Filed To Story: The Things We Leave Unfinished Novel Free
“I love you!” Only after she’d said it did he close the door.
Scarlett rested a hand on her swollen belly. “Looks like it’s just the two of us, love.” She arched her back, hoping to relieve a touch of the endless ache at the base of her spine. She’d grown so large that even her maternity dresses barely fit, and she couldn’t remember the last time she’d seen her feet.
“Shall we write a story today?” she asked her son as she settled behind the typewriter that had a permanent place at the kitchen table and elevated her feet on the nearest chair.
Then she stared at papers she’d begun storing in an old hatbox. Over the last three months, she’d started dozens of stories, but never seemed to make it past the first few chapters before something else popped into her head and she shifted gears for fear she’d forget that idea if she didn’t jot it down.
The result was a hatbox full of possibilities, but not product.
Knock, knock, knock.
Scarlett groaned. She’d just gotten semi-comfortable-
“Scarlett?” Constance called from the front of the house.
“In the kitchen!” Scarlett called back, utterly relieved that she didn’t have to get up.
“Hello there, little one!” Constance came around the table and hugged her.
“Hardly little,” Scarlett argued as her sister took the chair next to her.
“What made you think I was talking to you?” She smiled and leaned toward Scarlett’s belly. “Have you considered joining us, yet?”
“You’re as bad as Jameson,” Scarlett muttered, arching her back again. How was the ache getting worse? “No watch today?”
“As luck would have it, I’m off.” Her brow knit as she glanced back through the kitchen door. “I can’t remember the last time I’ve had a Sunday off. I’m guessing Jameson can’t say the same?”
“No. He left just a bit ago.”
“What shall we do?” Constance drummed her fingertips on the kitchen table, and Scarlett did her best to look anywhere but the ring that sparkled on her fingertip. How ironic that something so glitteringly beautiful was the harbinger of so much destruction.
“As long as it involves me not moving, I’m all for it.”
Constance smiled, then reached for the hatbox. “Tell me a story.”
“Those aren’t done!” Scarlett reached for the box, but Constance was too quick-or she was too slow.
“Since when have you ever told me a story that was already finished?” Constance scoffed, digging through the papers. “There must be at least twenty in here!”
“At least,” Scarlett admitted, shifting in her seat again.
“Are you all right?” Constance asked, noting the strain on her sister’s face with blatant concern.
“I’m fine. Just uncomfortable.”
“I’ll get you some tea.” Constance pushed away from the table, then put the kettle on. “Were you thinking about finishing any of those stories?”
“Eventually.” Scarlett leaned far enough to steal the hatbox back while Constance stood at the stove.
“Why not write one to the end, then start another?” She took tea out of the cabinet.
Scarlett had often asked herself the same thing. “I’m always afraid I’ll forget an idea, and yet then I can’t help but feel like I’m chasing butterflies, always thinking one is prettier, and never catching one because I can’t commit to the single chase.” She stared at the hatbox.
“There’s no rush.” Constance’s voice softened. “You could always type up your ideas like a briefing summary so you don’t lose them, then go back to the butterfly you’ve chosen to chase.”
“That’s an excellent idea.” Scarlett’s brows lifted. “Sometimes I wonder if I just enjoy the beginnings, and that’s why I never seem to move past them. The beginnings are what make everything romantic.”
“Not the whole falling in love part?” Constance teased, reclaiming her seat.
“Well, that too.” She raised a shoulder. “But maybe it’s really the possibilities that are easy to fall in love with. Looking at any situation, any relationship, any story, and having the sublime ability to wonder where it will take us is a bit intoxicating, really. There’s a rush every time I load a blank sheet of paper. Like a first kiss from a first love.”
Constance gave her engagement ring a quick glance before tucking it under the table in her lap. “So you’d rather keep loading the paper than finish it?”
“Perhaps.” Scarlett rubbed at the spot just beneath her ribs where her baby often enjoyed testing the boundaries of her body. “I don’t know if this baby is a boy or a girl. I think it’s a boy, though I can’t explain why. But in this moment, I can imagine a boy with Jameson’s eyes and his reckless smile, or a girl with our blue eyes. Right now, I’m in love with both, basking in the possibilities. In a few days-at least I’m hoping it’s a few days or I swear I’ll explode-I’ll know.”
“And you don’t want to know?” Constance arched an eyebrow.
“Of course I want to know. I will love my son or my daughter with all my heart. I already do. But while I’ve entertained both possibilities, only one is the truth. Once this baby is born, that part of the story is over. One of the scenarios I’ve spent the last six months imagining won’t come true. That doesn’t make the outcome any less sweet, but the truth is, when a story is finished, no matter what kind it is, the possibilities are gone. It is what it is, or it was whatever it was.”
“So be kind to your characters and give them all a happy ending,” Constance suggested. “That’s better than anything they’d have in the real world.”
Scarlett stared at the hatbox. “Perhaps the kindest thing I could do for the characters would be to leave their stories unfinished. Leave them with their possibilities, their potential, even if they only exist in my own mind.”
“You leave the letter unopened,” Constance said softly.
“Perhaps I do.”
A sad smile curved Constance’s mouth. “And in that world, perhaps Edward is actually on leave, sneaking up to Kirton-in-Lindsey to see me.”
Scarlett nodded, her entire body tightening with nearly painful emotion.
The kettle whistled, and Constance rose to her feet. “It might be a bit difficult to get published that way,” she said over her shoulder with a forced, teasing smile. “I think most people appreciate books with endings.”
“I hadn’t really thought as far as actually publishing anything.” The ache in her back flared, reaching around to the front of her abdomen in a breath-stealing, vicious grip.
“You should. I’ve always loved listening to your stories. Everyone should get that chance.”
Scarlett shifted her weight again as Constance made tea. “I think perhaps we should take that in the living room. This chair isn’t agreeing with me.”
“We can do that.”
The sound of porcelain clicking filled the kitchen as Scarlett struggled to her feet. Little by little, the ache dissipated, and she managed her first full breath.
New Book: Returned To Make Them Pay
On her wedding anniversary, Alicia is drugged and stumbles into the wrong room—straight into the arms of the powerful Caden Ward, a man rumored never to touch women. Their night of passion shocks even him, especially when he discovers she’s still a virgin after two years of marriage to Joshua Yates.