Indelible by Laurie Buchanan (classic children's novels .TXT) 📗

as Libby practiced the smooth and slow motions in their backyard. To his young eyes, it was impossible to tell when one posture ended and another began.

An almost imperceptible ripple in the air lifts the hairs on Mick’s arms. Raising his eyes, he sees a thin, silvery curtain in the distance—a line of rain. There won’t be much outdoor work today. Maybe, just maybe, I’ll hole up in my place and continue working on the manuscript.

Thanks to Libby’s artistic flair, the interior colors of Mick’s cabin—indigo and cream, with a few splashes of soft yellow—welcome him home at the end of each day. Libby was careful to keep his masculine taste in mind.

With reading as a favorite pastime, his well-used books fill the built-in shelves. A French club chair and ottoman with worn leather upholstery sit on a muted rug facing the stone fireplace. The exposed logs and wooden beams of the rustic interior create a restful atmosphere, a perfect retreat for encouraging the flow of thoughts.

It also places him a stone’s throw from Thoreau—Jason’s cottage. I wonder what he’s been up to, Mick thinks, as Libby brings the session to a close.

Blinders on, heads bent with focused determination, each of the guests—except one—work on their manuscripts. Sedulous wordsmiths, they hunker over laptops in their cottages throughout the day.

The sky with its sleepy shade of gray-blue and the intermittent rain is conducive to creativity.

Taking brief, periodic breaks to stretch and grab a quick bite from their well-stocked kitchens, thousands of words assemble themselves on pages, some orderly, others haphazard, as the writers in residence paint vivid word pictures.

Fran sits at the large, smooth, walnut desk in Dickens cottage baring her soul in the pages of Mother in Waiting: The Stigma of Childlessness. Even though she pauses now and then to wipe tears from her eyes, she finds the view of the woods gentle and encouraging. She’s glad she’s here at Pines & Quill where she feels positive internal and external changes taking place. She looks at her left hand and smiles at the white line on her finger, sans wedding ring.

In Brontë cottage, Cynthia slips her “writing pendant”—a beautiful, multi-faceted piece of blue topaz—over her head. While doing so, she speaks out loud. “I invite the energies of inspiration and creativity to flow. Thank you, and so it is.”

She stretches out her long legs on the cozy, jewel-toned window seat cushion. Now and then her toes wiggle with excitement as her manicured fingernails breeze across her laptop keys, breathing life into the pages of Guide Lines: The World In the Palm of Your Hands.

With brows knit in concentration, Emma’s eyes are laser-focused on her laptop screen. Her fingers are a blur of movement. She’s glad to have Hemingway’s company.

He’s laying on the floor next to her wheelchair at the battered oak desk in Austen cottage. Whimpers and twitching paws are sure signs that Hemingway’s enjoying a dream adventure while Emma forges ahead in Moving Violations: A Sassy Look at Life from a Wheelchair.

After being left high and dry by Hemingway who apparently doesn’t appreciate his pacing, Mick settles himself at his desk. At first, it feels as though he’s taken two steps backward in Collateral Damage: Incidental Devastation. But then he finds his footing, gains ground, and makes significant strides with the refrigerator’s strangely mellifluous noise keeping him company.

Smelling of shaving cream, coffee, and a ghost of whiskey, Jason is the first to arrive at the main house at ten minutes to six. Dressed in a fresh shirt and cargo-style khaki pants, he enters the kitchen and extends Libby a bouquet of breathtaking flowers: orange roses and alstroemeria, yellow Asiatic lilies, pink Matsumoto asters, hot pink miniature gerberas, and green button spray chrysanthemums—accented with oregonia and solidaster—arranged with care in a substantial crystal vase.

Libby is taken aback. “Oh, my goodness,” she says.

Not one to miss details, Jason notices her polish-free, well-manicured hands as she accepts his offering. She’s dressed for comfort in leggings and a knee-length, tropical print tunic with turn-back cuffs and a shirttail hem.

“Thank you so much. To what do we owe this beautiful arrangement?”

“It’s my way of apologizing for having missed dinner last evening. I got caught up in my manuscript and ended up burning the midnight oil. I found Belle Flora in town today, and hopefully, they’ve helped me save the day,” he says through a carefully assumed, penitent smile.

Fran arrives as Libby’s accepting the rippled crystal vase with a scalloped pewter rim.

Jason’s pleased with Fran’s response to his gift.

“It’s the most exquisite bouquet I’ve ever seen,” she gushes.

Jason also notices that Fran’s a softer, more relaxed version of herself than when she first arrived. He takes in her hip-length, cotton gauze tunic in dusty aqua over wide-legged, chocolate gauze pants and sandaled feet. She would be a delight to eliminate.

Clearing the centerpiece and replacing it with the stunning, flower-laden vase, Libby looks up when Mick and Emma arrive, their faces still bearing sunshine. The artistic side of Libby appreciates Emma’s taste in clothes. She’s wearing a scoop-necked willow-gray tank paired with a soft, drapey avocado topper that sets off Emma’s auburn hair and moss-green eyes.

Turning to Mick, Libby’s heart nearly bursts at the happiness shining from her brother’s eyes. Sliding a knowing, sideways glance at Niall, her eyes say, See? I told you so!

The floor-length, relaxed elegance of Cynthia’s West Indies caftan underscores her statuesque figure as she enters the kitchen. The dark taupe fabric accents her liquid-brown eyes as she takes in her surroundings without effort. Notwithstanding the chunky necklace around her slender throat that seems to dance with bedazzlements, her intuitive radar kicks into overdrive.

Something is wrong. Something menacing. I can’t quite put my finger on it. How imminent, she can’t tell. Positioning herself next to Jason, silent warning bells begin to clang, putting her heart and head on red alert. Keeping her face a pleasant mask,