Page 15 of The Space Between

"Help you?"

"Maybe," Jo says, glancing around to make sure that no one is within earshot. "I'm actually looking for a book, but I don't have a title." She lowers her voice. "It's about romance."

The librarian suppresses a smile, lowering her own voice as she steps closer to the counter. "I think I know what books you're looking for, but we're not going to have them here, unfortunately. There's a bookshop in Orlando that carries them." The librarian takes a slip of paper and a short, stubby pencil from a box. She scribbles on the paper and slides it to Jo. "I particularly enjoyedAny Man Will DoandLust Can't Hide," she whispers.

Jo glances at the slip of paper and sees the name of a bookstore. "Oh," she says as embarrassment washes over her. "No, not this kind of book."

The librarian blinks at her. "No?"

"Well," Jo says, folding the paper in half. She doesn't want to insult the librarian, who has immediately taken her into her confidence, but she has something else in mind. "Actually, I'm writing romance, and I hoped that there were some books on how to write--how to write short stories, books…I don’t know. Something like that."

This obviously pleases the librarian. "A writer! I love that. And I'm intrigued." She comes out from behind her counter and crooks a finger for Jo to follow her. They walk back into the stacks as the librarian leads the way, chattering about her favorite books, her favorite authors, and how much she's always loved romance novels. When she comes to a stop, it's in front of a long stack.

"Any book about how to write will be found here in the 800s," she says, running her long fingers over the spines of the books. "You can find out more about how to write poetry, how to work on exposition, narrative craft, plot..." She trails off and then smiles at Jo. "And if you're really interested in writing, then you should consider taking an evening class at the college. One of my neighbors is a professor there, and he teaches creative writing. Just an idea!" she says cheerily, putting her hands into the pockets of the smock she wears over her dress. "And," the librarian nods at the slip of paper she'd given Jo with the name of the bookstore in Orlando, which Jo is still holding in one hand, "you might want to check that place out anyhow." She winks. "Just for inspiration."

Jo smiles and slips the piece of paper into her purse. "Thank you for all your help."

"Anytime!" the librarian says, walking away and leaving Jo in the stacks alone.

She's never considered writing anything likethat—not that there's anything wrong with it, and she's quite sure that there's a time and place to read it—but the stories in her heart are definitely more about emotional feelings than physical ones. She selects a book about mood and tone, and another on plot pacing and then goes in search of her children.

When they arrive home that afternoon, much to the delight of the kids, the egg has indeed hardened in the pan outside in the sun, but Jo forbids them from taking a bite of it to find out whether it’s truly cooked all the way through.

She laughs to herself all afternoon at how easily amused they are by it being hot enough outside to fry an egg, and the kids regale Bill with the story all through dinner and up until bedtime.

Jo half listens, but her mind is already elsewhere as she thinks ahead to taking out her typewriter and getting down to business.

Winston put a hand to Maxine's cheek, cupping it gently as he looked into her eyes.

"I'm glad we're here," he said, his lips moving closer to hers. They were sitting on a blanket on the roof of their house, staring up at the nighttime sky together on a hot July evening. "I know it was a lot to uproot our lives, and I know you weren't happy here at first, but Maxine, you've given me the biggest gift: your faith. Your trust. Your support."

Maxine leaned her cheek into her husband's hand and let her eyes close, tears gathering on the fringe of her lashes ashe pressed his warm lips to her forehead. "Home is wherever you are," Maxine whispered. "As long as you're happy and the children are happy, I can make a home anywhere."

Jo stops typing and picks up the book that's resting next to her typewriter. It's the one on plot and pacing, and she opens to a spot that's marked with a scrap of paper. She skims the paragraph and picks up a pencil, jotting down some ideas in her notebook.

It's late, and everyone else is sleeping, as usual. Jo is sipping ice water as she writes, and even with the air-conditioning on full blast, she's still sweating through the back of her knee-length, sleeveless satin nightie. She holds the cold, icy glass to one cheek, letting it cool her as she remembers the evening she and Bill had spent on the roof of this very house. She's trying not to simply recreate their lives together in her stories, but it's hard not to let the details of her own reality seep into her words. Winston and Maxine have two kids, and in the story, Jo has made Maxine a teacher who gives up her job in New Jersey to move south with her husband when he gets hired by NASA. And while Bill has an ex-wife who is in a full-time residential facility in Arizona, Winston has a wife who'd succumbed to cancer. It's all close to her life (close enough that Bill might not like it) but it's not exact.

Jo taps her pencil eraser on the page as she thinks. What can she do to make their story veer away from hers and Bill's? She knows he hasn't read any of her work and that he probably won't even ask questions, but if he ever did, she wouldn't want him to be mad. Or feel betrayed--after all, the details of their life together and of their marriage are sacred.

Jo stands and paces across the kitchen barefoot. Outside, the lights of the pool are on, giving the water an eerie glow. She stands in front of the sliding door, looking out at the water as it ripples ever so slightly.

An idea comes to her, and she rushes back over to the typewriter, gathering her nightgown around her as she sits and immediately gets back to typing.

"I have a question," Maxine said, pulling away from Winston and looking up at him. The stars behind him winked at her hopefully, though Maxine felt nothing but a pit in her stomach that wouldn't go away. "Who is that woman?" she asked, swallowing hard against the rising bile in her throat. "The one who called here for you."

Winston frowned as he looked at her, and Maxine could see a curtain fall behind his eyes. She knew her husband well enough to know when a lie was coming.

"She's no one," he said, shrugging and turning to watch as a car drove down the street below. "Just a data entry person in my department. I'd entered some numbers wrong, and they were trying to fix it."

"That late on a week night?" Maxine pushed, feeling as she did that what she was about to get was not an answer, but a stonewall.

Winston stood up and reached for Maxine's hand abruptly. "Here," he said, pulling her up. "Let's just go in."

The romance of the evening had been ruined; Maxine felt it, and from the way Winston snatched up the blanket and tossed it to the ground below, she knew that there was no hope of retrieving the same feeling that had been growing between them.

They went to sleep that night with an invisible divide between them, and Maxine was no closer to getting an answer to the one thing that was gnawing at her: who was that woman on the other end of the line? And why had she known, instinctively, that this faceless woman could cause her trouble?

Jo stops typing again, and this time when she looks out at the pool, she knows exactly what she's doing: she's using thisstory as a way to flesh out her own feelings and her own fears. She's introducing the worries and questions and dilemmas she faces in her own life, and using her characters like paper dolls to act out the story and help her to understand. Is that right or wrong? Is it something that other writers do? Jo doesn't have the answers to those questions, but she can see clearly that she's writing herself into a corner here—but she’s also writing herself out of her own personal confusion and misery.

---