Hannah's Novel Idea Read online

  Hannah’s grandmother had died twenty years earlier, but Hannah’s mother could not bring herself to sell her tiny and cramped childhood home to a stranger. She could never explain why she held onto the property, one that was of little value as real estate. But when Hannah was released from the hospital, and her therapist had determined that she was stable enough to live on her own, Hannah had asked if she could make the long abandoned hideaway her own home. Hannah’s mother was only too happy to accommodate the wish.

  Hannah’s mother had held her breath two years earlier when her daughter had abandoned her teaching career to work at an assortment of part-time jobs that would allow her to spend more time writing. She subsequently watched the sudden transformation of Hannah from a struggling, unknown author living on meager wages and her savings, to becoming the toast of the world of young adult literature, and the accompanying half a million dollars that landed in the bank in the process.

  She also watched in fear as Hannah found herself in over her head in the fame and attention that resulted from her blockbuster novel. She suspected that it was too much too fast on the heels of a frantic surge to finish the book once Hannah was notified that one of her many queries had resulted in the offer of an advance. However, the advance had a deadline clause for completion in the case that Hannah was interested in pursuing an offer to sell the rights for a motion picture adaptation. That extra offer was enough of an incentive for Hannah to go at full speed on little sleep and rest for a five-month span. The mother’s worst fears were realized when she received the call from the hospital. Hannah’s parents rushed to the New York Hospital, and stayed in the city for several days. It was determined that Hannah had simply suffered from a combination of physical exhaustion and an emotional collapse from being overwhelmed by her sudden success and fear of not being able to continue the popularity of work at the same level.

  Hannah agreed with her parents that it would be best for her to come and stay with them for a few weeks, rather than return to her own home in Indianapolis. She was unattached, had no pets, and knowing that she was going to be traveling extensively, had prepared her apartment for being vacant for some time.

  Her parents still lived in the comfortable but modest home she had known throughout her childhood. Both were accountants and part of the home was set aside for operating their business. The house rested in the farmlands just a few miles from Ohio

  Hannah’s sense of pride was stung to a certain degree by moving back into her old room at the age of 27. Still, she appreciated the quiet sense of peace that being there brought her. She worked at a snail’s pace on the outline for another novel. She paid no attention to the television, especially the entertainment-oriented programs that had been commenting on her recent misfortune. Those segments served only to continue to amplify the expected buzz that surrounded such a turn of events in the life of a celebrity, although that celebrity status had been conferred on her recently and suddenly.

  She had been home for just four days when she found herself gazing at a watercolor painting of her grandmother’s home along the Wabash River in Indiana. Her mother’s cousin was an amateur artist, and knew how much the old dwelling meant to her. That painting had materialized as a Christmas present some fifteen years ago.

  Hannah’s mother walked into the living room to see her daughter admiring the painting. Hannah turned to her and said, “Don’t you think that would be a good place for a writer to live?”

  Within 48 hours, Hannah had called the manager of her apartment complex in Indianapolis to settle the remaining four months on her lease, and to arrange for her furnishings to be offered to a new occupant and to have her meager clothing left behind donated to a shelter. Once she was fully rested, she was going to head to the banks of the Wabash, to the faded blue cottage along the river that her mother visited twice a year to ensure that all was well.

  Hannah had not owned a car in two years. She had sold the one she used when she was a schoolteacher, and then during her lean years as a beginning writer she had traveled around Indianapolis in cabs and on public transit.

  She asked her father to take an afternoon off and drive her to a Cadillac dealer in Ft. Wayne. It was her first major purchase since having become financially secure, so she decided to do it right and bought herself a new Escalade. She decided that for the time being, she would make do with the very old and basic furnishings her grandmother had left behind. All that she really needed to take with her to the cottage would be some clothing and her computer and printer.

  Once she had made the decision, any signs of lingering anxiety seemed to leave her, so her parents felt no sense of trepidation at seeing her move on to what served as the family home of origin. As Hannah packed, her mother regaled her with stories of how Hannah’s grandfather had spent much of his free time fishing for catfish while sitting along the banks of the muddy, meandering river that flowed behind the house.

  Hannah had always found that simply making a decision was a healing method in and of itself. Planning to leave for the cottage in a week, she set about making contacts with Jean, her publisher, her agent, her attorney and several major bookstores that had sought her presence at signing events. As for the latter, she politely declined. She was much more in need of solitude and rest than of more publicity. Before her collapse in a New York hotel room, publicity had been more than abundant. After that had happened, her face seemed to appear in even more magazines.

  She had developed a pat answer: she was going to become the stereotypical reclusive and eccentric writer. She understood that in certain crafts, her public would be confused by an inability to process acclaim, but would embrace those peculiarities that were so often beloved in a wordsmith.

  She left for the banks of the Wabash on a rainy Sunday in the middle of March. It would take her just 90 minutes of driving before she reached her new home, a few miles outside of Manton, Indiana.

  She left at 7:00 AM after hugging and kissing her parents goodbye. She had been a schoolteacher for three years in Indianapolis and had been involved in one steady but brief relationship, and another of the more casual variety. She had originally left home as a naïve and innocent 18-year-old woman when her parents had dropped her off outside her dormitory at the University of Indiana. On this morning, she felt as if she were starting her second life.

  The rain was heavy when she drove away, and the temperature was just hovering above freezing. When she was an hour from Manton, the rain turned to the frozen variety, followed by a heavy snow squall that took her by surprise. She pressed the button to activate the all-wheel-drive on the large SUV, then tuned in an oldies station on the radio and found herself remarkably relaxed and optimistic as she drove.

  An hour after she had left her parents’ home in eastern Indiana, she exited the interstate highway for the Indiana State Route that would take her to Manton. For the first time that day, she stopped at a cluster of gas stations and fast food restaurants, preparing for the last leg of the drive to her new home. She also ventured into a convenience market, and left with three bags of basic provisions she would need until she could go into Manton and get fully stocked.

  She turned on the GPS and saw that she had a thirty-minute jaunt still ahead of her. A nearby street became the country road that would take her to the wooded driveway leading back to the cottage. She began to feel a bit anxious as she neared her destination. When she finally reached what was to be her new residence, at least for a while, she turned into the driveway, and realized that her only memory of the scene was from that painting on the wall of her parents' home. The few memories she had from her one childhood visit had been too distorted by time to be of any value to her. She pulled up in front of the small dwelling on the circular driveway that had once been primarily gravel but was now mainly overgrown by grass, grass that was mowed dutifully by a local resident receiving checks from the owner he would likely never meet in person.

  It was fortunate that the precipitation had stopped as soon as she reac
hed Manton. Now she could take her time unloading the truck. She reached into her jeans pocket and found the key her mother had given her and opened the creaking door and stepped into the cottage in the little sunlight allowed by the stormy sky. She was greeted by a musty smell, as well as a sense of well-being and contentment. Just stepping inside had relieved much of her anxiety.

  The door had opened directly into the kitchen, and when she flipped the light switch next to the door jam, a small white overhead globe fixture lit the room. The scene appeared much like one might see in a framed print at the souvenir shop. There was an oval plank dining table still in an unfinished state accompanied by three chairs of a similar nature. It had been sufficient for the small family in which Hannah’s mother was the only child.

  The floor on which she stood consisted of aged linoleum in a checked red white and gray pattern, the colors of which had greatly faded with time. There was an electric oven likely older than herself, and a small decades-old refrigerator that was not plugged in. She immediately inserted the plug into the wall socket, holding her breath in fear of being shocked.

  Also in the kitchen was an old white painted cupboard full of what must have been her grandmother’s prized dishes to be brought out for dining on those rare occasions when company had arrived. There were also a set of teapots, elegantly flowered teacups and drinking glasses for everyday use in a variety of flowered patterns.

  Hannah knelt in front of the cupboard and opened the doors to find that the shelves on the bottom portion were covered with old cooking pots and pans. She stood and opened a drawer to find it contained a modest amount of silverware, a couple of spatulas, a whisk and some wooden spoons.

  She began putting food in the refrigerator, hoping that it would cool rapidly enough that she would not have to set any of her perishable food outside to prevent spoilage. She was concerned that it would be protected from roaming wildlife such as the raccoons that used to entertain her mother during their nighttime foraging.

  She propped the kitchen door open and began carrying in her belongings, setting most of them on the old large brown corduroy sofa in the living room. She had not brought along much, so the unloading to not take her very long. The last thing she carried in were the two bundles of firewood her father had wrapped in plastic for her. She reviewed the written directions her father had provided for turning on the fuel oil furnace, but the home was so chilly she decided to go ahead and build a fire in the small stone fireplace that was the center of attention in the living room. The original owner who had constructed the cottage had arranged the dwelling so that heat from the fireplace would easily flow into the downstairs bedroom and up a wide stairwell to the solitary other bedroom upstairs. Her mother had occupied that room, and had spoken with fondness and nostalgia of feeling the welcome heat from the fireplace rising upstairs and into her room.

  Following her father’s careful instructions, Hannah reached in the bag her father had given her and took out a box of matches and a sheet of twisted newspaper. She knelt in front of the fireplace, lit the end of the paper and held it next to the chimney opening. Seeing that the flame leapt upward and smoke billowed into the chimney unobstructed, she set the paper down to burn, then retrieved from the bag one of the starter sticks he had sent along, along with some kindling wood.

  The smaller pieces were quickly burning, so she placed two larger pieces from the plastic bundle on the fire. The logs provided a brilliant flame, and the room began to warm. She carried her clothing and other personal belongings into the downstairs bedroom and the rest of her items into the small bathroom. She began to hang her clothes in the small closet, and the rest of her garments went into the old chest of drawers. She could feel the heat from the fire radiating into the room, while the fuel oil furnace also warmed the structure.

  She looked around the bedroom before she began putting the sheets and blankets on the old bed. She could only guess how old the mattress and box springs must have been. They would be replaced quickly but she would make do for a couple of nights.

  The lights in the room were of the old wall-mounted style, with no overhead lighting at all. Next to the bed on each side was a nightstand complete with a globe lamp. Each lamp rested upon a crocheted doily, no doubt handmade by her grandmother. She knew they would remain there as long as the cottage was her own residence.

  She walked out into the living room that was lit by a small and modest candelabra style light in the middle of the ceiling. There were also two standing lamps in corners of the room as well. There was old overstuffed chair that matched the sofa, both of which displayed well-worn and somewhat concave cushions. Along another wall was an old upholstered straight chair, and several feet away a large wood rocking chair with knurled arms, and emblazoned by a painted eagle on the back.

  Most of the floor was covered by a large area rug in a pattern of pink roses and silver flowers that at one time would have been elegant. Hannah noticed that the bedroom had been outfitted with a large oval rug over wood plank flooring around the edges, with a coating of varnish that had turned dark with age.

  She knew that she would likely have a television in place within two days, and cable service run to the house complete with her Internet service. For the night, however, she would revel in her only contact with the outside world being her cell phone.

  Hannah had risen early that day and driven alone in trying weather. She was tired, but relieved to have reached her next stage of life. The house warmed quickly, and she stretched out on the old sofa to read some magazines she had picked up at the market. She found herself enjoying her new solitude. She ate a cold meat and cheese sandwich , and after a few hours, she put on her nightshirt, added a blanket to her grandmother’s bed, and rapidly went to sleep.

  The next day she would venture out to the small barn that also served as a garage. Her father told her that she would likely find more firewood waiting for her there, along with an assortment of family relics her mother could still not bring herself to part with.

  Chapter 3

  Hannah was amazed that she slept until noon, after falling asleep before 10:00 o’clock. Although she had many nights at her parents’ home where she had slept well, this was definitely the most well rested she had been in many months. She tossed the covers off, sat upright, and stretched. She was pleased that the ancient furnace seemed to be working correctly, as the temperature in the cottage was most comfortable.

  She reached for the robe from the foot of the bed, and then slid her feet into the slippers that she had placed at bedside out of habit. She yawned as she walked to the kitchen of the cottage that was now illuminated by the noon sun on a day that was a total contrast of the previous one. There was a bright blue sky compared to the overcast day of rain, sleet and snow.

  She noticed for the first time that an old console radio sat on a small table next to the door. To her delight, she was able to turn a dial to find a public broadcasting station carrying a program she enjoyed but rarely got to listen to.

  As she listened to the humorous banter of the program hosts she prepared a ham and Swiss cheese sandwich, opened a bag of chips to go with it and popped open a can of Coke. She had decided that since she was seeking relaxation, she might as well indulge in some dietary decadence.

  She sat at the table on one of the rustic and worn wooden chairs to eat her lunch and enjoy the radio program. She was amused as the program progressed and a young writer was interviewed about her experience of trying to gain recognition for her work.

  Her meal finished, she reached for the purse she had placed on another chair upon her arrival the previous evening. She rummaged through the bag until she found the brown plastic bottle and took a tablet from it. She was prescribed to take three of the small doses of Xanax tablets each day, but had missed her morning tablet. She was uncertain as to whether she even needed the medication anymore. While she was hospitalized, and for two weeks after, she was taking much heavier doses. She had not liked the resulting sensations of being
a tad out of control of her own decisions and reactions. The day she was told to greatly curtail her medications, she had experienced a pronounced sense of relief.

  Most of all, she felt normal again. Normal was the most welcome state of mind she could have asked for. She was ready to continue to restructure her life, pursue her new avocation, but without the frantic need to gain recognition. Everyone told her she was talented, her bank statement told her that she was now secure, and for the first time in months, the mirror reflected the face of a woman of confidence.

  She went into the bedroom and stripped then walked into the bathroom and stepped into the tub. Distracted by the thought that she should call her parents and reassure them that all was going well, she absentmindedly turned on the shower. Within 10 seconds, she was standing outside the plastic curtain surrounding the tub, shivering with a large towel wrapped around her. When she called her parents, she would need to specifically ask her father how to turn on the water heater.

  She laughed at her own foibles as she patted herself dry. She was feeling a craving for some caffeine in addition to the can of Coke she had already consumed. She went into her bedroom, and after pulling on her bra and panties, went to the kitchen once again.

  She examined the old teakettle that rested on the stove, then took it to the sink and swirled water around inside, emptied it and repeated the process two more times. Convinced it was clean enough, she filled it and turned the control knob to the high temperature. She had looked in the cupboard and found several coffee cups. She then reached into a plastic bag for the jar of instant coffee she had purchased at the convenience store. She scooped some of the coffee into the cup and decided to wait in the kitchen for the water to heat up in spite of the cool surface of the linoleum floor on her bare feet.