived, she'd get right to work and when the cottage was toasty warm, they'd have coffee and sample her latest offering. He even seemed to be getting better at this fire-banking business; just yesterday, Mrs. Hatcher had complimented him on the strength of his embers!
When she had gone for the day, Will worked on his revisions for the next four hours. He took a break at lunchtime, strapping on the cross-country skis Mrs. Hatcher had loaned to him and shown him how to use. He loved shushing through the quiet countryside, filling his lungs with the pristine air. The exercise cleared the cobwebs from his brain, and also gave him a voracious appetite; so on most days, he skied to the village and ate lunch at the local cafe/diner. The food was good, plentiful and inexpensive and he eventually came to know the regular patrons and looked forward to conversing with them.
Before somnambulation could set in from the filling meals, he would be back on his skis, shushing home. He frequently took a nap in the early afternoon; ideas for his third novel percolating in his mind.
Upon awakening, he'd make a pot of tea and then return to work, finishing around nine, when he'd make a light supper, surf the net while eating, and then go to bed. All-in-all, it was a peaceful and productive lifestyle, and Will was content.
**********
“ 'Lo, Will. What'll it be today?”
“Hello, Margaret. What's the special?”
“Beef stew, today. I saved you a bowl.”
“Sounds wonderful! That's what I'll have, then.”
Within moments, a huge, steaming bowl of stew was placed before him, along with a basket of fresh breads and small crocks of both butter and soft cheese. Will dug in with gusto. Margaret returned with a pint of lager, which perfectly complemented the stew.
When he was replete, Will stopped by Old Jacques' table to ask about his grandchildren. Jacques invited him to sit, and Will ordered a second pint while Jacques regaled him with stories of the exploits of the most clever, beautiful, remarkable, perfect grand-babies ever put on this earth. Suitably impressed with their accomplishments, Will spent a pleasant half hour with Jacques, who was positively glowing from the attention.
Thanking Margaret for yet another wonderful meal, Will took his leave. Strapping on his skis, he pushed off with his poles and then turned to wave goodbye to Margaret.
THUMP!
Will suddenly found himself on his back, ski tips pointing skyward. A laughing young woman was scrambling to her feet, brushing snow from her ankle-length blue cape.
“Oh!” Will gasped. “I beg your pardon. I'm frightfully sorry! I wasn't watching where I was going—are you all right?”
She laughed again. “I'm fine . . . but you seem to be stuck.”
Will was flailing about in the snow, unable to get his feet—still encased in the awkward skis—under him so he could get up.
She offered her hand, and with surprising strength, yanked him to his feet so easily that he almost overbalanced and fell again. Gripping her shoulders to steady himself, he blushed furiously.
Anne attempted to hold back her laughter. He had the most amazing blue eyes she had ever seen! If she could just concentrate on those eyes and not on that . . . ridiculous . . . silly . . . brown hat . . . with earflaps . . . Anne lost the battle and burst out laughing again.
“I'm sorry,” she gasped. “It's just . . . your hat . . .”
Will blushed again and snatched the offending headgear off immediately. He had soft, sandy, light-brown curls that took on a life of their own in the sudden gust of wind.
Funny. She'd expected him to be—blonder. Those incredible eyes should be set off by very light blonde hair.
“Oh, please, put it back on! It's much too cold to be out without a hat. I'm sorry I laughed. It's just . . . you looked like Sherlock Holmes . . . or that lady cop form Fargo . . .”
Giggles threatened to erupt again, and she grabbed his hat from his hand and jammed it back on his head.
Will couldn't stop staring.
“Wh-what's your name?” he finally managed to stammer.
“Anne . . .” she began tentatively and then said more firmly, “My name is Anne. What's yours?”
“Will. William Winter. I'm a writer.”
“Are you? What have you written? Maybe I've read something of yours.”
“Oh, no, you couldn't have. See, I'm just in the editing process with my first novel. I'm under contract to SRPB, and my editor lent me her vacation home,” Will pointed in the general direction of the cottage, “so I could work.”
“What's your book about?”
“Well . . . “ he blushed again. Why couldn't he bloody well control that? It was such a nancy habit! Whoa . . . where did those thoughts come from? “. . . it's about vampires, actually.”
She looked at him with interest. “Do you believe in vampires? I mean, do you think there are actual, real-life vampires walking around?”
He found the suggestion both repugnant and yet, strangely alluring. “I don't know . . . the archetype has been so persistent over time, there must be some basis in reality. What do you think?”
She shook her head. “Uh-uh. Pure fantasy. All that tortured, sexy, creature-of-the-night, misunderstood loneliness? It's just too fantastic to be real. Besides, if you ever actually met one in a dark alley, I bet he wouldn't be any angel! If they did exist, they'd probably rip your throat out as soon as look at you.”
Anne shivered.
Will was suddenly contrite.
The wind had picked up and it was bitter cold; he had kept her standing out here because he had so enjoyed talking to her, with no thought of her physical comfort.
She wrapped her cloak tighter around her body. “Well . . .” she said regretfully. “I'd better get going.”
“I suppose so . . .”
She turned to leave.
“Wait!” he called. “Where do you live?”
She smiled at him over her shoulder.
“St. Anne's' Convent.”
Will stood stock still, staring after her in shock.
Bloody hell! He'd fallen in love with a nun!
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