Wednesday's Words: Pause. An Excerpt From Small Town Shenanigans

 

  Welcome to Wednesdays where I share a snippet from one of my stories using the previous day's word from the New York Times' game. WORDLE. Yesterday's WORDLE was PAUSE. 

Today's excerpt is from my new release, Small Town Shenanigans, the second book in my Small Town series.

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I found Harvey’s office door slightly ajar. I lightly knocked and poked my head inside. Harvey sat behind his desk. Beyond him, floor-to-ceiling windows framed the army of buildings blocking the fading sun.
Harvey, a forty-something with a thatch of gray hair and a nose that rivaled a pig’s snout glanced up and waved me inside. “Close the door.”
I did as he asked and took a seat across from him. He and Mom had been classmates at NYU, and his infatuation with Mom was the reason I had my job.
Harvey propped his elbows on his desk and steepled his fingers. “You’re familiar with the Musing saga.”
I sat forward and clutched my hands together. Musings had been my refuge during the long, lonely months after my father’s death. Even as a teenager, I recognized it as fiction, but its portrayal of eternal life—and love—had brought me peace. Getting lost in Nia and Camden’s story had saved me. “Who isn’t?”
“Exactly.” He narrowed his eyes. “You know I hired you because I feel I can trust you. I can trust you, can’t I?”
“Of course.”
Harvey slid a packet of papers across the desk.
“What’s this?”
“It’s a nondisclosure agreement.”
Curious and yet hesitant, I eyed it. “You know all therapists are–”
He interrupted me with a wave of his hand. “Special circumstances. Most people aren’t interested in who’s having an affair with whom, but what I’m going to tell you would, if the news leaked, cause a media storm.”
I laid my hand on the papers. “What are you going to tell me?”
“The true identity of MaryLu Bellemont.”
I sucked in a stunned breath. Of course, I knew Shusterfield House published the Musing books, but I never thought I’d be asked to work with the reclusive author. My heart sped, and I snatched up the papers with one hand and dug in my purse for a pen with the other.
Harvey leaned back in his chair with a smile. “I have your attention.”
“Absolutely,” I said, without lifting my eyes from the pages.
I could hear the grin in his voice. “I thought so. You know, I got your mom those signed copies of Musings for your fifteenth birthday.”
Now I looked up with affection. “And made me the envy of all the ninth-grade girls at Darien High.”
What would those girls say now if they knew I was going to be working with MaryLu Bellemont? But if I signed this, I wouldn’t be able to tell anyone. I clicked the pen anyway.
“You’ll need to go to Washington.” Harvey patted his desk.
“So, she really is from the Pacific Northwest?”
“He is.”
“He?” This surprised me. Bellemont had captured the hearts and imaginations of teenage girls all over the world, not an easy feat for the average male writer.
“He’s not anything like the persona we created for him,” Harvey said.
MaryLu Bellemont—a thirty-something woman with the creativity of JK Rawlings and Jennifer Lawrence’s wit and grace.
“What’s he like? Other than being a genius, of course.”
Harvey chuckled. “He’s the personification of a cranky old man. Sexist. Probably racist. He lives out in the boonies of Washington, and, as far as I know, the only ones who know his true identity are me, his grandson, and now, you.”
Harvey waved at me to sign the dotted line. I rifled through the papers, not even bothering to read what I was agreeing to. For all I knew, I had just signed away my first-born child, but I didn’t care. A dozen Musing memories flooded through my head. The night I sat on Aunt Monica’s deck, my cousins on either side of me. We were in Maine, the stars are brighter there because it’s not as populated as our home in Fairfield County, Connecticut, and we talked about the mythical creatures that may or may not have been hiding the woods behind Aunt Monica’s house. I also remember a Musing’s themed book club meeting, a gathering of girls from age twelve to eighty, laughing until we cried. Shortly after the first movie came out, a friend confided in me, I’d seen it seven times. I’m beginning to think I may be obsessed. For me, Musings became my safe place. I would hide beneath my bedcovers with a flashlight, reading all night.
If Harvey had told me Bellemont was a bazooka-totting neo-Nazi, I would still want to thank him for giving me an escape from my grief. I got a little teary-eyed thinking of my tweener self and her obsession with Musings. “You’re making my childhood dreams come true,” I told Harvey.
“Let’s talk once you get to Cascadia. You might think you’re walking into a nightmare. I have to warn you, Bob won’t be welcoming you with open arms. In fact, he might try to chase you off his property with a shotgun.”
I lifted an eyebrow and waited for Harvey to continue.
Harvey tapped his desk with the end of his pen. “Someone who knows, or has guessed his identity, is dropping clues.” His tone hardened. “Bob suspects we’re responsible.”
“Why?”
“Well, it makes sense in a twisted way. I’ve been…” he stopped to search for the correct word, “encouraging him for some time to write another book. It wouldn’t even have to be another Musings. If he wrote a directory of wounded cats, I could sell it if he would put his name on it. But he’s not interested.” He rolled his eyes and dropped his pen. “I get it. He’s old. Cantankerous as all get out. Likes his privacy. And he’s looking for someone to blame.”
“Sort of like Shrek protecting his swamp?”
Harvey pointed his pen at me. “Exactly.”
“And you want me to play the donkey?”
“Aw, my dear. You could never be a donkey. You’re too much your mother’s daughter.” He paused. “How is Justine, anyway?”