Chapter 8

8

H olden finished reading the pages he had written yesterday. A deep satisfaction filled him.

Maybe he wasn't so bad at this screenwriting after all.

He hadn't seen Finley on Monday. He'd made it clear when he dropped her off Sunday after their time at the ranch that he didn't expect them to spend time together every day. He knew she was busy. So was he. He reminded her that his schedule was much more flexible than hers, telling her to text him when she'd like to get together again.

They would see one another tomorrow night when he went to dinner at Braden and Harper Clark's house. Finley had told him the group of friends had met for dinner weekly for almost a year now. He hoped he wouldn't feel like the odd man out in the tight-knit group and hoped he might fit in. He already felt comfortable with Dax Tennyson and liked his wife Ivy quite a bit. The short time he'd been in Emerson's company had been pleasant.

He had received a text from an unknown sender last night. Upon reading it, he figured it came from Braden Clark, who told Holden he was looking forward to meeting him and hoped he liked fajitas, since that was what would be served. The text also gave the Clarks' address. Holden had replied he was eager to meet them and asked if he could bring anything. The response had been a healthy appetite, which had made him laugh.

Standing, he paced the small cottage, restless after all the tweaking he'd done, thinking he might drive into town and stop at Java Junction, seeing if the coffeehouse was conducive to writing new pages today.

When he arrived, he saw it was as Dax had told him. A few scattered patrons, all of them engrossed in laptops or tablets. Quiet blanketed the place, and he knew this would be an option when he wanted to write in peace.

Placing an order with the barista, he asked her about Dax's whereabouts.

"He usually works the morning rush and then takes off between ten and four," she told Holden. "That's when things pick up again. Can I give him a message for you?"

"No. I'm new in town, and Dax had told me Java Junction might be a place I could get some writing done. I just wanted to say hello if he might be here."

"Oh, you must be Holden. Dax mentioned to Sean and me that you might be coming in and to take good care of you. I'm Jeanine. It's nice to have you in Lost Creek. Go have a seat. I'll bring your coffee to you as soon as it's ready."

He retreated to the back corner and opened his laptop, calling up his document. By the time he had done so, Jeanine headed his way.

"Here you go, Holden. If you need anything else, you just let me know. Hope you get a lot written today."

He worked for a solid two hours, feeling good about the pages he completed. Occasionally, he referred to his chapter summary of Hill Country Homicide , something he wrote up at the end of each novel when he read through it a final time, looking for misspelled words or inconsistencies. Having written the source material, though, he was familiar with the turn of events and was learning quickly how to incorporate them into the specialized writing of a script.

Some of the dialogue for the screenplay he pulled straight from his novel. Dialogue was his favorite thing to write, so he spent loads of time honing it, making each sentence as perfect as possible. Since a screenplay consisted of a majority of dialogue, that was probably why he was writing faster than he'd originally expected. Still, he was learning to be brutal, omitting some of the language he was in love with, streamlining conversations to get the point across quickly and keep things crisp and fresh. He thought it would be easier to write a screenplay from scratch than having to eliminate so much of a novel. If the filmed version of Hill Country Homicide saw success, Holden wondered if he might balance both kinds of writing, continuing to write novels and yet keeping the door open to the possibility of writing future screenplays.

It helped that Wolf had already read and liked the pages Holden had completed, tweaking them only slightly. Based upon the director's adjustments, Holden had a better idea of what was required in a scene. It wasn't that he'd ridden this particular bike before, but he had an innate feel for what needed to go on the page. Though he'd worried he'd be tearing his hair out, agonizing as he wrote each line of the script, he now was getting into the rhythm and thought he would finish his first draft far earlier than he'd imagined.

Wolf would take a pass through it then, adding his own spin to things, and then return it to Holden for a final touch-up. The faster this process occurred, the better. Holden knew it was the rare actor who would agree to a role without having read a finished script. While some actors would take a part simply to work with Wolf, who had gone from up and coming to established, the leads cast in Homicide would definitely want to see the completed screenplay. He wanted to do all he could to contribute to the success of Wolf's first film helmed under his own production company.

He worked another half-hour and then decided to stop for the day, saving his document and closing it before powering down his laptop. Picking up his cell, which he deliberately kept face down when he worked so notifications wouldn't disturb him, he turned the ringer back on and saw he had a text from Finley just two minutes ago.

Ready for your first cooking lesson? If you can come over around four-thirty, I'm happy to give you a shot at spaghetti and meat sauce.

Quickly, he texted back.

You are speaking my language when you talk pasta. What can I bring?

He waited for her reply, feeling almost giddy that she'd reached out, knowing they would see each other tomorrow night.

Not a thing. See you soon!

Holden had an hour before he needed to be at her place. He spent the time going through his emails and skimming some news and entertainment sites. He'd always been a news junkie and kept up with entertainment news—especially book and movie notices—after he became published. He read the most recent list of books bought by publishing houses, seeing the name of one of his fellow Iowa workshop authors. Tad had been quiet, but Holden had liked him.

When he saw it was the first novel of Tad's to be published, and a three-book deal, he decided to touch base. He still had Tad's email address, and so he wrote a brief email, saying he'd seen the recent sale in the trades and congratulated Tad, telling him he couldn't wait to read it when it came out. Holden included his cell number in case Tad might like to contact him that way. He would be happy to answer any questions Tad had about navigating the publishing industry and only wished he'd had known someone who could have helped him do the same. While Evan was a terrific agent, he was not a hand-holder. Of course, now that Holden was Evan's leading client, the agent did take more time with him than when he was a new graduate from the Iowa workshop.

By now, it was time to head over to Finley's house. He got in the truck and popped a breath mint, hoping to rid himself of the strong coffee taste that lingered. He didn't know if the cooking lesson would involve any kissing, but he wanted to be ready, just in case.

Then he changed his mind, heading to the other side of the square and parking again in front of a florist. He popped in, selecting a mix of flowers, not knowing what they were. Hoping Finley would like them.

When he reached her house, he parked at the curb again, not wanting to block the driveway since he didn't see Emerson's car and figured she must still be at school.

He rang the doorbell, and Finley answered, her eyes widening when she saw the bouquet.

"You didn't have to bring me flowers, Holden." Still, her eyes lit up when he handed them to her.

"I wanted to add a little sunshine to your day."

"They're beautiful. Come on in. Let me put them in some water."

He followed her into the kitchen, watching her unwrap the tissue paper and clip the stems before filling a tall vase with water. It surprised him when she opened a bottle of aspirin and dropped in a tablet, swishing the water and then setting the flowers inside.

"Flowers get headaches?" he teased.

"It's just one of those tricks my mom taught me. I'm not sure about the science behind it, but it helps an arrangement stay fresher longer."

She fiddled with the flowers a moment, pulling one out and slipping the stem in another place until she was satisfied.

Pulling her phone from her pocket, she said, "I need a picture of these. The first flowers I've ever received from a man. Mums for high school homecoming games don't count."

Her words surprised him, especially since she'd talked about her long-term boyfriend, one it seemed that she thought she would marry. The guy definitely had been an asshole, not to buy a woman like Finley flowers. And a stupid asshole at that because he'd let this wonderful woman go.

He slipped his arms around her, pulling her toward him. "I hope we'll have a lot of firsts together, Finley," he said quietly, lowering his mouth to hers for a sweet, lingering kiss.

Holden released her and stepped back, wanting more, but knowing it was important not to rush things between them.

"What's our first step? Pasta or meat," he added to clarify he was talking about cooking after he saw the look in her eyes, pleased that she had wanted more than a kiss.

"Meat first. Usually, I like a sauce to simmer a good ninety minutes or longer. Today, we'll aim for an hour."

She removed a package of ground beef from the fridge, telling him, "Beef is a good starting point. If you pass today's course and advance further to meatballs, I like a combination of beef and ground pork."

"I've always been a fast learner. Plan for me to pass with flying colors today and graduate to meatballs. And don't think you have to take things easy on me."

Finley got out a cast iron skillet and put it on the stovetop before taking out a few other items, along with a knife and cutting board.

"Open the package and spread the meat evenly in the skillet with this wooden spoon. No lumps. Lumps are bad news."

He did as she asked and then, under her direction, cut up an onion and bell pepper and minced some garlic cloves.

"I've never even known this is how garlic comes," he said.

"You are a novice," she teased, turning the burner to medium. "Okay, place everything you've cut up on top of the meat, and then you'll stir thoroughly until it's all mixed well."

As he did, she began removing jars from a spice rack hanging on the wall, as well as opening a few cans.

"Keep stirring. I want the meat brown and crumbly and the veggies tender."

"How long?"

"Between five to seven minutes. You have to eyeball it. Not pink in the meat, but I don't want it to burn."

He kept an eye out as he steadily stirred. "I think it's ready."

"Then drain the grease." She handed him a lid. "Drain in the trash can and never down the sink."

Holden did as she asked, returning the skillet to the cooktop. After she'd inspected the cooked meat and had him drain the grease from it, she instructed Holden to add a can of diced tomatoes, a large one of tomato sauce, and another of tomato paste to the mix, blending thoroughly.

"Most people just use a jar of spaghetti sauce. I'll admit when you're in a time crunch, it's fast and easy. I prefer a sauce which has been simmered, though, letting the flavors come together."

Finley had him add salt and pepper, along with oregano and basil. More stirring was required.

"Cooking is part art, part science," she told him. "Baking is definitely more scientific. You have to measure correctly. That's where Emerson shines. But she also has a tremendous artistic side to her, which is evident in the way she ices and decorates her cakes."

"It smells good," he said.

"Sample it," she urged. "Tell me what you taste and what you think it needs."

He dipped the wooden spoon into the sauce and tasted it. "Pretty darn good. I don't think I'd add anything."

Dipping the spoon in again, he brought it to her lips, giving her a taste.

"You're right. I like it. Stir it well again. It can simmer now for an hour. Most purists prefer to keep sauce and meat apart, in separate pans, but I like to let the two join. I think it enhances the flavor.

"Lower the heat now," she instructed. "That low simmer will keep it from burning."

Moving to the cupboard, she retrieved a large pot and filled it about two-thirds full of water.

"We have a while before we need to put the spaghetti on to boil." Smiling, she added, "Be glad I'm not having you make pasta from scratch."

"As long as you treat me like a kindergartener and use small words and easy instructions, I'll excel."

She laughed. It surprised him how much he loved that rich sound. He noticed everything about her, from the timbre in her voice when she spoke to the length of her eyelashes. He'd never paid attention to those details regarding Madison. That was surprising because he was a writer. He was supposed to notice everything. Once more, he regretted being immature and not fully giving himself to that relationship.

Then again, Madison had always kept her distance, too. He supposed, in a way, they had used one another, becoming too comfortable too quickly with each other, not putting the effort into the relationship that it had needed to thrive.

He wouldn't make that mistake with Finley Farrow.

She opened a bottle of wine and poured each of them a glass.

"This is from Lost Creek Vineyards. They produce both red and white wines, but they are really becoming known for their red blends. This one is heavy on Cab, with some Merlot and Pinot Noir mixed in."

Holden picked up the wineglass, taking a sip. Immediately, Finley clucked her tongue.

"You better be glad that Ivy isn't here now. She's the manager of the tasting room at Lost Creek Winery and walks people through tastings. She would have a noose around your neck for simply picking up a glass and drinking."

"Oh. I guess I'm supposed to swirl and sniff like a proper snob."

"Exactly. If you're interested, we can go to the tasting room and have Ivy walk you through some wines. Do you prefer red or white?"

He shrugged. "To be honest, I'm more of a beer drinker. Or vodka. It might be fun to learn more about wine, though, especially since there are so many wineries in the Hill Country."

"Then Ivy is definitely the person to teach you. We can talk to her tomorrow night about it."

She had him stir the meat sauce before she told him to add a generous amount of salt to the pasta water and set it to a boil. Finley taught him how to measure a portion of dried spaghetti, and he added four servings to the pot once the water began to boil.

"Emerson had a cake tasting with a bride and groom after school today. She also is going to start some prep work for wedding and groom cakes for this coming Saturday. She told me she'd also bake a dessert for tomorrow night while she was at it."

"Where does she prepare her cakes?"

"Harper put in a first-class kitchen at the events center, getting input from Emerson, Usually, she contracts with various vendors in the area to cater dinners for weddings. You're familiar with Blackwood BBQ. They are her most frequently used caterer. After all, a Hill Country wedding deserves some great barbeque."

When the water reached a rolling boil, Finley taught him to set a timer for seven minutes, saying spaghetti could take up to ten to cook properly.

When the timer went off, she told him, "Use a fork and pull out a couple of strands after seven minutes. Blow on it so you don't burn your mouth. Then chew. You don't want it to have any crunch. It should be a little springy but not hard. It's a little trial and error."

Holden tasted and shook his head. "Nope. I'll give it another minute."

He waited, testing it again. "Perfect."

"Use the colander I set in the sink to drain the water."

She then told him how to plate it, providing pasta bowls like he'd seen in Italian restaurants. Once the spaghetti was arranged in the bowls, he ladled the meat sauce over it. Finley pulled a small block of cheese from the fridge, telling him it was parmesan, and wanting him to grate a bit atop each of their bowls. He did so, and she took a picture of it, texting it to him.

"Your first meal. Nice job," she praised. "Of course, once you get this down, we can work in tossing a salad, testing out some different dressings, and even toasting bread. I wanted to make things simple for you tonight."

"KISS," he said.

"Now?" she asked, carrying their wine glasses to the small café table in the corner of the kitchen while he brought the pasta bowls.

"Keep it simple, stupid," he said. "An acronym which has benefited me through the years, especially when it comes to writing. I've learned not to get too fancy. Neat and clean is better than fussy. That goes for writing. And other things, too."

He pulled her chair out, seating her, and then took a seat himself. Reaching for his wineglass, he held it high, in a toast.

"To the first dinner we cooked together. I hope many will follow."

She tapped her glass against his, smiling at him.

"If I train you well enough, you could cook all the dinners. I could breeze in after school and have a hot meal waiting for me."

Holden laughed. "Only if you wanted spaghetti and meat sauce five days a week. Seriously, though, this wasn't hard at all. I wish I would've learned to cook before now."

"You never watched your mom cook?" she asked.

"No," he said, knowing it was time to go beyond surface conversation with Finley. "She was usually at work."

"Oh, what did she do?"

"A little of everything. She cobbled together a bunch of part-time jobs. Juggled three, four, five at a time. She cleaned houses on her own and office buildings with a janitorial service. Waited tables. Worked retail and at a movie theater. I didn't see her much."

Sympathy shone in Finley's eyes. "What about your dad?"

"He went out of his way not to work— and I went out of my way to avoid him as much as possible. He was a drunk, Finley. A mean drunk. I learned from an early age to stay out of his way. We weren't that happy, middle-class family who ate dinner together every night. I lived on canned soup and peanut butter sandwiches. A box of Kraft Mac and Cheese was a real splurge in our household."

She took his hand. "I'm sorry, Holden. I didn't know. You seem so urbane and sophisticated. You're so put together. You have this casual elegance about you. You told me you grew up poor, but everyone has a different definition of that. I thought you meant your family didn't take elaborate vacations or you drove used cars. I had no idea things were so difficult. The fact that you earned two college degrees and have become a successful novelist is incredible."

"I won an academic scholarship to college. Had a perfects score on my SAT. That's the only way I was able to get a degree. I paid attention to the way kids in class dressed. How they spoke. Acted. I told you I'm a quick study, so I picked things up easily. What you see today is who I became after a long time of living in poverty."

He shook his head, memories he hadn't thought about in years crowding into his mind.

"My dad berated me for majoring in English lit, telling me it was a worthless major. That I'd never amount to anything. His words haunted me, so I made sure I earned my teaching certificate on the side to have that to fall back on. Teaching paid the bills those two years before I was accepted into the writing workshop."

He sighed. "I'd had a romantic vision of teaching by day and writing by night. As an English teacher, though, all I did was come home and grade essays for hours. That was pretty soul sucking. Winning a place in the Iowa workshop was a dream come true. I knew it was my only shot at becoming a writer. I left there with Capitol Crimes finished and an outline for Hill Country Homicide . I was fortunate to land an agent early because very few in the program did. Evan shopped Crimes to all the major publishing houses, and they got into a bidding war over it."

He sipped the wine, enjoying the taste. "I'm comfortable now, money-wise. Not only has Evan made some good deals for me, but he encouraged me to see a financial planner. A lot of new authors blow their advances on expensive cars or things which don't last. Mine has taught me about investing. Living frugally, especially since I have a job where my income is so unpredictable. Who knows if the next book will even be published, much less sell well? So, I'm prepared."

Finley grew thoughtful. "Do you ever see your mom? Or your dad?"

"No," he said flatly. "He drank himself to death. Died two days before I started classes at SMU. I didn't bother going to his funeral. Hell, I don't even know if they had a funeral for him. As for Mom? She actually met a guy while cleaning his office. He's quite a bit older than she is, but they just hit it off. He'd lost his wife several years before and was ready to retire. Wanted to move abroad."

Again, painful memories resurfaced, ones he probably should deal with at some point with a therapist.

"She told me they were getting married and moving to Copenhagen. At least, that was the first stop. He had a lot of places he'd visited for business over the years and wanted to take her to several cities. Live there a while. Move on to another one."

Holden swallowed. "She didn't tell him about me. Said she was sorry, but this was her chance to finally have a life for herself. That she wanted to travel and have nice things and never look back. I was a reminder of all the bad things she went through. At least she was nice enough to tell me and not simply disappear."

Her eyes widened in surprise. "You never talk to her? Never see her?"

"No. I'm on my own."

Finley stood and came to him, sitting in his lap, wrapping her arms about his neck.

"No, you aren't. Not anymore. You have me."