Ember Island Read Free Page B

greens. “Why are you calling so early? Do you have good news?”
    “I think so. I’m here at Starwater, my great-grandmother’s old house. And it’s perfect for a writing retreat. I know I can finish the book here.” My resolve wavered on the last sentence. I hoped I’d hid it well.
    “Hm, really?” Marla sounded skeptical.
    “Absolutely. There’s nothing at all here to distract me. It will be me and the laptop. Nothing else.” Nothing else. Nothing at all else. I gulped a breath.
    “Nina, sweetie, I don’t want you to push yourself too hard, but you know the publishers are breathing down my neck. There’s only so many excuses I can make for you. Are you sure this time? Wouldn’t you be better down here in Sydney where I could keep an eye on you? Where I could hold you to some weekly goals?”
    And risk seeing them again? No, no, a thousand times no. “I know this is the best decision I could make,” I said as forcefully as I could.
    She said something but it cut out and cut back in so I didn’t quite catch it.
    “Sorry, I have really bad reception here,” I said.
    Then the line dropped out altogether.
    “Damn,” I said, shaking the phone as if it could help. I grabbed my satchel from behind the door. I’d seen a pay phone down the hill.
    The morning was clear and cool, with dew on the grass and damp smells in the air: seaweed, cow dung, muddy fields, the vanilla sweetness of gardenias blooming in front gardens. The unsealed road led down the hill and through pastureland—cows behind wire fences on both sides—and past the old stockade building, which had been converted to shops: a convenience store that doubled as a post office, a craft shop that also sold some tourist wares, and a café. They all stood closed. Only three hundred people lived on Ember Island, most spread out over farms, so trade was slow and sporadic. Six a.m. was far too early to be open.
    I found the phone box and pushed the coins into the slot. I couldn’t remember the last time I’d used a pay phone. It seemed a practice that belonged to a more innocent time. At the other end the phone rang and Marla picked it up quickly.
    “What kind of a place has no mobile signal?” she asked, without saying hello.
    “An island in the middle of a bay where I know I’ll get some writing done.”
    “Hm. Well. I was just saying, I’ve been trying to get hold of you. I had an offer for you to go to Singapore, all expenses, business class. There’s some kind of international symposium on Middle Ages in film and literature. They want you to talk about the research you do.”
    My Widow Wayland books were a series of crime novels set in the 1320s, with a clever widow as the detective. The BBC had adapted two of them for television. I had sold nearly twelve millionbooks. These things should have happened to somebody else, not me. I was incredibly grateful for my success: you’ve no idea how grateful. Butone thing I hated more than anything was being asked to speak about my historical research. “No, I’m too busy.”
    “It’s after your deadline.”
    “No. I don’t want to.”
    “Fair enough,” she said in her usual efficient way. “I’ll turn them down nicely. Now, how about you send me what you’ve written so far?”
    My throat tensed. The first half of the book, which I had staggered through somehow, was awful. I kept telling myself I would fix it in the edit, but anybody who had come to love the Widow Wayland would surely be disappointed. I couldn’t let Marla read it until I’d fixed it somehow. I wound the phone cord around my fingers, clearing my throat. “As soon as I can access my e-mail I’ll send it to you,” I promised, knowing it was a promise I wouldn’t be fulfilling.
    Marla wasn’t stupid, but she didn’t push the issue. “I’ll expect something from you in a few weeks then,” she said in a brusque, businesslike tone. Then she softened. “Darling, is this about Cameron and Tegan? Is that why you don’t