I’d gone backward instead of making progress, deleting every other sentence and agonizing over how to replace it. Online research on writing only confused me. So did the books I’d ordered. I briefly considered trying to contact Jennifer, Mr. Sobel’s niece, for help—but it seemed too desperate; too pitiful, too amateurish. I pictured her holding a phone, rolling her eyes at the injustice of being saddled with an author writing in crayon. Besides, Violet had insisted I show it to no one until it was finished.

It felt like someone had handed me a knife and fork and demanded I perform brain surgery.

I longed to throw my hands up in surrender; to be with Rick without feeling I should hurry back to the keyboard. Most of all, I wanted to stop thinking about the book every waking moment. Violet’s good intentions were ruining my life, not blessing it. No amount of money was worth the stress I was feeling.

I looked forward to my shifts at Fairfield. Donna had become friendlier and less critical after the depositions with BillRat were done and our attorney said the lawsuit would likely be dropped. Work was my refuge; the only place I laughed anymore. Writing had become agony.

So I quit. One afternoon I came home from work, gnawed my way through the writing straightjacket’s straps and threw my laptop into the closet. I felt giddy with freedom. Violet, I love you and would like to have lots of money...but no thanks. Maybe someone else can pen your book someday. Not me.

I called Rick and babbled a voice message, “I’ve given up on writing. It’s not my thing. Nursing is my thing. You are my thing. Please come over and we’ll celebrate. Umm, this is Ronni. Call me.”

Two hours later he knocked on the door. He wrapped his arms around me and said, “So I’m your thing, huh? Very poetic.”

“Just kiss me.”

I did, feeling electricity shoot through my body. Rick was the best kisser I’d ever known, starting out soft and slow and building to something that made me ache for him. “You’re too good at this,” I whispered, struggling for breath.

“That’s the idea. Let me show you how I feel about you, Ronni.” He was melting me with those chocolate brown eyes. They were locked onto mine and not letting go.

“Okay,” I said. “Show me.”

He threw his trooper hat across the room, picked me up, and carried me to the bedroom.

I lay with my head on his beefy right biceps, stroking the hair on his chest. Rick opened one eye and gazed at me. “So,” he said, “You’re giving up on your book?”

I plucked a chest hair and he winced. “I don’t want to talk about it.”