Author's note: thanks for the interest so far! Please, keep it up and let me know what you think! Thank you so much for reading!
"Your sister," pronounced Isabella, collapsing onto a chair, "has a date." She dropped her groceries on the floor beside her. She didn't take off her coat or scarf.
"What?" said Isaac. He seemed not to have moved since she went off grocery shopping. Now, he sat up. "With who? Jesus, you're alone for two hours and you become someone else. Well, who is he?"
"John Steele," said Isabella. They'd agreed to meet at his cottage - by some coincidence, only half an hour down the highway - to exchange tips and tricks.
"Seriously?" said Isaac. Isabella realized, for the first time in a very long time, that she had managed to astonish him. It wasn't flattering, when she thought about it. "Seriously? How the hell did that happen?"
"I dumped fifty boxes of cereal on him," Isabella explained.
"Wait, what?" Isaac didn't sound any less confused. Isabella chose not to enlighten him.
"Oh, before you think your sister is punching that far above her weight, it's not actually a date," said Isabella. She rolled her eyes when Isaac looked doubtful. "He and I are going to get together and try to get past our writer's block. As colleagues in the trashy novel business. I'm going to give him some pointers, he's going to give me some pointers."
Now she got up and deposited her coat and scarf on the hook. As Isaac spoke, she hauled the groceries over to the kitchen - on the other side of the living room - and began putting them away.
"Pointers? Yeah, he's going to give you some pointers. Maybe just one, and hopefully it won't be that pointy, but it'll be hard and you're going to ride-" he began.
"God, you're gross. Want to stop being disgusting and start helping me unpack?" she asked.
"I prefer to be disgusting," said Isaac, affecting a lofty air. "So when is this non-date?"
"Tomorrow afternoon," said Isabella. She looked up at Isaac over a cereal box. "I got your beer, by the way. So mind helping me unpack it?"
Isaac ignored her. "You need me to leave? Because there's no where to go in this house. I could go into my bedroom-"
"You mean the guest room you've moved yourself into?" muttered Isabella, shoving her ingrate brother's beer into the fridge. She muttered it quietly because even though she knew Isaac was aware she was joking, she wouldn't want him to be offended.
"But that's in the basement, and I can hear anything that goes on up here. This place is pretty small," he went on. He stretched and then watched her.
"Pretty small and pretty damn expensive," Isabella commented. Her cottage had cost her a pretty penny, and though small, was beautiful. "Though very nice. But no, that's not necessary. Do whatever you want here. You can even have the car, as long as you drop me off. I'm going over to his place."
Isaac chuckled. He chuckled some more. When the laughter got maniacal, Isabella stopped him.
"You sound like a fucking creep. Why are you laughing?" she demanded. She crossed her arms and kicked the fridge closed. Going over to the fireplace, she settled down onto the rug and warmed her hands.
"Because this is so unlike you. Could you get my copy of Death in Winter signed?" he asked.
"You keep being like this and I am never getting anything signed," snapped Isabella. In a tone she knew Isaac would not take seriously, she went on. "Help me with groceries, and then I'll get your precious novel signed-"
"Izzy," he whined. "Come on. You're going to be getting something out of this, let me get something out of it too. Before you bang him, just ask him for a signature-"
"Don't call me Izzy," Isabella threatened. "And I am not going to bang him. Who even says 'bang' anymore?"
"Isabella," groaned Isaac, turning her name into a long complaint that somehow became more than four syllables. He rolled his head so far back that Isabella wondered if it would snap as he slammed it against the sofa's arm. "Isabella, please. I love his books. It's just a signature. Please."
"Fine. Fine," snapped Isabella. She jabbed her finger at Isaac in as frightening a manner as she possibly could. She got the sense it didn't scare him, because he smirked again. "I will get him to sign it. I'll even ask him to write you some sort of message."
Isaac sat bolt upright and then he looked at her, all twinkling mischief. Even though it sometimes drove Isabella up the wall, she loved that impish humour. It had inspired one of her most popular characters, a bright boy - the son of a protagonist - in one of her novels.
"And then you'll fuck him?" he said.
Isabella collapsed back onto the rug. She made a disgusted noise in her throat and simply glared at her brother. It was impossible to argue with him.
"Stars, hide your fires," said Isaac, throwing his hands up in a melodramatic fervour. He squinted vaguely into some imagined light before dropping his hands and grinning at her. "Let not light see my black and deep desires. You desire him deeply, sis. And you're plotting to have sex with him."
Isabella ignored the second part of Isaac's statement. "Did you just quote Macbeth? Am I to understand that you've actually read some real literature, Isaac? Holy shit, call the pope, because hell has obviously frozen over."
"Don't tell Mr. Steele you don't think his work is real literature," Isaac warned, waggling his finger at Isabella. She rolled her eyes.
"He doesn't think it is, either. Just like mine isn't," said Isabella. She rolled her head back so she could look at Isaac. He, for all his irritating mischief, was positively glowing with happiness. She adored the annoying little shit, she realized.
"Maybe your novels aren't literature-" began Isaac.
"Have you ever even read anything I've written?" Isabella grumbled. She knew for a fact Isaac hadn't. He might have picked out a few of the more sordid scenes to read aloud at family gatherings - intent on embarrassing her, at which he had succeeded indisputably - but he hadn't read any of her twelve novels cover-to-cover.
Isaac went on as if Isabella hadn't spoken. "But all I know is that he writes a very good crime thriller. At least browse through Death in Winter before you get it signed."
"Fine. Fine," Isabella conceded. Isaac looked victorious. "Get me the book, and I'll have him sign it. And I promise to at least read a paragraph."
"Are you fucking kidding me? Two chapters," Isaac countered, managing to haul his carcass off the sofa. He ambled toward the bookshelf and fished out a book.
"A page," Isabella bartered.
Isaac snorted as he threw her the book. Isabella caught it. It made a papery sort of thud as it landed in her grasp. "That's barely even getting into it. Fifteen pages."
"Not a chance. I'm a busy woman. Three," she offered. She flipped it over and glanced at the cover - snow, a man standing with his back to the viewer, the title and author's name in a tasteful, but overly-large serif typeface. Typical trashy cover.
"Ten," said Isaac.
Isabella turned the novel over and promptly ignored the synopsis on the back cover. She was staring hard at the black-and-white photograph that sprawled across the paperback's reverse. She stroked John's cheek with one finger.
"Ten. Okay, you didn't disagree. I win!" crowed Isaac.
"Yeah, yeah, whatever," said Isabella. "I'll read ten pages."
Isaac narrowed his eyes at Isabella as she laid the book next to her and flopped onto the rug once more. "That was too easy."
Isabella rolled her eyes. "Whatever," she said. Then she scrubbed a hand across her forehead and sighed. After a moment, she went on. "I should do some more work. Maybe actually plan out this piece of shit before I go over. So he doesn't think I'm unprofessional."
"Uh huh," said Isaac. He said nothing, but he was leaning against the countertop, very nearly sparkling with humour. Isabella sat up and chose to ignore him.
"Maybe I'll get this done before dinner. Are you good for leftovers, Isaac? I mean, the pesto I made yesterday will definitely still be good today. I'll make some veggies to go along with it," said Isabella. She picked herself and Death in Winter up off the rug.
"Fuck your veggies," said Isaac. "But yeah, that sounds great to me."
"Right. Okay," said Isabella. She crossed the room and went into her study. Depositing John's novel next to her computer, she prodded it to life. Then she opened a new document and stared at the screen before her for a solid two minutes without even so much as writing a word. She experimented with turning on the desk lamp, since the afternoon was fading into evening. Nothing happened.
Isaac, who had followed her in, spoke.
"Still got that writer's block?" he said.
"Yep," said Isabella.
They both stared at the white page, which was nearly as blank as Isabella's mind. Neither said anything for a moment.
"Have you decided whether Raven ends up with the enigmatic owner or the potentially sexy groundskeeper?" asked Isaac.
"The owner, definitely," said Isabella. With a jolt, she suddenly realized she could hear the owner's voice. He had begun to speak to her, and was now more than a pair of blue eyes in a mask. He was taking shape. She began to type as she spoke. "The blue-eyed, husky-voiced owner."
"Well, that sounds promising," said Isaac. "And it sounds like you've had some inspiration, sis."
"Let's hope so," said Isabella. Her fingers were moving steadily now.
She hadn't realized how long she had spent writing until some time later, with a stiff, aching back, she paused. She had heard something - it was a knock, that announced a slightly surly Isaac, who had come to tell her that while it was all well and good to spend four hours planning a novel he was, you know, hungry, and wondered when dinner would happen.
Isabella stretched and, shutting her laptop, turned to him.
"Could've made it yourself," she observed, as she hauled herself out of her chair. It creaked nearly as loudly as her bones did. Both she and Isaac made a face at the sound. "Instead of making me do it every fucking time."
"Could've," sang Isaac as he ambled out of the room. Isabella grumbled her way after him until-
"You little shit," she said, gently thwacking him between the shoulders. He winced playfully and grinned. "Why didn't you get me earlier? How did you even get pizza here? I didn't think they delivered out in the country."
Isaac snatched three pieces as he sat down at the table. "They don't," he explained, cracking open a beer and drinking the whole thing down before as he went on. Isabella settled down across from him. She reached in and fished herself out something to eat. "I drove down to town and got it. Took the car and everything."
"Am I the shittiest sister or what?" said Isabella. "Didn't even notice you leaving or coming back."
"Nah, you're great," said Isaac, and tucked into his food with a grin. The next words he spoke his mouth was full of food and Isabella had to look away to avoid nausea. "Best sister ever. Hey, are you going to eat, or what?"
Isabella obliged him, but it was Isaac who ate most of the pizza. Isaac who ate more than could possibly be healthy or possible for a man of his shape, and then promptly fell asleep face-down on the kitchen table.
Isabella felt very much the big sister again as she prodded a sleepy, bleary Isaac out of his seat, let him drape himself over her shoulders, and half-carried him down the stairs. She felt even more that way - nearly like his mother - as she dropped him onto his bed, helped him remove most of his clothing, covered him over with a blanket, and tucked him in.
She went back upstairs and poured herself a scotch, downed it, and put the glass in the sink. Then she went into the bathroom and set about running a bubble bath. Some part of her wondered whether she was actively trying to behave like a heroine in one of her own novels as she did so.
"If I were doing that it would be a glass of wine and there'd be candles," she said aloud as she adjusted the temperature. "And I wouldn't have a belly full of pizza."
Her stomach rumbled at the moment as if to say no, she most certainly would not. Raven, and her published heroines like Charlotte and Rose and Kate would run themselves a bubble bath in a great big claw-footed iron tub, not her smallish ceramic one. There would be candles flickering all around - making things eerily dim, if she was going for a dark mood, or making them subtly sensual, if she was going for a sex scene - and there would be a glass of red wine in her heroine's slender hand.
They might even have a handsome, strong-armed man to heat up the water with his presence. And, at some point, they'd probably be fucking him in the bathtub.
Isabella snorted. She'd never had sex with anyone in a bathtub her whole life. She prided herself on her imagination to provide her with the really titillating bits of her stories.
"Don't have to imagine how nice this bath is going to be, though," she observed aloud.
While the bath was filling she went out to undress and retrieve her dressing gown. As she passed her study she saw Death in Winter sitting on her desk. She paused a moment. She had promised Isaac she would read part of it, and she intended to keep that promise.
Risking that the pages would become wrinkled in the steam, she picked it up and went into the bathroom.
"All right, Mr. Steele," she said, as she slipped into the water. She kept a careful hold of the book as she wriggled under the bubbles. "What have you got for me?"
She opened it to the first chapter and began.
Tom entered the diner, shaking the snow from his shoulders. Cold February air chased him in in a whirl of flakes as the door shut behind him with a high tinkle of the bell above the door.
"You alone, sweetheart? Want a booth, hon?" called a stodgy, uniformed woman from behind the counter. She wiped her hands on her apron as she spoke. One of the few people in the diner turned as he entered but all those drinking the sludge that passed for coffee at the counter ignored him.
He shook his head. He had seen who he was looking for. Tracing a path toward her booth, he went to her and sat down across from her. She looked up as he settled in, watching him with a gaze he could not read as he shed his coat and scarf.
She said nothing to him, and he said nothing to her.
A waitress appeared at their table."Anything I can get for you folks to start?" she asked, in between chewing her gum. Her pen was poised over a notepad.
"Coffee, please," said Tom, with a smile for her.
"And for you, miss?" asked the waitress.
"Coffee," said the woman in a low voice.
"Got it. I'll be back," said the waitress, and then she was gone.
Tom turned back to the woman before him. As he watched, she removed a cigarette from a case in purse, lit it, and said nothing. Their coffees arrived and the waitress seemed to know better than to ask them if they were ready to order.
Tom sipped his but the woman did not. All she did was knock the ash from her cigarette into the deeply-coloured liquid. Both she and Tom watched the pale ash sink into it and vanish.
Tom watched her, and tried to keep the admiration from his observation. The woman was long-limbed, slim, and very elegant. She was blue-eyed, golden-headed, and as cold as snow. The smoke was curling from the cigarette in her hand. She was not looking at Tom. She was staring out the window and in her eyes, Tom could see the pattern of the snow drifting by the glass.
"Did you kill him?" he asked eventually.
She did not answer him, not right away. When she did she still wasn't looking at him.
"Does it matter if I did?"
"It does to me."
She took a drag from her cigarette, leaving red marks around the paper. Her mouth was very red as her lips formed words and she spoke.
"I did."
Tom said nothing.
"Don't you want to know why?" she asked.
After a moment, Tom spoke.
"Yeah," he said. "Yeah, I do."
Isabella paused. She let herself sink a little further into the bath. Then she went on.