Forty Degrees Below

Chapter 9

Curtis looked anything, but happy. It had clearly unsettled him. "I'll tell you what," he said looking around. "I don't feel much like staying here now. Shall we continue this conversation back at the house?"

Against his better judgement he reluctantly agreed. He left his car parked up in town and gazed out of Curtis's window as the urban countryside rushed by before opening up onto the Pacific front.

"They call this the American Riviera. Did you know that?" Jake didn't answer; he was too enamoured with the sight of palm trees, blue sky, and the sound of the gentle rhythms of the sea. "They call this East Cabrillo Boulevard Jake; love this stretch, never tire of it."

"How long have you lived here?" he asked, looking at Curtis.

"Obviously not long enough," he replied looking at him and half-smiling. "All my life," he added. "And you, where do you hail from?"

"Columbia, Missouri."

"Ah, my wife, Anya was born and raised in Columbia, coincidence."

They drove by some colourfully attired runners out jogging along the boulevard.

"How did you meet?" Jake asked.

"Oh gosh, let me see; it was a while ago now. We met when I was teaching at the Missouri School of Journalism, for the university to help supplement my income." Jake looked at Curtis surprised.

"There was a time when I had to learn my craft as well, you know!" exclaimed Curtis. "Not all been a bed of Roses – though some think so."

"I appreciate that ... its just I naïvely never imagined Curtis Neumann being a novice at one time," Jake replied deceptively, relieved that Curtis hadn't picked up on his look of shock when he'd mentioned the school of journalism in his hometown.

"Well, we all have to start somewhere. It took me years to hone my craft. It was when I met Anya that I got my first publishing contract and was able to give up my day job. It was just as well that it took as long as it did. Otherwise, I wouldn't have met her in the first place. She's proved to be my true inspiration, but don't tell her I told you that," he said with a knowing smile. "You know what they say, 'behind every great man; there's an even greater woman'."

Jake noticed the change in scenery when Curtis turned off the main boulevard and they were now driving down a narrow country lane flanked by overgrown hedges and trees. Jake had a sudden panic attack when he realised that he didn't know where he was heading. Curtis looked across and must have seen the tension on his face.

"Don't worry Jake. I just thought to drop by my bolt-hole before we head on back to the house. Thought you might like to see where I derive most of my inspiration and do most of my writing."

They pulled into a short driveway of a one-story, modest looking, timber framed house. "This is where I wrote all four of the novels you mentioned, including my latest," he said, with evident pride. He opened the door, and Jake followed. When they entered the building, it smelt musty, but Curtis led the way through to the rear room and opened the windows to let some air into the room.

"Wow! I can see why you like to write here; the views are very inspiring," he said looking out over the drop to the beach and the sea beyond.

"Here, have a look at this," Curtis said and unlocked the door that led onto the decking area. "Be my guest," he remarked standing aside and letting Jake go first.

"What a wonderfully setting," Jake said, looking out over the landscape. It took him back to the days when he was young. He created a secret den at the bottom of the garden. It was his world. He used to fantasise that his den, which was a hollow formed out of the gnarled roots of a tree, created a concealed hiding hole, and was filmed by his imaginary friends. He would conduct a running commentary, talking to the camera through an invisible lens. He would tell them what he was doing and how he was feeling. This was probably the happiest period of his life. He felt safe and secure.