"Where are your pages, Ivy?"
Ivy Blake winced at the snap of her agent's voice on the other end of the phone. Marianne was pulling out her stern, mom—of—three tone. That was never good. "They're coming."
At some theoretical, future time that was actually true.
"You've been saying that for weeks. And you've been avoiding me. You only do that when the words aren't flowing."
You have no idea.
"The book's been giving me a smidge of trouble." Understatement of the century. "But I promise, I'm nearly done." Flagrant lie. Ivy wondered if Marianne's Momdar was sounding an alarm. Ivy's own mama had an Eyebrow of Doom that could be heard over the phone when engaged.
"You have to give me something to give to Wally. I can't hold him off much longer."
Walter Caine—who inexplicably went by Wally, a fact that made it utterly impossible to take him seriously—was currently at the top of Ivy's avoid—at—all—costs list. Her editor was brilliant but a bit like a banty rooster when he got angry. He had deadlines. Of course, Ivy understood that. Everything about publishing involved deadlines. He'd absolutely blow a gasket if he knew she was still on Chapter One. The thirteenth version.
It was probably a sign.
"Next week." Was this what it felt like to be in debt to a bookie? Making absurd promises in hopes of avoiding broken kneecaps or cement shoes? Except in this case it was Ivy's career, not her actual life, in danger.
"Ivy." Marianne drew her name out to four syllables, which was tantamount to being middle—named by her mama.
Ivy hunched her shoulders. "I swear I'm finishing up the book. In fact, I'm taking a special trip for the express purpose of focusing on nothing but that until it's done."
Where the hell had that come from? She had no such plans. Apparently in lieu of offering up reasonable plot, her brain had decided to just spew spontaneous, bald—faced lies.
Her agent sighed. "Fine. How can I reach you?"
In for a penny…
"Oh, well, you can't. There's no internet up there, and I was warned that cell service is spotty. The cabin has absolute privacy and no distractions. It's perfect."
Actually, something like that did sound perfect. If she went totally off the grid, Marianne and Wally wouldn't know where to send the hitman when she missed her deadline. The one that had already been pushed back once.
You've never missed a final deadline, and you're not going to start now.
Marianne offered another beleaguered sigh. "Find an internet connection and check in on Monday or I'm hunting you down, understand?"
"Yes, ma'am." Ivy had no doubt she meant it. Despite her trio of children and the stable of other writers she managed, Marianne would absolutely get herself on a plane and show up on Ivy's doorstep if she thought it would get results.
"I'll do what I can to hold off Wally. This morning's starred review at Kirkus for Hollow Point Ridge should appease him for a little while. You know he loves nothing more than seeing you rack up acclaim."
"Because acclaim means dollar signs for us all," Ivy recited. As if she could forget that it was more than just her depending on income from her books.
"Damn straight. I forwarded the review to you. Check your email before you go," Marianne ordered.
She'd already seen the review this morning. Somebody had posted it in her fan group, which had generated a discussion thread that was already twenty pages deep about where she planned to go with the series next. But bringing that up would only prolong this conversation.
"Will do."
"Happy writing."
For just a moment, Ivy considered coming clean and telling Marianne the stark, unvarnished truth. Her agent was, ultimately, meant to be her advocate. But right now, she was only more pressure. So Ivy held in her snort of derision as she hung up the phone and tossed it on her desk.
It had been a long damned time since she'd been happy writing. The truth was, she had a raging case of writer's block, and she was already weeks past her initial deadline. That wasn't like her at all. She was a machine. Her first three books had poured out of her. The next three were each successively bigger, deeper, harder. And with each had come more success and higher expectations from her publisher, who wanted to capitalize on momentum to maximize sales. That was a business decision on their part. She was a commodity. Ivy understood that. And up to now, she'd been able to work with it.
But along with the professional pressures had come the rabid excitement of her fans. They loved the world she created, the characters she'd given them, and not a day went by when she didn't get emails and messages on social media demanding to know when the next book was coming because OMG they needed it yesterday! They had no idea the months, sometimes years of work that went into each book. What ate up her entire life occupied theirs for mere hours or days. And their insatiable enthusiasm was just one more stone piling on and crushing her with stress.
This book wasn't like the other six in her best—selling series, and she just hadn't found the right hook yet.
She would. Of course, she would. She just needed some more time and less pressure.
"Why don't you ask for world peace, while you're at it?"
Dropping into her office chair, Ivy shoved back from the desk and rolled across her office to the massive whiteboard occupying one wall. At this stage, the whole surface should've been covered with color—coded sticky notes detailing the assorted character arcs and how they drove and were driven by the action of the external plot. But it was empty other than the scrawl of "Michael" at the top in red marker. Below it a bright yellow note read, You are a stubborn, taciturn asshole, who won't talk to me. In a fit of pique and stress cleaning earlier in the week, she'd stripped away version number twelve of her plot. Now she couldn't face the blank space.
Page fright was so much a real thing.
Maybe she should get away. Find one of those out—of—the—way cabins to rent, with no phone, no internet, no way to be crushed under the weight of other people's expectations. Maybe then she could hear herself think.
Rolling back to her computer, she opened a browser, compulsively clicking on the little envelope that told her she had seventy—nine unread messages.
She'd cleared her inbox this morning.
"Why do I do this to myself?"
She started to close it out when a subject line caught her attention.
Come visit the brand new spa at The Misfit Inn!
She'd forgotten about The Misfit Inn. Last summer, she and several girlfriends had taken a weekend trip up there in spontaneous celebration of Deanna's divorce. The owners had mentioned they were considering adding a spa. Ivy had signed up for the mailing list and promptly forgotten about it. She opened the email, feeling the first hints of excitement as she read it. Okay, maybe that was desperation. But really? A spa? One set right in the gorgeous Smoky Mountains, just four short hours away? She desperately needed to relax. It had to be a sign from the Universe.
Someone answered on the second ring. "Thank you for calling The Misfit Inn. This is Pru. How can I help you?"
Ivy remembered Pru, the kind—hearted woman who'd done everything possible to make the inn feel like home.
"This is Ivy Blake. I don't know if you remember me, but a bunch of girlfriends and I stayed with y'all last summer for a Thank God I'm Divorced party weekend—"
"Deanna's group! Yes, certainly we remember y'all."
"Well, I got the email about the opening of the spa, and it did say call to ask about booking specials that covered the inn and spa, so here I am."
