Nerves of Steel

I don't know why my hands are trembling as I search my contacts for Rachelle Allen's number.  Its not like we lost touch after our adventure in Amish counrty and beyond.  If that week taught me anything, it was Rachelle was up for anything.  The thing is, I have news, albeit good news, but still it's unexpected.

 

Just hit the call button.  Just do it.  She's gonna love this.  Or, worse case scenario, she won't.  I've seen her temper and I don't want to be on the recieving end.  So, reluctantly, my finger presses down on the little telephone symbol and it is done.

 

One ring, two rings, then the third and as I'm about to hit disconnect, I hear it.  The red haired fancy Yankee is saying hello.

 

"I was just thinking about you," she says, her unmistakable New York accent coming in crisply through the phone.  "I was putting on those earrings you sent me when I was down and out."

 

"Good, I'm glad you liked them," I say, trying not to lose my nerve.  "I was thinking about you, too."

 

Either she is really in tune with me or my exended pause was my undoing.  "What's wrong?" she asks, her Jewish mother coming through in waves.  "I know you didn't call to talk about the weather."

 

"Nothing is wrong," I say, trying to put bravado into my voice.   "I have some news."

 

"Oy, what?  What's the news?"

 

"Remember how we joked around about writing a book about our adventure to last year's convention?"

 

"Yes," she says.

 

I clear my throat.  Just say it, you southern fried chicken shit.  "Well, I didn't think that would ever happen and I was having coffee with a friend, you know, just telling her about all the stuff we went through.  Just laughing, how I was convinced we were going to be slaughtered by the Amish, about crazy Jane.  I had my friend howling when I described you falling out of the buggy, and the horse ate your hat."

 

"It was a goat, but go on," she says.

 

"Right.  Well, after I was done and we were getting ready to leave, this woman comes after me.  She apologized for eavesdropping, but asked if I had thought of writing it down.  Or having someone else write it.  Well, I said, "Funny you should mention that, because I am a writer.  Well, she perked right on up when she heard that."

 

Rachelle clears her throat.  "This is a fascinating story but I have a lesson in about twenty minutes, so, maybe you could call me back tonight."

 

I was losing her.  Just say it.  "She wants us to write it."

 

"Who?  Who is she?"

 

"Diane Lennon.  She's with Random House.  Well a subsidiary of it.  She wants to publish it!"

 

"What!  Are you joking?  If you're joking, I will never speak to you again."  I could hear the excitement in Rachelle's voice.

 

"I would never joke about something like this.  I promise you, this is one hundred percent legit."

 

"That's awesome.  I'll get some notes together, and maybe next week we can start formulating a plan," she says.

 

Here is the problem.  This is the make or break part of the whole plan.  "Well, now, here's the thing.  She wants three chapters by the end of the month."

 

"It's the sixteenth.  Did you remind her that we both have jobs and families?  That not every writer is as prolific as Stephen King."

 

"I did.  Here was her solution.  Renting a house for the two of us for one week, where we could work, undisturbed."

 

"Did she say where this house was?"

 

I smile.  Here is where my genius shines through.  "She did.  It's here, on the Outer Banks."

 

I can hear Rachelle stammering, trying to formulate a protest, but I know I can push her past her doubts and the multitude of reasons that would prohibit her from agreeing.  I had already talked myself through.  "The ocean, Rachelle.  Soft breezes, the lulling sounds of the waves as they crash onto the sand.  Close your eyes, imagine a seagull calling out overhead, as the sun warms your pale Northern skin."

 

She doesn't say anything for a few seconds.  "Damn it.  I've got nothing.  I'll talk to Bobby. If he's okay with it, and if I can reschedule each of my lessons...I'm in.  This is completely crazy, but I'm in."

 

 

As I sit on my porch, writing in my journal, I tap the pen to my chin.  The last couple of years have really been something.  They always say, write about what you know.  We'll be doing that.  I wonder what I'll get out of this whole experience.  I wonder if Rachelle and I will still get along like we did.  This is like a crazy dream where you wake up, and desperately try to go back to sleep, trying to pick up where the dream left off.  If nothing else, it's a week's vacation.  I'm determined to look for that silver lining.

 

My husband's car comes around the corner.  Now, to tell him.  This should be easy.  The hard part is done.  Getting Rachelle on board was the goal.  I wet my lips and finger comb my hair.  I channel Bridget Bardot and Marilyn Monroe and stand to lean over the railing.  "Hey, handsome," I say, trying to put as much sex appeal into my voice as humanly possible.  "Why don't you come up here and tell my about your day?"

 

He stops and looks up.  "Tell you about my day.  Here it is in one word.  It sucked."  He nods his head and goes in the house through the downstairs door.

 

I sink back into my chair and sigh.  I formulate a new plan.  Just tell him.