Page 13 of Last Seen
“Her new book is being adapted into a movie,” the girl on my right whispers in awe.
The holy grail—adaptation. Ironic if you consider the writer is judged on the success of the actual book, not how well it shows on the screen. What the viewers see and what the reader experiences are often completely different.
Tammy lets the news sink in that she’s ours for the next few weeks, then she starts moving through the cabin in concentric circles. We have to crane our necks to follow her movements.
“Our goal at BWR is to hone your skills as a writer, as an artist, as a creative. I want you to stretch yourselves. I want you to let it all hang out. There’s no reason in the world to hold back now. You’ve all been selected because you are very talented, and you are ready to level up your craft. Our goal is to help you achieve your dreams. Unlock that path to publication, to acareer. Help you go from curious writer to successful author.
“I’d like to go over some rules for workshop. Be on time, or the door is locked, and you miss out on a whole morning of lessons. My time is valuable, I don’t like it when people are late. Do you understand?”
Six heads nod in unison.
“Show respect for your fellow workshop attendees. And try to keep the funny business out of it. Intimate relationships are frowned upon. They’re a distraction.” She looks at each of us, letting the implication sink in. We nod. No screwing around. Got it.
“Good.” She plops into the center chair facing the fire, big as a throne, and I laugh to myself. Like there will be any dog more important than the leader herself.
“Now, I understand you drew lots last night, and our first reader is Catriona Armstrong. Catriona? Take it away.”
Come out, come out, wherever you are.
I start to stand, and Tammy gives a conspiratorial chuckle. “Oh, no, dear, you can stay right where you are. Just speak up so everyone can hear you.”
Fabulous. I sit back down. Swallow. Lick my lips. And begin.
Eleanor Glynn was in a rush the moment her life was altered forever.
I look up to the expectant faces of my fellow authors and our powerhouse teacher, who gives me a smile and nod. God, why did I have to be picked to go first? I do so much better seeing how the rest of the room works rather than setting the tone. I start again.
She was always in a rush, always buzzing from one place to the next, one moment to another. She wasn’t good about taking her time, being thorough, unless she was in front of a judge, and a client needed her focus.
She had things to do. Places to be. People to see. She’d been like this since birth, in a hurry: a hurry to grow up, to get through school, to live her life.
Now, the life she hurried into was about to fall apart.
It was a good life. She was happy, or at least, until today, she thought she was. She had a good job, one that meant she could afford to live in one of the tonier suburbs of Nashville in a spacious home with a three-car garage and a weekly housekeeper to handle the heavy stuff. She had a handsome husband whom she adored. A solid education, three weeks of vacation, usually spent trekking across the world, and an adorable Muppet-faced dog. No kids, not for lack of trying, but they would come. She was still young. Thirty was the new twenty.
Her hands were full—briefcase, groceries, keys, a bottle of wine. She juggled everything from the car and scrambled up the stairs to the front door. Three garages, and they still parked the cars in the driveway. All the neighbors did, too, their Porsches and BMWs and Suburbans all on envious display.
Greg’s Jag wasn’t in the drive, though, which was a relief. She’d left early so she could beat him home. They were celebrating their anniversary tonight, seven years together, five married. They’d met in law school and had been inseparable from the moment their eyes locked in. Eleanor was sure they’d be together forever.
She managed to get the key in the lock and the door open without dropping anything. She used her hip to knock it closed behind her, then stumbled into the kitchen, dropping first the briefcase, then the bag of steak, potatoes, and asparagus, then the wine onto the counter.
“Whew,” she said, grinning at the feat. Clumsiness came with the constant hurrying; she was relieved to have it all settled in one piece. She turned on the oven, washed the potatoes and put them on the rack, then went to the bedroom. She’d already been to the gym for a quick workout and needed a shower, needed to shave, get her hair dried and tamed into submission. She had an hour to make herself presentable and have the meal ready. Plenty of time, and that was saying something for a woman who never had enough of it.
In the bedroom, tossing off her shoes andwrenching herself out of her jacket, she realized water was running in the shower. She closed her eyes and shook her head, blew out a heavy, rueful breath. She’d been gone since seven, and in her rush, must have forgotten to turn it off. Great. She added “Call the water company” to her mental to-do list; they would be kind enough to treat this as a running toilet and comp the bill. At least, the last time she’d left the water on, they had.
Then she heard a small moan and froze.
She placed a hand on the knob, listening. Another, slightly louder moan, which sounded for all the world like a woman saying, “Oh, Greg!”
Eleanor slammed open the bathroom door. It took her a moment to register fully what she was seeing: Her naked husband’s eyes jammed shut, his body thrusting frantically at a female shape bent forward at the waist, a hand braced against the glass.
“What the actual fuck?” she yelled, yanking open the shower door.
The look on Greg’s face almost—almost—made her laugh. Shock and horror and recognition and shame, all rolled into one.
“Ellie? Ellie, what are you—”
She was out of there before the remainder of the sentence escaped his lips. “What are you doing home?” he was saying.
