Nora Goes Off Script(11)

“I don’t have a spare room. Go to a hotel.”

“Then I might as well go back to my apartment in New York. It feels like a hotel. And I hate hotels.”

He stops as we approach the open tea house door. “Wow.”

“You just spent two days in here.”

“I wasn’t looking.”

Determined to ignore him, I put my laptop down and line up my mug. I build the fire before sitting at the table, placing one pencil to the left of my laptop and tying my hair in a bun and securing it with the other. He stands staring at me.

“What’s all this?”

“It’s a ritual; I’m starting to write. Next comes the candle.”

“Oh boy.” He lays down on the daybed, arms folded behind his head. He’s facing the steel windows on the back wall, looking out into the forest. The sun’s at ten o’clock so the forest is getting a little light. Today the palette is a mix of white flowers and brand-new celery-green leaves. It’s beautiful to the point of distraction, which is why I write with my back to it. “I really like it here,” he says.

“You’ve said.”

“Let me stay a week, that’s seven thousand dollars, and you’ll never see me again.”

Seven thousand dollars would more than cover new gutters on my house. New gutters would cut back on the rot I’ve seen slowly encroach on my hundred-year-old windows. I might even be able to fix the leak I’ve been ignoring in the attic. There might be money left for a trip to Disney World this summer, a last-chance trip before I wake up with a couple of teenagers.

Alternatively, seven thousand dollars would take a bite out of next year’s real estate taxes, giving me the luxury of not having to scramble.

“Have you ever felt like you’re disappearing?” he asks. “Like you’re sure one day you’re going to wake up and find that the truest parts of yourself have been replaced by someone else’s plans?” Um, I just wrote a movie about it. I believe you read the script?

How many times did I wake up next to Ben and wonder, Where did I go? His face would reflect either indifference or mild distaste, and I’d try to remember back when I was a person who deserved to be loved. I didn’t know what Ben was looking at, but it wasn’t me. I was gone.

Leo’s face is wide open, and I can see he’s made himself vulnerable. He’s in some kind of a free fall that room service can’t fix.

“Yes, I have. But how is staying here going to help? Isn’t there a retreat or an ashram that would do a better job getting your feet on the ground? With better food? And professionals?”

“The sun comes up here, Nora.” A normal person, or frankly my ten-year-old, would tell him that the sun comes up everywhere. That’s how the sun works, genius. But I know exactly what he means. There is something about the way the sun comes up right here that seems to wash the whole world clean. It touches every single leaf as it rises, leaving me both grounded and inspired. It was here that I started to find my lost self again.

“Fine. Seven days. Six nights. Today is day one. You can stay out here.”

“Out here?” He stretches and looks around. “That’s perfect. Where will you write?”

“Maybe you could be somewhere else between ten and two on writing days?”

“Ten and two?”

“Yes. I have a loose schedule. The sunrise-and-coffee thing depends on the time of year of course, but then I get my kids to school by eight, run until nine, shower and clean up until ten. Write from ten to two. Nap until two forty-five, get my kids at three. Homework and dinner. Wheel of Fortune and wine. Bed.”

“Well, that does sound pretty loose. Spend much time in the military?”

“Hey, it works.” I’m well aware that I’m not going to get anything done today. Apparently, I have a houseguest, and it’s already ten-thirty so the schedule is shot. I’m staring at a blank page and the blinking cursor of doom, and I know I’m not going to be able to throw myself into a new project with the Sexiest Man Alive dozing behind me.

I look up and he’s staring at me. “Am I bothering you?” he asks, but doesn’t seem sorry.

“No. Well, maybe. I can just tell it’s not going to happen today.” I close my laptop and gather my pencils and mug. “I’m going to cut my losses and run some errands. You can rest out here.” There’s weight to the way I’ve said “rest,” and I hope he hasn’t noticed. Rest. As if a single man who wears makeup and plays make-believe for a living really needs a rest.

“Can I tag along?” he asks.

“On my errands?” I must have made it sound more interesting than it is. “I’m just going to the grocery store.”

“Sign me up,” he says, swinging his feet onto the floor. “I’d like to see your grocery store.”

He follows me into the kitchen, and I grab my bag and my car keys. I freeze at the top of the steps to the garage. There’s a little bit of bacon grease on the sleeve of my sweatshirt, and I’m okay with that, but I don’t want Leo Vance to see my filthy garage. I don’t want Leo Vance to get into my dirty Subaru.

“You okay?” he asks. I turn and look at him and am hit with the full impact of who he is. He sparkles a little, and I wonder if he still has any makeup on from yesterday’s shoot. Whatever it is he’s looking for in the country can probably be found on the porch, but he will find no healing in my garage. “Let’s go,” he says and opens the door to the stairway. He’s heading down ahead of me, and there’s no turning back.