Distracted √

Distracted: Chapter Eleven

"I'm thinking a couple days in Key West might be fun. Ever been there?"

"No. My parents live in Sarasota, though."

"Would you like to go there? See them?"

"You're kidding, right?"

"We can go to the Tortugas first. We'll do a little snorkeling and tour Fort Jefferson. It's an old Civil War fort. Very cool. Then take a side trip to the Gulf Coast."

"Isn't that fort way past Key West?"

"Nah, it's not too far. This cat is fast and I'm in no hurry. The weather's great and there aren't any storms on the radar."

She shivered. "That's good."

"Don't let a little weather worry you. This boat is blue-water certified."

"What does that mean?"

Spence squinted at the compass, then adjusted the autopilot. "It means I can sail her anywhere I want. How about the South Pacific?"

"You jest," Erin said. "No; I think Key West is tropical enough for me."

"Want me to add Sarasota as a waypoint? Want me to meet the parents?"

"Thank you, no. I'm working, remember? We're both working. I'll see my parents at Christmas."

* * *

Later that evening, Erin e-mailed two chapters and essays on a dozen paintings to Patricia's office. She also uploaded digital copies of Spence's paintings along with detailed captions.

She was excited that work on the book was progressing, albeit slowly, and that Spence liked her outline. She resorted to interviewing him and then transcribing tapes and notes into a first-person format. The thoughts and feelings were his and they were real; she was simply the conduit for getting those thoughts on paper.

"You're good at this, aren't you?"

Erin glowed at the compliment. "I enjoy working with writers. I love being an editor."

"Why don't you write your own book?"

"Don't be silly."

"Why not? I mean, why not write your own book? Why do you want to work with other people when you could just do what you want?"

"Spence, this is what I want to do. I'm happy working with talented people and helping them create a new piece of art. That's what a book is, of course. As an artist, your goal is to produce a painting, not a book. But with my help, you can build a bridge between painting and writing."

She could tell he still didn't understand.

"Alright, think of me as the conductor of a symphonic orchestra. I'm not playing the instruments; I'm directing those who can. With my guidance, we create a work of art. Sure, I know how to write, like the conductor knows how to read music and play instruments. But with his help, the musicians create the magic."

Spence shrugged, not agreeing. "If you say so. Seems like you should be getting the credit, though."

"Believe me; I am paid well to stay in the background. I don't require my name on the cover. I'm not an ego maniac. I get satisfaction from doing my job well. From knowing that my employer is satisfied and that I have helped a new author produce a quality book."

"I'm not an ego maniac," he retorted.

"I didn't say you were. Sheesh."

"Okay, you're not an ego maniac. You're a control freak."