The Writer Read Free Page B

note of the gold flash of a classic Rolex watch as it peeked out from underneath the left sleeve of his sweater.
    “How was the journey here?”
    Adele cleared her throat and smiled.
    “Oh, it was great. It’s such a beautiful place. And this island! It’s just…it’s just perfect!”
    Decklan stood staring down at Adele for a few uncomfortable seconds, and then he looked up at the trees as his voice took on a contemplative tone.
    “Perfect? I don’t know about that, but it is home.”
    The author shook off whatever memories had suddenly taken him away and he smiled again, flashing a row of brilliant white and perfectly aligned teeth.
    “Just follow me then, and we’ll be to the house in no time.”
    Adele did as she was told, struggling just a bit to keep up with the longer-legged writer as he easily made his way up the narrow, steepening path.
    With her lungs stinging their angry discontent, Adele looked across a small, grass and flower clearing at a log-framed structure that loomed on the other side and was stunned to find that it appeared exactly as it did from the news clippings of decades ago. The two-story home had a covered, wrap-around front porch that dominated the entrance, and a large balcony that led out via a pair of French doors from what was the second floor master bedroom above.
    It was the house Manitoba ’s long-ago success had built.
    “Wow.”
    Decklan turned around and looked at the visibly awe-struck college newspaper reporter behind him.
    “It’s just wood and concrete with an old, washed up writer hiding out inside of it.”
    Adele snorted far louder than she would have liked.
    “I think it’s a lot more than that , Mr. Stone.”
    “Please, just call me Decklan. Mr. Stone sounds so…old.”
    Adele shook her head with enough force that it made her cheeks jiggle.
    “You don’t look old! You don’t look old at all !”
    Adele was mortified at her behavior. She had rehearsed this moment a hundred times in her head and yet she was doing exactly what she had promised she wouldn’t – come off as some star-struck, half-psycho fan.
    The author chuckled, both surprised and grateful for Adele’s overly enthusiastic defense of his allegedly not-yet-old, appearance.
    “Well thank you, Ms. Plank. I’m more than vain enough to admit I enjoy knowing someone your age sees me as something other than a decrepit relic of some bygone era. Let’s go inside. Would you like some tea?”
    Adele nodded while silently reminding herself to calm the hell down; though, inwardly she was screaming that she was about to have tea with Decklan Stone inside his home.
     
    Oh my god! Oh my god! Oh my god!
    Decklan stepped up onto the expansive porch and then pushed open the custom-made, dark-wood-stained front door. He looked down at Adele and gave her a reassuring wink.
    “Here we are, Ms. Plank. Welcome to my home, and thank you for coming.”
    The interior of the Stone residence was as tasteful as its exterior. The handcrafted furnishings were sparse, simple, and yet they exuded quality and class. The floors were wide, reddish planks that softly creaked and groaned when walked upon. Decklan tapped his right foot lightly against the wood.
    “The floors came from a decommissioned wood-hulled trans-Pacific sailboat from the late-eighteenth century, shipped here from Taiwan when the house was first built. I’ve always appreciated the idea of something old finding a new purpose, a kind of immortality.”
    Adele wanted to sigh, but made certain she didn’t. She had never heard anyone say anything quite like that, and it left her feeling like the luckiest person alive to have heard it spoken in the wonderfully low, soft, yet masculine voice of Decklan Stone.
    “Can I use that quote?”
    Decklan’s head tilted to the left as his right brow arched upward.
    “I’m sorry?”
    “Uh, for the story, I’d like to use what you just said.”
    The author paused, and then his eyes widened as he seemingly remembered