Not Wrath.
“Challa, are you ready to go?”
Fritz’s old, wrinkled face is hopeful, as if nothing would make him happier than driving me back to my old family home on Lake George.
I blink quickly, in hopes I can clear my tears without having to wipe them in an obvious way.
“Oh, here,” he says as he takes the handkerchief out of his front breast pocket. “Please.”
My hands shake, and I note, as I unfold the precisely starched square, that the fine cotton weave is not initialed, nor does it have a crest. It’s simple and perfect and humble. Just like thedoggenwho owns it.
“What an honor to serve them.” Fritz clasps his hands over his heart and beams. “Don’t you find?”
Well, yes. Actually…it is.
As I dab things carefully, I suddenly feel lighter. Then again, gratitude is very, very buoyant, isn’t it.
“You know, that’s exactly it.” I hand things back. “Thank you.”
The Brotherhood’s butler bows low and then holds the door wide. “The car awaits.”
The fact that I walk out with Fritz seems appropriate. We’re both servants of them, and I am very content with my role. As I’ve always said, I’m not cool enough to write these books, and it’s important to know your place in the world.
And in spite of how meta this section is, I do know my place.
The cold slaps more clarity into me, and thoughdoggenprefer not to have contact with those they consider to be superiors, it is very functional for him to help me down the steps given my heels. The blacked-out Mercedes is running, the headlights illuminating the battened-down fountain, the Pit’s front door, the far-off ring of trees and the way down the mountain.
When we come up to the car, he rushes over to the rear door and opens it with a smooth, practiced motion. The interior illuminates with a red tone, the seat I came in on visible in the glow. My notepad and phone are right where I left them.
As I hesitate, I find myself wishing it was the summer, and that I could ask him if we could take a detour to Martha’s Ice Cream. I would like a small vanilla cone, and I wonder if I could talk Fritz into joining me, and what he’d pick if he did.
He shuts me in and hustles around.
I’m staring up through my window’s tinted glass as he gets behind the wheel. Only shadows of the mansion register through the dark wash and I think that’s good. It’s time for this vivid intersection to fade back to what’s normal, and a clear view of the house would make that harder.
Fritz puts the engine in gear and we pilot around the fountain and link up to the lane that twists and turns through themhis. I am sad to leave and feel hollow.
What saves me?
The knowledge that tomorrow, at 5:30 a.m., I’ll be back with them again, hovering off to the side or behind their varied eyes, back in this world you and I love so much.
“Are you all right, Challa?” I’m asked.
I smile as I ease my head back onto the rest and close my lids. “Absolutely, Fritz. All is as it should be.”
In my world.
And theirs.
Excerpts from the Caldwell Courier Journal
&
Bits of BDB
So obviously, one way authors can stay connected with their readers is through newsletters, and for a long while, I’d been encouraged to get on that bandwagon. I’m not exactly sure why I finally decided to get serious about the effort a couple of years ago. I guess I had a little space in my schedule, and naturally, I had to call it theCaldwell Courier Journal. With that titling idea in place, I instantly had all kinds of ideas, and for about a year, I released the emails at the beginning of each month.
The content was a hodgepodge of articles, silly stuff, and reminders about releases. I had a blast doing it, and maybe that came through because the open rate was ridiculously high. It took a lot of time to do on my end, though, and when my schedule got jammed up again, I had to give it up.
