many authors, completing a coherent synopsis was the equivalent of a rodeo cowboy staying atop a bucking bull for thirty minutes.
8
I DROVE FASTER THAN usual on the way home. As butterflies swarmed my stomach, I couldn’t decide if I was more excited or scared about the prospect of meeting with Kree Vanderpool. This opportunity was more than I could ever have hoped for, but a black cloud marred my elation. A synopsis by Sunday.
Holy moly.
Writing a synopsis might not be a huge hurdle for every writer. For me, who changed my mind about the plot every two paragraphs, it was a problem. If I wanted to succeed as an author, I had to focus and make concrete decisions for once in my life.
I yawned so hard that my eyes watered, reminding me how little sleep I’d had the night before. Of all the times for my big chance to arrive. I was the world’s worst at blocking distractions. I had to set aside the questions running through my brain—everything from who killed Bobby Joe and what had happened to Vicki Palmer so many years ago to why Claire Dubois wasn’t at work today—and concentrate on my novel. Could I do that? Good Lord, I hoped so.
I took a deep, calming breath as I turned onto Traveler’s Lane, determined to head straight to my cottage and immerse myself in writing. For two days, I would put everything else out of my head. A mere two days.
Approaching the Venice cottage, I noticed a gray Tundra pickup in the parking slot. Venice had been marked as vacant when I scanned the schedule earlier, but we had walk-ins from time to time.
A blond man sat on the Adirondack chair out front, his long, denim-clad legs propped on the porch railing. I slowed the car to a crawl, succumbing to the distraction. I couldn’t get as good a look at the man as I would have liked, but then he probably had a cute little wife or girlfriend inside.
Irrelevant information, Sabrina. You need to write.
I watched the man, surreptitiously I hoped, as I drove by. He tipped a bottle to his lips, then looked straight at me and toasted me with it. I gave him a little wave and nudged the gas, embarrassed that he’d caught me watching.
I rounded the next bend, surprised to see Thomas standing alongside the road. His Wrangler was parked at an angle near the pump house that kept water flowing through a decorative man-made waterfall. He motioned for me to stop, so I pulled in behind his vehicle and put the car in park. I lowered my side window as he approached.
“What’s up?” I said. “You need help?”
He leaned down to look at me, his face shaded by his straw hat. “You seen a black cat around here?”
My heart skipped a beat as I remembered his attitude about the legendary black cat. “Uh, no. Why do you ask?”
“Heard the girl in Barcelona talking to Rowena about a cat,” he said. “If El Gato Diablo is here at the cottages, I need to do something.”
“Something like what?” My pulse kicked up. “It’s a harmless cat who happens to be black.”
“So you
have
seen it?”
“There’s no cat around here.” I shook my head, then felt like a traitor for not taking a more aggressive stance. “And so what if there
is
a cat, Thomas? This is a lovely place for a cat to live. In fact, we could stand to adopt several cats. I’m sure the guests would—”
“
Not
El Gato Diablo,” he said. “People come here to relax and unwind. We need to keep them safe.”
Good grief.
I wanted to voice my frustration, but decided I’d be wasting my breath with him. Better to discuss the topic with Aunt Rowe. She liked animals, and I was pretty sure the only reason she didn’t have pets of her own was because she used to travel a lot. She could convince Thomas to back off.
“What exactly do you plan to do?” I said.
“I’m gettin’ me a big net,” he said.
The thought of Thomas trying to catch a cat in a net made me stifle a grin.
“And a couple traps,” he added.
“You can’t do that,” I shrieked.
He motioned with his
8
I DROVE FASTER THAN usual on the way home. As butterflies swarmed my stomach, I couldn’t decide if I was more excited or scared about the prospect of meeting with Kree Vanderpool. This opportunity was more than I could ever have hoped for, but a black cloud marred my elation. A synopsis by Sunday.
Holy moly.
Writing a synopsis might not be a huge hurdle for every writer. For me, who changed my mind about the plot every two paragraphs, it was a problem. If I wanted to succeed as an author, I had to focus and make concrete decisions for once in my life.
I yawned so hard that my eyes watered, reminding me how little sleep I’d had the night before. Of all the times for my big chance to arrive. I was the world’s worst at blocking distractions. I had to set aside the questions running through my brain—everything from who killed Bobby Joe and what had happened to Vicki Palmer so many years ago to why Claire Dubois wasn’t at work today—and concentrate on my novel. Could I do that? Good Lord, I hoped so.
I took a deep, calming breath as I turned onto Traveler’s Lane, determined to head straight to my cottage and immerse myself in writing. For two days, I would put everything else out of my head. A mere two days.
Approaching the Venice cottage, I noticed a gray Tundra pickup in the parking slot. Venice had been marked as vacant when I scanned the schedule earlier, but we had walk-ins from time to time.
A blond man sat on the Adirondack chair out front, his long, denim-clad legs propped on the porch railing. I slowed the car to a crawl, succumbing to the distraction. I couldn’t get as good a look at the man as I would have liked, but then he probably had a cute little wife or girlfriend inside.
Irrelevant information, Sabrina. You need to write.
I watched the man, surreptitiously I hoped, as I drove by. He tipped a bottle to his lips, then looked straight at me and toasted me with it. I gave him a little wave and nudged the gas, embarrassed that he’d caught me watching.
I rounded the next bend, surprised to see Thomas standing alongside the road. His Wrangler was parked at an angle near the pump house that kept water flowing through a decorative man-made waterfall. He motioned for me to stop, so I pulled in behind his vehicle and put the car in park. I lowered my side window as he approached.
“What’s up?” I said. “You need help?”
He leaned down to look at me, his face shaded by his straw hat. “You seen a black cat around here?”
My heart skipped a beat as I remembered his attitude about the legendary black cat. “Uh, no. Why do you ask?”
“Heard the girl in Barcelona talking to Rowena about a cat,” he said. “If El Gato Diablo is here at the cottages, I need to do something.”
“Something like what?” My pulse kicked up. “It’s a harmless cat who happens to be black.”
“So you
have
seen it?”
“There’s no cat around here.” I shook my head, then felt like a traitor for not taking a more aggressive stance. “And so what if there
is
a cat, Thomas? This is a lovely place for a cat to live. In fact, we could stand to adopt several cats. I’m sure the guests would—”
“
Not
El Gato Diablo,” he said. “People come here to relax and unwind. We need to keep them safe.”
Good grief.
I wanted to voice my frustration, but decided I’d be wasting my breath with him. Better to discuss the topic with Aunt Rowe. She liked animals, and I was pretty sure the only reason she didn’t have pets of her own was because she used to travel a lot. She could convince Thomas to back off.
“What exactly do you plan to do?” I said.
“I’m gettin’ me a big net,” he said.
The thought of Thomas trying to catch a cat in a net made me stifle a grin.
“And a couple traps,” he added.
“You can’t do that,” I shrieked.
He motioned with his
Similar Books
