Page 17 of My Ex-Best Friend's Wedding

“Dad’s out!” I yell back, and I’m careful not to think about where he’s been spending his evenings while I’ve been locked away up here. “Try the leftovers!”

“They’re gone! Finished them yesterday.” She gives up yelling and texts,We’re out of everything. The cupboard is bare!

There’s a stab of guilt. For a moment I consider getting up, getting dressed, and running to the grocery store. I’ve gone to great lengths to make sure my family, and especially my children, feel loved and cared for. In fact, it’s been my number one mission to be everything my parents weren’t. Which means being loving and most of all “present”—not just emotionally but physically.

Except Lily’s not a baby bird or a helpless child any longer and I have not abandoned her. She’s sixteen and has a driver’s license. She can take my car and drive to Food-a-Rama for groceries or stop for a sandwich at Subway or drive through McDonald’s. Or she can order a pizza. In fact, it occurs to me that she’s now capable of doing anything that I can do. And that I was not actually born with a cooking, cleaning, or laundry gene that no one else in this family possesses.

Busy here. Please pick up some groceries and something for dinner, I text back.

I picture the shock on her face and half expect to hear her pounding up the stairs to try to guilt or con me into coming down to solve her food emergency. But a few seconds later the front door slams. Feeling victorious I turn my thoughts back to the screen. Where Whitney, who has wanted nothing but Heath’s love since I created her, suddenly doesn’t seem so sure that she wants to marry him and move to Montana to help support his dream of becoming a park ranger. In fact, as I flip back and skim the stack of manuscript pages that I’ve printed out, I notice that although she’s still twenty-one she doesn’t really sound that young anymore. Somehow she’s evolved into someone who wants more than love, marriage, and children. And who may not want to walk away from her own dreams in order to help Heath fulfill his.

Shit.

I have no doubt other writers’ characters march across the page to the beat of their creator’s drum, becoming exactly who and what they’re expected to be. For about five seconds I wish Ihad someone who could tell me how to keep them in line and how I can counter this rebellion.

My head recommences its pounding as I berate myself for letting this happen. For having wasted fifteen years on one book that I can’t seem to finish and that will most likely never be published or read by anyone but me.

What is the point? Why do I even care anymore? My eyes blur with tears while I seriously consider quitting once and for all. Walking away and getting on with my real life. Only the idea of quitting is even more demoralizing than this manuscript that I’ve lost control of.

As usual I straddle the middle ground between quitting right now and forging ahead right now. I tell myself that I’m not really deflating like a balloon even though I can feel the air seeping out of my lungs and my body shrinking and folding in on itself. I tell myself I’m just tired. That if I lie down for a brief nap things will be clearer and more positive when I wake up.

I stumble over to the daybed, shove the books and papers off it, and curl up on my side in a distinctly fetal position. It’s a wonder I don’t stick my thumb in my mouth.

My last semiconscious thought is that I do know a writer who deals with these issues on a daily basis and that she could give me pointers on how to handle Whitney and tell me how to make myself finish this bloody manuscript.

That writer will be here soon. Only I’d cut out my tongue before I’d let her know that I needed her.

Kendra

The Sandcastle

It’s still dark, the sun not yet up, when my phone rings that Saturday morning. It takes me a while to find and answer it.

“Kendra?” The voice belongs to Deanna Sanborne, a long-ago roommate and a best friend practically since the day I arrived in the Outer Banks. During the week I deliver muffins and cakes to her Dogwood Inn, a six-bedroom B and B in a beautifully restored Arts and Crafts home near the Manteo waterfront. I cook and serve breakfast there at least one Saturday a month, but I don’t typically arrive until seven thirty to begin serving at eight thirty. According to my bedside clock it’s only sixA.M.

“Is everything all right?”

“Yes. Sorry to bother you so early. I’m calling to ask if you could put a little extra pizzazz into this morning’s breakfast.”

“How much pizzazzier are we talking?” I’m sitting up now and swinging my legs over the side of the bed and trying to kick-start my brain so that I can remember what I have on hand.

“Pizzazzy enough to impress a hotel industry VIP whose management company puts out the definitive guide to upscale B and Bs and who’s started buying strategically placed properties up and down the Eastern Seaboard. I only found out late last night who he is.”

“Ummm, sure.” I don’t bother asking her if she hopes to sell or anything else, because as I get out of bed and head for the kitchen with the phone tucked under my chin I’m considering and rejecting menu ideas. “What do you have on hand?”

I hear the sound of her refrigerator opening as I reach the kitchen and open my own. “Two dozen eggs, orange juice and milk, some cheddar and spinach. Oh, and a bunch of red grapes.” There’s more background noise. “And I’ve got a couple of bottles of champagne here so I thought we might offer mimosas as well.”

“Sounds good. How many for breakfast? Or are we just sending something fabulous up on a tray?”

“I’ve got seven here besides him and I don’t want to be too obvious, so I’d like to serve everyone in the dining room like we normally do.”

“No problem. I’ve got sausage and fresh fruit and I can stop for potatoes and onions and any other basics I’ll need.” I set things on the counter then locate my recipe box. “I’ve gotta have at least a couple dozen assorted muffins and breakfast breads in the freezer that I keep for emergencies. What time are we aiming for?”

“We’ll stick with eight thirty. I just wanted to give you a heads-up.”

“No worries.” I stumble toward the bathroom. “As long as there’s coffee waiting and you’re willing to assist, we’re good.”

“Great. Thanks so much.” The relief in her voice tells me just how important this is to her.

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