Fearless Hope: A Novel (5 page)

It was also the last place Titus had taken them on a family outing, only days before his death.

Undecided, she held the reins of Copy Cat, the strong-willed horse with which Claire had recently gifted her.

“Please, Mommy?”

It was barely two weeks ago that the four of them were there. Titus had played with the children and made her laugh. She had told the children stories about growing up on the farm. How happy they had been together!

It would be painful to go back there so soon, remembering the family day they had enjoyed, but then, everything was painful these days. She turned Copy Cat’s head toward the house her mother and father had once owned. The horse kept up a brisk trot in the early-November weather. The fresh air and sunshine did feel good. She felt her heart gaining courage as she made this small journey with her children.

No one would ever catch her lying abed and feeling sorry for herself again.

L
ogan could not get the Amish house out of his head. It was so much on his mind, he even brought it up during his business lunch.

“I don’t get it.” His agent, Harry Drummond, dabbed at his mouth with a napkin. “If all you want is a country retreat, there are plenty of farmhouses closer than Ohio.”

“True.” Logan drained his wineglass and refilled it from the bottle he’d ordered. “But this place felt . . . right.”

“You actually think living there might help you write?” Harry was a small, wiry man with penetrating gray eyes that were famous for seeing through authors’ excuses.

“I don’t know,” Logan said, “but it’s worth a shot. I haven’t been able to compose a decent paragraph in weeks.”

“Then by all means buy it.”

“Seriously?”

Harry leaned back and studied him. “Seriously.”

“Why are you saying that?” Logan asked. “Even I don’t think it’s a good idea, and I’m the one who wants to live there . . . at least part of the time.”

“I have some news that might impact your decision.” Harry
quietly dropped a bomb. “Your publisher is debating whether to extend another contract to you.”

Logan was flabbergasted. “I’m a bestseller . . .”

“Not anymore.” The agent took a sip of water, the only beverage Logan had ever seen him drink. “Your last two are not earning out your advances. In this economy, even a large publisher can’t afford to take a hit like that for long. If this next one is no better than the last two, I’m afraid you’re going to find yourself writing advertising copy in a cubicle.”

Harry’s voice was quiet, but his words were so harsh, it felt like he was shouting.

“I’ve known you for a long time, Logan,” Harry continued. “I helped you build a career. I watched you bury your grief over your wife’s death beneath a layer of well-written books. You’ve been a writing machine, and an excellent one, but from what I can see, the writing machine is broken. You’re burned out. I’m now watching a good writer bury himself in a bottle.”

Fear clutched at Logan’s heart. “I’m not an alcoholic.”

“Maybe not.” Harry glanced at the nearly empty wine bottle sitting between them. “But I’m convinced you’re halfway there.”

It was true, and Logan knew it.

“Here’s a thought.” Harry carefully folded his napkin and laid it on the table. “The brain is a lot like a computer. Sometimes it needs to reboot. I’m thinking that this longing you’ve developed for the Amish farmhouse might be your mind crying out for a rest. I find it interesting that you would be so drawn to a place where you won’t have easy access to electricity or the internet.”

Harry had a point. The feeling of peace that had overtaken him in that house was profound. Was it nothing more than his mind begging for rest?

“I suggest that you buy the place. Take a couple months completely off. Don’t touch your computer. Read other people’s books. Old books. Take some time to regroup.”

Harry rose from the table. Lunch was apparently over, the meeting adjourned. His agent was a busy man.

“What about my deadline?”

“I’ll talk them into pushing it back.” Harry pulled a sizable tip from his billfold and tossed it on the table. “Who knows? If this works out for you, I might send my other stressed-out clients over there. Perhaps I’ll take a sabbatical and visit you.”

“You have New York City in your veins.” Logan smiled. “You would hate it in Holmes County.”

“I don’t know about that.” Harry did not smile in return. “I get tired of the rat race, too. Going completely off the grid for a while sounds pretty good to me. Give it a try. Let me know how it goes. And it would be wise to get yourself dried out while you’re at it.”

As Logan watched the dapper little man walk away, he felt a sense of desperation. Harry was a polite, mild-mannered man, but he was
not
a friend to his clients. He could make or break a career, and he did not bother with authors who did not produce. A quietly spoken suggestion from Harry was as good as an ultimatum.

He had been warned. If Harry Drummond dropped him as a client, the whole publishing world would be watching and taking notes.

•  •  •

“I thought we were finished with this,” Marla said. “You’re not a farmer, Logan. You’ve never even had to mow a yard. What are you going to do with two hundred acres of Ohio farmland?”

“It isn’t about the farmland. It’s about my career. Harry
thinks buying the place as a sort of writer’s retreat might help me get back on my feet.”

“You have a nice office here . . .”

“Marla, I’ve paced the floor, stared out the window, walked around Manhattan, and written two of the worst books of my career here. I’m burned out, and I’m drinking too much. Something needs to change. I think going there for a while might help.”

“Couldn’t you just rent a room somewhere? Or stay in a hotel?”

“I could, but I don’t want to.” He struggled to explain without hurting her feelings. “I felt a peace in that house that I haven’t felt before. It’s hard to describe, and even harder for me to understand, but the déjà vu I felt there was nearly overwhelming. It was as though the very house itself was trying to welcome me. The second I walked in . . . I felt as though I had come home. I’ve not had that anywhere I’ve ever lived. I want to see if I can hang on to that feeling long enough to start writing well again.”

In spite of his attempts to explain, she took it personally.

“Is it me?” she asked. “Am I the problem?”

“No, honey. It isn’t you. I’m the one who’s the mess.”

“But it’s such a huge step. I mean, buying a house?”

“Which we can sell at a profit in a couple years,” he said. “It might or might not help me salvage my career, but you heard what Verla said. Property values are steadily going up in that area. Buying a house in Amish country isn’t exactly a bad investment.”

“Logan . . .” Marla’s voice became soft and careful, as though addressing an invalid. “I have the name of an excellent psychiatrist . . .”

“I promise you,” he said, “if this doesn’t work, you can hook me up with any shrink you want.”

“If you have to do this, I’ll try to understand, but”—Marla took his hand in hers—“I’ll miss you terribly.”

“You’ll come visit on the weekends, or I’ll come here. A lot of couples have long-distance relationships.”

“And a lot of couples break up because of it.”

“And a lot of couples break up who are together constantly. Creatively, I’m dead in the water right now, Marla. If I can’t get past this slump, or writer’s block, or whatever it is, you aren’t going to want to be around me anyway.”

“You really think this will help?” she asked.

“I have no idea,” he said. “But I have to try something. I can’t just keep doing what I’m doing.”

“Living with a writer is such an emotional roller coaster.” She heaved a sigh. “You’re up, you’re down, you’re sideways. Really, Logan. Some days you act like you’re the worst writer in the world, then there’s an award or a great review, and you think you’re God’s gift to literature. Then, about half the time we’re together, you act like you’re in another world.”

“Half the time I
am
in another world . . . the one that I’m making up.”

“Well . . .” She smiled. “At least you’re seldom boring.”

“So, I can call Verla?” he asked.

“How long do you expect to stay?”

“Harry said he’d push my deadline back a couple months, which gives me eight months before it’s due. I’ll work on getting the house fixed up, and after I’m finished with the book, we can spend long weekends there together from time to time. Maybe Verla could help us rent it out during tourist season. Who knows?” he teased. “Maybe you’ll fall in love with the place and want to move there and run a bed-and-breakfast.”

“A bed-and-breakfast? Me? Now I know you’re delusional.”

He grinned. “I’ll admit, there’s a downside to running a B&B. I suppose people actually expect you to cook them breakfast.”

“I’ll agree to this purchase under one condition,” she said.

“What’s that?”

“Promise me you won’t drink while you’re there.”

He hesitated. Could he promise such a thing?

“I’ll do my best.”

“Your best isn’t good enough. I know you keep your promises. Promise me that and I’ll agree to the house.”

He took a deep breath. “I promise.”

She handed him the phone. “Now you can call Verla.”

•  •  •

“Is Deborah Parker in?” he asked.

The receptionist was young, new, and wearing what some people called a “power suit.” She regarded him with open suspicion. Probably a prelaw student working her way through college. That tended to be this law firm’s preference. “Do you have an appointment, sir?” The tone of her voice suggested that she was not at all pleased with his presence.

“No, but if she’s not with a client, she’ll see me.”

She frowned. “Ms. Parker is working on an important case and asked not to be disturbed.”

“Trust me.” He bit back a grin. “It’s okay to disturb her. Just tell her Logan’s here.”

She cocked an eyebrow “Do you have a last name, sir?”

“Yes I do. It’s Parker.”

“As in . . .?”

“I’m her son.”

“Oh!” The girl scrambled to announce his presence. Within seconds he was seated across the desk from his mom.

His mother had long ago lost the need to wear anything remotely resembling a power suit. Deborah Parker, attorney-at-law, had built such a reputation of brilliant and ethical work over the years that she could get by with wearing pretty much
anything and no one ever complained. Today it was a long, flowing skirt, flats, and a loose-fitting pastel blouse. A beaded necklace made by the young daughter of one of her good friends was her only decoration. Her blond hair was short and sticking up today because she had a tendency to run her fingers through it when she was concentrating. She looked cool and comfortable and he felt an intense pride in her and what she had accomplished as a single mother.

“Who’s the new watchdog?” he said. “Seems devoted to her work.”

“Isn’t she ferocious?” his mother agreed. “Give that girl a few years and I’ll be trying cases against her . . . and losing.”

“You? Lose a case?” he said. “I doubt it.”

She chuckled. “It has been known to happen.”

“Rarely.”

“True.” She stood and adjusted the window blinds to keep the sun out of his eyes. “There. That’s better.”

His mother was reputed to be the best criminal lawyer in the city. It was his opinion that she was also the best in the state. She had a razor-sharp mind and the tenacity of a pit bull.

“I came to get you caught up on my plans,” he said. “I’m driving back to Ohio tomorrow to buy that house I told you about.”

She was jotting something on her desk calendar as he said that. He saw her hands still and a fleeting look of pain cross her face. “You’re sure about this?”

He told her about his conversation with his agent.

“I’m sorry you’re having such a struggle, Son,” she said. “But if this is what you need, I hope it turns out well.”

“Will you come visit?” he said. “It might be good for you to get away, too.”

“I—I can’t promise anything.” She averted her eyes.

“Is something wrong, Mom?”

“Nothing I can’t deal with.” To prove it, she turned on her megawatt smile.

He felt uneasy, but didn’t press. His mother would tell him if something was wrong . . . or she wouldn’t. Prying never did any good with her.

“The place has five bedrooms. I’ll make sure one of them is yours.”

“Thank you, dear,” she said. “You can buy a lovely Amish quilt for my bed.”

L
ogan fit the old-fashioned key into the front door and turned the lock. The door swung open and he stepped into the bare living room.
His
bare living room. The house seemed to quietly welcome him just like before.

He laid the new deed on the mantel and wandered into the kitchen, hands in his pockets, probing his heart to see if that feeling of peace he’d experienced the first time he’d entered the house was still there, and it was.

He closed his eyes and took a deep breath. Even the scent of the old house seemed familiar. He got the sense of hundreds of family meals eaten in this kitchen, of heads bowed, hands clasped. For a moment, he could almost hear the echoes of children’s voices from the past.

When he was a little boy, his mother had taken him to mass once a week at St. Patrick’s Cathedral in Manhattan. They always stayed in the back, and he always sat beside her on the pew while she prayed. She was not Catholic, and she didn’t go to confession, but she told him that sitting quietly inside that beautiful church for a while was enough to get her through the week.

He had asked her once what she prayed for. She smiled, ruffled his hair, and told him that she prayed for him . . . and
for forgiveness. As a child, he could not imagine anything his sweet mother might have done that could possibly need to be forgiven. As a teenager, he decided that she probably felt guilty for having given birth to him out of wedlock. As an adult, he saw a woman who smoked too much, worked too hard, was frequently impatient with people who wasted her time, but who would fight ferociously for her clients . . . or for him. He clearly saw her flaws, but he loved her. They could talk about practically anything. No subject was taboo, except his father. He was no closer to learning the man’s name than he had ever been. He had given up trying to pry it out of her.