Jill Limber - Daddy, He Wrote

Trish sighed at her own foolishness as she dusted the shelves. He must be very smart to write these books. She’d read all of them. Ian Miller was one of the most popular authors today. He hit the New York Times best-seller list with each new book.

She pulled out a volume of his latest release and studied the black-and-white picture of him on the dust jacket. Incredibly handsome, he looked more like a movie star than a writer. He was dressed in a tux and had a glass of champagne in his hand.

Trish smiled. He wouldn’t spend much time here. She loved the farm and this wonderful old restored house, but it was way out in the middle of the Pennsylvania countryside, miles from his home in Philadelphia and the glittering New York life someone like Ian Miller would be used to.

He’d be like the previous owner. He and his wife said they wanted a retreat from the stressful life in Manhattan, but they rarely used the farm.

They’d stocked the place with horses and a cow, then they’d split their time between a flat in London and a penthouse apartment in New York.

Trish would never understand how rich people’s minds worked.

She traced her finger over the picture of the elegant-looking man and smiled.

No, he wouldn’t spend time here.

She and Emma would have their little stone house.

Ian Miller considered heaving the telephone against the wall in frustration. “Joyce, I thought I made it clear I wasn’t doing any more publicity appearances or book signings for a while.”

Her cool, steady voice, a sound that he was starting to hate, made a falsely sympathetic murmur. “I know, Ian, but you agreed to this tour before the holidays. Before you made that ultimatum.”

Her tone told him just what she thought of his warning.

Ian hadn’t remembered agreeing to any such thing, but when he was on deadline he knew he sometimes said what Joyce wanted to hear just to get her off the telephone. “When do I leave?”

“A car will pick you up tomorrow morning at seven.”

He groaned. He’d planned to work all day tomorrow, even though he knew what he’d been writing lately was worthless and would never end up in a book. He’d been promoted as a “boy wonder” with his first book, had phenomenal success with all his subsequent releases and now was in danger of burning out before he turned thirty.

He’d never hit such a slump in his writing career. It was driving him crazy. He felt a compulsion to write a different kind of book, but the effort was going nowhere and frustrating the hell out of him.

He turned his attention back to Joyce, who was droning away about some party she’d attended. Some party where he should have been, to meet people.

He cut her off. “How long will I be gone?” He really needed to fire her, then he wouldn’t have to do tours and book signings.

He probably would have let her go by now if they hadn’t had a history. The affair was over, but he felt guilty about firing her. He didn’t want her to think that because he was no longer having sex with her he had no further need of her.

“Ian?”

Obviously, he hadn’t been paying attention. “What?”

“I did schedule in a stop at the farm.” He could hear the disdain in her voice. Joyce thought the farm was a bad idea and had been very vocal about it.

That almost made the trip sound good. He rubbed at the tension headache building up between his eyes.

“Okay. I’ll be ready at seven.”

He hung up and stared out his penthouse window at the streets. The trees had all lost their leaves, and he could see people, hundreds of them, bundled against the cold, walking their dogs, their children and each other.

Ian had no use for other people. He’d discovered early on that a fair number of his fellow city dwellers bordered on crazy.

A month ago he’d been followed home from a lunch with his editor by two middle-aged women who had barged into his building behind him, sidestepped the doorman and insisted they wanted to see his apartment.

Just last week he’d found a young woman sitting on the hood of his car in the secured underground parking garage in his building, holding a copy of his latest book. Wearing a very short skirt and top that showed her navel, complete with a diamond stud, she’d made it very clear she was interested in more than an autograph.

Ian cursed the day Joyce had talked him into letting his publisher put his picture on the dust jacket of his book. They’d just started their affair and she’d been very persuasive. Now he supposed removing the picture from future covers would be like closing the barn door after the horse had escaped, but he craved anonymity.

He wanted so badly to be out of the city where he’d grown up. Aside from insane fans, he was tired of the social whirl and the constant interruptions. He wanted to be alone, at the farm he’d just bought. He was sure that in the solitude of the Pennsylvania country-side he would rediscover his creativity.

He’d spent a total of an hour there, inspecting the property. It had felt so right to him, he’d bought it on the spot. He loved everything about it. The quiet, the isolation, the fact that aside from an old stone farmhouse where the caretakers lived, you couldn’t even see another house.

The main house, a restored plank house, was plenty big, with its warm, inviting and comfortable interior.

The whole place was obviously well cared for. He hadn’t met the people who worked there, but if they stayed out of Ian’s way and did their jobs, Ian didn’t care if he ever met them.

He’d always needed complete quiet and solitude to write. Philadelphia was becoming impossible. Not only did fans hound him, but his parents demanded he be a part of their busy society circle, as if he were some kind of trophy they’d acquired.

He’d considered moving to New York to be closer to his publisher and editor, but that was as bad as Philadelphia. He was tired of being pressured to show up at the important parties, invited because of his fame. No one wanted to know him, they just wanted to be seen with him.

The more he declined what Joyce described as the “significant invitations,” the more popular he became.

The business end of his life was no better. He’d hired an army of people to take care of things. Joyce, his agent, a property manager, an accountant, and they just seemed to complicate his life instead of freeing him up.

He wanted to be able to write in peace and quiet, live an uncomplicated life with no interruptions. He wanted what Thoreau had sought, his own Walden Pond.

No entanglements.

Maybe then he could get his old spark back and write a decent book to give to his publisher. He had a deadline looming, and nothing he was willing to show anyone, especially his editor.

He closed the program on his laptop and went to pack, his spirits lifting at the thought he would at least get to stop at the farm.

When he returned home he’d have the rest of the things he wanted to take with him packed and shipped. If the place turned out to be as conducive to work as he hoped, he’d think about putting his apartment up for sale.

Trish was working in the barn when she heard the car coming up the driveway that led only to the farm.

It couldn’t be him, not yet, she thought frantically, looking down at her filthy clothes.

He wasn’t scheduled to arrive for three hours. Thank goodness she’d finished getting the house ready this morning.

She dumped her shovelful of manure into the wheelbarrow and yanked off her gloves. Wiping her hands on the rag stuffed in her pocket, she walked over to glance into the basket on the workbench where Emma had just fallen asleep. She tucked the warm blanket securely around her daughter and kissed her forehead with a brush of her lips.