Page 12 of Cut Off from Sky and Earth
Emily
* * *
After I call Tristan at work, things move quickly. So quickly that I can’t quite catch my breath. Although he’s been working late most evenings, tonight he beats me home.
When I open the front door, I’m greeted by the unmistakable scent of sautéed garlic. I dump my laptop on the table and follow my nose to the kitchen, where I find my husband, wearing a Kiss the Cook apron and stirring something in our large sauce pot. I do as the apron instructs, then peek into the pot. I spy a whole peeled carrot in the sea of tomato sauce. Tristan’s secret to a low-acid sauce.
“Homemade pasta sauce? It’s not Sunday. What’s the occasion?”
He grins at me. “Two occasions. One, if you’re only now getting home from the coffee shop, I assume that means you got some words down. That calls for my lasagna.” He pauses and paints me with an expectant look.
I reach for one of the glasses of red wine he’s already poured and take a sip before answering.
“Yeah, I actually did.”
“I knew it. Tell me all about it.”
The words bubble up from my throat like the roiling tomatoes and spices in his pot. Tristan’s excitement about my writing process fills my heart, as always. He’s unfailingly supportive of my work. And, believe me, I’ve heard enough horror stories from my writer friends to know this is not a universal trait.
“I wrote a scene exploring the dynamic between Maleen and Ruth,” I tell him.
“And Ruth is …?”
“Her lady-in-waiting. They’re friends, but Maleen’s a princess, remember? So there’s a bit of a power imbalance.”
“Okay.” He waves his hand through the steam coming off the pot, directing it toward his nostrils, inhales deeply, and gives a satisfied nod. Then he places the mesh splatter guard over the top of the pot and picks up his wine glass. “Do they have an argument?”
“Not exactly—or at least not yet. Ruth’s conflicted. She knows Maleen is in love with Prince Manfred, but Maleen’s father has refused to bless their union. She wants to support Maleen, but defying the king? That’s a bold move. She has a decision to make, and Maleen isn’t being particularly understanding.”
“So a fight’s brewing?”
I don’t realize it until Tristan says the words, but he’s right. “Yes. They’re going to have it out in the next scene.” I sip my wine. “What’s the second reason?”
It takes him a moment. “Oh, right. The second reason is this is your last supper before you leave for your retreat. Alex, the owner of the cabin, got back to me. It’s all yours for the next week. You can check in tomorrow any time after noon.”
“Wait. Tomorrow?” It’s so soon. Too soon.
He reads the frantic note in my voice and answers soothingly. “I stopped at the grocery store on the way home and bought all your favorite, low-effort foods. I got your tea, your kombucha, your favorite snacks. We’ll pack up the leftovers from tonight’s dinner—Alex says there’s a microwave in the cabin. It’s small and low-powered, but it can reheat lasagna.”
I frown. “I need to do laundry.”
Another smile. “I already washed everything in the hamper. It’s drying now. All you have to do is eat your meal, drink your wine, and then pack a bag. I’ll drive you out to the cabin in the morning. We’ll need to get an early start. I’d like to leave by six if we can. It’s an eight-hour drive.”
“You can’t do that round-trip in one day. It’s too much. I’ll drive myself.”
“That won’t work. I need the car. I’ve got field visits to do next week on this murder I caught.”
Tristan doesn’t like to talk about his work, so I don’t ask any questions. But my frown deepens. If he drops me off, that leaves me without transportation while I’m at the cabin. I consider suggesting I rent a car. But, then I shrug. Where do I think I’m going to go in the mountains? The whole idea is to hole up and do nothing but write this book. And he’s making it frictionless, easy.
“Still, that’s a long drive for you. Too long. And then you have to turn around and do it again in a week.”
He waves off my objections. “I’ll be fine. I’ll stop halfway back for dinner. And if I get too tired, I’ll catch a nap at a rest area.”
“I don’t know. Sixteen hours—maybe more?”
“You worry too much. Tell you what. When I pick you up next week, we’ll stop for the night in Charlottesville. You love that place.”
It’s true, I do. Charlottesville reminds me a lot of the little college town where Tristan and I met, only without all the blood-soaked trauma and grief. And if I use an overnight in Charlottesville as a carrot, my reward for getting the book done, maybe I’ll actually finish the thing. Hope blooms in my chest.
