Blooming

CHAPTER ONE: PERSONAL QUESTIONS

Sitting in my car outside the snow-covered house, high up in the mountains, I straightened out my skirt and read over my notes and questions one last time even though, by now, I knew them backward, forward, up, down, and every other direction. But this was my first feature -- a centerfold, even -- and that fact alone had my nerves on high alert.

And the subject. Jesus.

Blythe Sloan.

Nobody had seen her in years. Nobody. I half-thought this might be some horrible set up by a serial killer going after relatively weak young female journalists. I still didn't understand why she'd responded to my emails and calls over anyone else's. I mean, the woman had been a best-selling author for a decade, constantly on the top of every mystery and thriller list from most anticipated to highest rated and everything in between. And then she fell off the face of the earth. Dropped her agent, dropped her publicity team, dropped her husband.

Until today.

I sucked in a deep breath and said, just loud enough to be heard, "You've got this, Daisy. You went to Columbia. You interned at 'NYT.' This is nothing."

I lied to myself like that pretty often. Sometimes it helped. Today it didn't. Regardless, I was three minutes late now and, even though I'd definitely be able to blame that on the terrifying winding unpaved drive up the mountains, I wanted to make a good first impression. So I pushed open the door and walked my red Mary Janes across the icy pebbles of Ms. Sloan's driveway. The house was astonishing, a redwood masterpiece built into the cliffside with floor-to-ceiling windows that looked down over the range below. Through the windows, I could make out a grand lofted living room, fitted with a custom stone fireplace, leather couches, and a full bar for hosting, which I assumed she didn't do often. The staircase up to the front door was steep enough to make me thankful I picked out a chunkier supportive shoe instead of something flashier I'd usually wear to the newsroom.

After knocking on the resounding wooden door, I waited with tight lungs and foggy breath for a long time. Long enough that I thought about turning around. Maybe she'd gotten cold feet at the last minute, which wouldn't be particularly difficult at this altitude. I took a second to check my appearance in the glass that lined the door. I'd kept my makeup minimal, not wanting to draw much attention to myself, and my curvy body was concealed in a professional getup. The bright April sun threatened to melt the snow, though, and it was hot on the back of my neck beneath my high gingery blonde ponytail.

The door swung open shockingly quietly for its size. To my surprise, it was a slim young man behind the door, wearing a chunky knit sweater and slacks. He extended a hand to me. "You must be Ms. Prince."

I shook his hand and said, "Daisy, please."

"I'm Sam. I help out up here on the weekends -- shoveling, repairs, that sort of stuff."

I made a mental note since I didn't have my recorder yet. "Good to meet you. Will you be joining us for the interview?"

He shook his head. "No, no, I'm actually heading out for the week. Need to get home before this melt freezes over tonight."

"Well, drive safe then."

"Enjoy your time with her." He gave me a slight nod before stepping past me on the small deck, holding the door behind him. "And just a tip? Don't mention her ex-husband. I know everyone's curious about it, but you'll be walking into a minefield."

I offered a tight smile. "Thanks for the heads up."

"No problem." Heading down the stairs, he called over his shoulder, "Good luck!"

It sounded more like a warning than anything else.

I stepped through the threshold. The air inside was a sharp contrast to the harsh cold; its warmth enveloped me, the deep scent of mulled wine wafting in from the nearby kitchen. That combination of tart citrus and warm spices had always softened me from the inside out. My mom would always have a pot simmering around the holidays. I took a deep breath I didn't realize I'd been holding.

From the loft above me, soft footsteps padded down the stairs. I don't know what I'd been expecting, but it wasn't a cream cashmere sweater, fashionably slouchy jeans, and bare feet with a nude pedicure. I guess I'd envisioned more of a feathery black and sheer widow's robe draped gracefully and commandingly over a chaise lounge.

My fault for giving in to stereotypes of reclusive rich ladies. She had chin-length black hair, tucked neatly behind her ears, with a shock of gray in the front framing her face.

"Daisy Prince." Ms. Sloan smiled slightly. "I've been enjoying reading through your bylines since we started emailing."

I swallowed and tried not to be starstruck; memories of curling up with her latest thrillers as a teenager were bombarding me. "Really? You have?"

"Absolutely. You're very talented."

"Well, you definitely are, too."

She chuckled a bit. "Not so much anymore, but thank you."

Then she sighed out a deep breath and it struck me for the first time that she might be nervous too -- probably not as nervous as me, but still. She hadn't done anything like this for a very long time, and that thought made me feel a bit more normal. This would be weird for both of us, at the very least. I put on my best Serious Journalist face -- the one I'd used for the thousand interviews I'd done for unimportant page-six columns -- and asked, "Where can we settle in for our chat? I want you to feel comfortable."

Another laugh. It was the kind of laugh you'd expect from Julie Andrews at an elegant gala. Feminine, classy, confident. "Comfortable with a journalist? Not very likely for me."

"I won't bite; I promise."

Ms. Sloan led me through the home. I took mental snapshots of each detail, knowing that her personal touches would add color to the piece. This place was definitely, truly her home, not just a place she lived. All sorts of collected paintings, writings, and sculptures lined the walls from floor to ceiling like some indie art gallery. Each bookshelf had not only piles of well-worn novels from every age and language but plenty of knickknacks mixed in. Vintage salt-and-pepper shakers, creepy porcelain dolls, and a set of hand-carved ducks. The works. I couldn't stop myself from asking:

"Would you mind if I took some pictures around the house? Only where you'd be okay with, of course. It's just so...well, so you in here."

"I suppose if a picture speaks a thousand words, letting you take a few might get me off the hook for coming up with clever answers."

"Don't worry about being clever," I tried to assure her, "this piece isn't going to be some ambush to dig into all your dirty secrets -- unless you want to."

"I'm afraid most of my secrets have been thoroughly laundered."

"See? You'll be fine with clever."

"Here we are, my little safe haven inside my big safe haven."

She pushed open a door to her office. Unlike the rest of the house, this room was clean, meticulously organized, and lit by a few warm fixtures instead of the brilliant sun. There weren't any windows to distract. Half the room was dominated by an oversized desk built into a wall of bookshelves. The other had two couches both invitingly plush, facing each other over a brass coffee table. The room was completely and totally serene, like the rest of the world didn't exist.

Two mugs of mulled wine sat at the center of the table, each garnished with an orange slice and a cinnamon stick. I sat down and helped myself to one, resisting the urge to joke about murder or poison given the situation and location. Ms. Sloan sat on the other end of the same couch as me, holding the mug on her lap. The first sip coated my mouth in succulence. Perfect. I clicked my recorder on, set it on the table between us, and asked her, "You spend most of your time in here?"

"Actually, it was a storage room until just a couple of months ago."

"What changed?"

"I've started writing again." She smiled in a way that would've read as bashful on anyone else, but I could tell it was more coy and calculated than anything else.

"Didn't do a good job burying the lead on that reveal, did I?"

My eyes snapped up from my notes. I'd just been aiming for small talk while we got settled, not a headline. "That's incredible to hear, Ms. Sloan."

"Blythe. Please call me Blythe." She leaned back and crossed her legs over one another. "Yes, I've been...playing, I'd call it. Nothing too serious -- yet -- but I'm hoping to find a spark of something new soon. Right now it's just musings, but you never know when the next thing might come along."

I scribbled down a few words before setting the pad down, trying to maintain composure as my heart pounded against my ribcage. Blythe Sloan, reclusive mystery writer extraordinaire, sitting across from me, opening up about her return to writing. It was a scoop, no doubt, but there was something else here that needed to be told, something beyond the story, and getting at those things would bring the story from interesting to enthralling.

"That's wonderful, Blythe," I said, trying to keep my voice steady. "To come back to writing after all this time -- it's been, what, eleven years since The Absent Hand came out?"

"And exactly ten years, this month, since I left it all behind."

I nodded and shook my head, still fighting off a bit of disbelief at the entire situation.

"It must feel like rediscovering a part of yourself."

Blythe's eyes softened, a glimmer of emotion dancing within them. "Yes, exactly. It's like finding an old friend in an unexpected place or running into a former lover who had to move far away a long time ago."

I sighed at the romance of the thought, the tension in the room easing as our conversation flowed more naturally. And, to be honest, I was thankful that I'd have plenty of solid quotes to choose from once I brought the recording back to my own desk to organize. "What inspired you to start again?"

She hesitated for a moment, considering her words carefully. "Life, I suppose. The need to express, to create. It's been too long since I allowed myself that freedom where it really matters. In my words. And loneliness, really." She ran one hand through her short hair, which fell around her face like downy feathers. She suddenly seemed more vulnerable, less of an apparition and more of a woman. "I want to connect again, and writing was always my way of doing that. My way of communicating."

She'd strummed a chord that echoed around my ribcage. It felt like she was really telling me, not telling Liberator Magazine and its readers. "I had a professor in school who said we always find the most truth when we write fiction."

"Couldn't have said it better myself." She sipped her wine. "Well, maybe I could if you gave me a few hours."

I laughed for the first time in front of her. As I did, her eyes flicked down to my lips, almost imperceptibly. I shook my head, knowing I was projecting, and continued. "I understand that feeling. I think most people do. When we choose to make ourselves the priority, sometimes we overcorrect and make everyone else...you could probably finish that line better than I can, but you get what I mean."

Blythe nodded in agreement, a silent understanding passing between us. In that moment, it felt as though we were sharing more than just an interview; we were sharing pieces of ourselves, connecting on a deeper level than I had anticipated. As the conversation continued, the initial nerves faded into the background, replaced by a growing sense of warmth. Blythe's stories filled the room, her words weaving a tapestry of experiences that drew me in, sparking a curiosity that went beyond professional interest.

By the time the interview drew to a close, I wasn't ready to say goodbye to her. There were a million more questions I wanted to ask. I switched off the recorder, but the connection between us lingered. Silence hung in the space between our eye contact. "I wanted to ask you a question, if you don't mind."

"That's why I invited you here."

"No, I mean, ah, a personal question." She nodded in reassurance. I asked, "What made you answer my email? My editor told me that different staff members have tried to get pieces with you for years and always got the same form rejections. Told me that you wouldn't even talk to me if I still worked for the Times."

Blythe stood up, walked across the room to her desk, and rummaged through a drawer. When she came back, she handed me an issue of the Liberator and said, "Page six." While I flipped to it, she explained: "I've been a subscriber forever. It's my favorite indie magazine -- and you know there's plenty to choose from around here. Whenever someone reaches out to me for an interview, I read the first and the most recent articles they wrote for their current publication."

"Why's that?"

"The most recent shows me their talent; I wanted my first interview back, so to speak, to be written by someone competent, at least. Most of the emailers don't make it past that; you did with flying colors, though. Then, the first shows who they really are. I've gotten very good at reading between the lines."

"Christ, I hope my first wasn't the puff piece about local kale growers."

"No, it definitely wasn't, although that one wasn't too bad, either." Her eyes shined. I noticed for the first time that they were gray. True gray, not a diluted blue, like crisp clean dust motes floating past a window. I dropped my eyes, embarrassed to be caught staring. Blythe continued on with her story: "The editorial from your first issue was one of the million tailend-of-the-pandemic soapboxes about togetherness. The whole 'we're more connected than ever through phones but have never been further apart' blah, blah, blah." She waved a hand and rolled her eyes. "The same boring, mainstream taglines that corporations had been plastering on commercials for months while people died because they still needed to sell high-end cars to someone."

I smiled, just a little, hiding the pride on my face the best I could. "And I wrote the op-ed; I forgot that was actually the first thing of mine that got published."

Our thighs touched. Blythe pointed to my little column, tucked beneath something more important, and read the headline. "'In Defense of Solitude.' In two-hundred-fifty words, you summarized every thought and feeling I've had since The Absent Hand. How we need time to ourselves, especially when we think we're at our loneliest, because the only person we have at the end of the day is ourself."

I read the last line, shaking my head. "'And I'm thankful that I've learned to keep myself company.' Can't believe that's what got me a call back from the Blythe Sloan."

"Don't ever discount yourself, Daisy. You're brilliant." I had to fight not to blush when she leaned in, her hand lingering a moment on my thigh. "I thought only someone who understood the true value of solitude could understand why I'd want to come out of it."

After we finished talking, I took out my camera. She'd been very clear that I was the only person invited -- no photography team, no makeup, no editors to oversee it. She said I could take any pictures I wanted, but I could only print three: One full-size for the lead-in where the headline would be, and one on each side of the article's two-page spread.

When she stretched her arms over her head, readjusting after talking for so long, a few inches of her stomach were exposed just above her jeans. For the briefest moment, I saw myself reaching out and touching that smooth, freckled skin. I raised the camera to my face to avoid being caught. For the first time, through the lens of my camera, I was able to really look at her as much as I'd wanted to for hours. My heart skipped, comparing the version of her that sat in front of me to the one I'd seen on book jackets throughout my life. Besides the addition of a little gray hair, she'd put on some weight, just enough to soften her angular features from cliffs to ski slopes. But her lips still tilted upward ever so slightly, holding some secret you'd never get to learn, and her eyelashes were still heavy and dark like she could bat them at anyone to get anything she wanted.

For some stupid reason, I couldn't help myself from saying, "You're so beautiful."

I'd said it almost under my breath, but in the stillness of the room in the remote forest, she'd heard it just fine. Hot pink blush rose in her cheeks, but it dissipated as quickly as it appeared. Her eyes flamed, though, and her resting smile got brighter. I snapped a few more pictures and knew these ones were it -- the ones that looked past her eyes and into something that mattered more.

I stood up, tucked the camera away, and finished off my wine. As we left the office, a very clear reality presented itself to both of us: A real, proper snowstorm was quickly coating the entire mountain. The thought of driving back down that treacherous mountain road filled me with unease, but I pushed it aside, not wanting to spoil the moment.

Blythe must have noticed my hesitation because she placed a hand on my shoulder, her touch warm and reassuring. "The snow's really coming down," she remarked, peering out the huge window, which was basically a wall of TV static from the unflinching snowfall. "You shouldn't risk driving in this weather. Why don't you stay here for the night? I have plenty of guest rooms. It'll be much safer."

I hesitated, caught off guard by her offer. Spending the night in Blythe Sloan's mountain retreat sounded like an English major's wet dream, but I didn't want to overstep any boundaries -- personal or ethical. "Are you sure? I know you don't know me and I wouldn't want to-"

"Hush; I'm not going to let a pretty girl go careening down my slip-and-slide driveway when she's just about to win a Pulitzer off my reentry into society."

I stifled a laugh with my hand. "In that case, I'd be happy to stay."

The word 'pretty' buzzed through my entire being.

CHAPTER TWO: MIDNIGHT SNACK

Around midnight, the snow turned to hail. It woke me up from a deep and dreamless and surprisingly comfortable sleep. I didn't know why, but I felt right at home in Blythe's guest bedroom, which had golden sheer drapes and a California king bed and an en suite. Usually, this kind of luxury -- especially offered up by a stranger -- would make me so uncomfortable my skin would crawl, but slipping in between these sheets felt as familiar as my own.

Once my eyes were open, though, I knew I wouldn't be able to get back to sleep with so much noise pinging down from the roof, interrupting the relentless silence that was heavy like a weighted blanket in Blythe's house. So I sat up, stretched my arms over my head, and used the bathroom. Then, keeping my footsteps as light as possible, I walked down the steps to the kitchen to see if there was anything I could subtly scrounge up without her noticing. Or maybe I'd just sit by the window and sip water to kill time until the hail let up. If the hail let up.

When I got to the kitchen, using my phone flashlight to avoid running into anything, I saw the silhouette of Blythe's legs behind an open fridge door. Yellowish light poured out of the vintage refrigerator and spilled across the kitchen. She heard me approaching and closed the fridge, bathing us in darkness again, before she flicked on a nearby light switch, which activated a naked bulb above the doorway. It seemed to be designed for exactly this -- bright enough to illuminate a pathway, but dim enough not to shock tired eyes. A midnight snack lightbulb.

This time, she was wearing something intimidating and sexy like I would've imagined for her: A mauve silk bathrobe, barely long enough to cover her ass, tied loosely around her waist. When she turned toward me, I saw what she was wearing underneath. Or, really, I saw what she wasn't wearing underneath. She had on a pair of matching silky shorts but there was nothing between her breasts and me but the robe, which was just open enough to plunge down toward her barely exposed navel.