She glanced over at Beau. Well. Maybe not the monster part.
They walked through the orchard, turned, and came face-to-face with the moat.
“Pool,” Beau said unnecessarily.
“Wow,” Izzy said. She couldn’t help herself, as she gazed at the huge blue tiled pool in front of them, sparkling in the sun. See, she knew she should have packed her swimsuit. She had to come back later so she could send Priya a picture; she was going to lose it.
“It’s a great pool,” Beau said. Another actual sentence. Izzy narrowed her eyes at him. Was this some sort of trick?
They walked past the pool, and Beau pointed again. “Rose garden.” The rosebushes were scrawny, with no roses on them, and there were cacti growing around them.
Beau turned back to the house. “Back door.” He pointed as he walked toward the door. A tiny smile danced around his lips. Was he enjoying this mockery of a tour? Probably. Well, now that they were going back inside, it must be over.
Her phone buzzed, and she glanced down at it. Email from Marta.
Send me an update on BT.
Right. She had to do this.
“Um. Can we…” She started over. “Since I’m here for the next few days to help you with your memoir, we should probably talk about it?” The smile fell from Beau’s face, and his eyes clouded over again. She felt a slight moment of regret—just when they’d almost been getting along, she had to do this? But then she snapped out of it. Yes she did, this was what she was here for. “Yesterday you said you wanted me to give you pep talks—is that still what you want, or do you want to—”
“Whatever,” he said. “That’s fine. How about now?”
Oh no. Now? Why hadn’t she had the foresight to think up another pep talk in the past twenty minutes? She had to do this spontaneously? She took a deep breath.
“So, um, I’m not quite sure what the problem is for you right now…” He looked away when she said that. Okay, well, she just had to keep going. “If you ever want to talk about that—but honestly, there are so many reasons why writers struggle with their books, and I promise you, they all do. There are tons of tips and tricks to getting through this, but—in my experience, at least—the only thing that works is just doing it. Sitting down every day and writing. Even every other day, or every few days. It’s not about the number of hours, it’s just the consistency. It’s so hard at first, but it gets easier, a little bit, every time you sit down. And if you think you can’t do it, I promise you, you can. Don’t be discouraged if you think your work is bad; as long as you can get something on the page, that’s a victory.”
Beau’s face was impassive the entire time she was talking. Was he listening to her, even? She thought so, but he wasn’t quite looking at her, and she had no idea if anything she said was at all helpful to him.
“Okay,” he said after she stopped talking. “Thanks.”
And with that, he threw open the side door and walked inside the house.
Well. He didn’t yell at her. That was a real success.
Izzy’s phone buzzed again as she stared at the still-vibrating door.
Hi, this is Michaela with a few details you might need!
The Wi-Fi password is Lum1ere!
Lunch is Cobb salad and will be ready any time after 12:30, just come down to the kitchen.
Dinner is at 6:30 tonight. I’m making beef ragout. I was thinking a cheese soufflé to go along with it, but is soufflé too jiggly for you?
Izzy had to laugh.
Not too jiggly, thanks for checking! Looking forward to it.
Homemade cheese soufflé? She could deal with Beau Towers’s glares for that.
It was one a.m. on Friday night—or rather, Saturday morning. Izzy turned over in bed. She couldn’t sleep.
She’d been up since 5:45, dealing with Beau Towers and Marta and assorted other stressful people all day, and all she wanted was to sleep. Unfortunately, her brain hadn’t gotten the message. She’d even taken a nice long bath in that beautiful bathtub while reading a soothing book, but it hadn’t helped.
Things with Beau Towers had been more or less civil for the past two days. He’d given her that tour, he’d listened to two pep talks without making any snide comments, and they’d tacitly decided to eat all their meals separately. But she didn’t think she’d actually made any progress with him. He hadn’t told her anything about what he was struggling with, hadn’t asked her any questions or for any advice; he hadn’t said anything about his memoir at all, in fact. And that’s what was frustrating her so much. She’d failed. Again.