LITMIR.BIZ

       Chapter Seven

      The road leading to Laguna Beach ran through various beach communities that dotted the coast. Brandon drove along unhurried, lightly skimming around Pacific Coast Highway’s twists and turns, as comfortable as a man visiting old friends to seek out their advice.

      Except that it was different this time.

      Different because this time, he had someone with him. Someone he could talk to. Someone he could, if need be, bounce half-formed ideas off of.

      With songs from a bygone era softly playing in the background on the oldies station he had preset on his radio, Brandon did his best to focus, to home in on some kind of a kernel of thought that would start the process finally moving in the right direction for him.

      He refused to believe that, after ten well-received bestsellers and a new one about to hit the shelves in a couple of weeks, that he was suddenly dry. Refused to entertain the thought that his best work was now behind him.

      Still, he had to admit that he was more focused on the young woman in the passenger seat next to him than he was on anything he could put down on the page.

      Was it her fault he couldn’t think—or had he brought her along to give himself an excuse for not thinking?

      At this point, he wasn’t sure. It was a “chicken or egg” sort of question.

      Thinking it might help seed the barren terrain that was his ordinarily fruitful mind, Brandon decided to get a conversation rolling.

      Turning down the radio, he asked Isabelle, “What made you become a physical therapist?”

      The question came out of the blue, catching Isabelle off guard. It took her a second to realize Brandon was talking to her. He’d been quiet since they’d turned onto Pacific Coast Highway, and she just assumed that he was plotting a scene in his head or something along those lines. She hadn’t wanted to interrupt him.

      But now that he’d addressed her, she felt she was free to talk to him. She started by answering his question. “Well, my sister would tell you it’s because I like to order people around and make them do what I tell them, but the truth is simpler than that. I like helping people. I have an aptitude for it. I can motivate people, get them fired up to try again instead of giving up. Having a small part in their healing makes me feel good,” she told him honestly.

      “You’re a very persuasive woman.” Brandon wasn’t trying to flatter her. There weren’t many people who could hold their own with his mother. The fact that she could said a great deal about her strength of character, and that impressed him.

      She moved her shoulders in a vague shrug, dismissing his assessment. “No, not really, but for some reason, I can tap into their innermost feelings. I can find that hidden spark that’ll make them try again and again until they conquer that particular hurdle and move on to the next one.”

      Brandon nodded, understanding. “You mean like with my mother.”

      Anastasia Del Vecchio was opinionated and stubborn, but the woman, despite her complaints, really wanted to get back to her former self. That gave her something to work with, Isabelle thought.

      “Your mother’s one of the easier cases,” she told him. When he responded to that with a laugh, she explained. “No, really. She wants to be pushed. I think if I played it strictly the way she makes it ‘appear’ that she wants it—stopping for a break every few minutes and taking the easy way out—your mother would complain even louder—and really mean it. She’d probably demand to know why I was giving up on her. For her, it’s all part of the process. She wants me to ride roughshod over her so she can grumble and complain—and get back to her old self. You know, for a woman her age, your mother’s in fantastic shape.”

      Amused, Brandon laughed softly under his breath. “You know, if you value your life, I wouldn’t mention that part about ‘a woman her age’ anywhere that she can overhear you. My mother’s age is a secret guarded only a little less zealously than security at the White House. How do you know how old she is, anyway?” he asked. Even he wasn’t a hundred percent certain that he had the right year.

      “I’ve been a fan of your mother’s ever since I can remember,” she told him. “Back then, she didn’t care if people knew what year she was born.”

      Shaking his head, he laughed. “Now there you’re wrong. Anastasia Del Vecchio always cared about keeping her age off the record. My mother wanted to be thought of as ‘timeless’ and ‘eternally young.’ To be honest,” Brandon went on to admit, “I’m not even sure if I know how old she is.”

      She studied his profile for a moment. “Doesn’t that bother you?” She knew that it would drive her absolutely crazy not to know.

      “Not really.” Brandon shrugged away the question. “It’s just part of what makes her Anastasia Del Vecchio. She’s quicksilver. Mercurial. Someone who can’t be pinned down.” He glanced over to his right. They traveled along another stretch of beach, passing an RV camping area. In direct contrast to the RVs, some of Laguna’s most expensive homes were nested on his left. “What matters more to me than any chronological number is that when I really needed her, she was there—without my having to actually say a word to her.”

      “When you found yourself suddenly being a single father.”

      The road ahead was empty. Brandon allowed himself a moment to glance at her. “So you know about that, too.” It was obviously not a question, but neither was it an accusation.

      Still, she blushed just a little at having verbally intruded into a private matter. “You were always an extension of your mother’s life, so bits and pieces of yours made it into stories that were written about her. And then you wrote your first thriller and became famous in your own right. Interviews followed…”

      Her voice trailed off as she realized that might have sounded a tad obsessive to him. She hadn’t been keeping tabs on him, she was just mildly interested in her favorite author’s life. And she had always been interested in Anastasia Del Vecchio. It was still difficult for her to grasp that she was giving the legendary star physical therapy and living within shouting distance of the woman.

      Isabelle pressed her lips together. There were so many questions popping into her mind, things she wanted to know about the man, the writer, firsthand. “Mind if I ask you something?”

      They were coming to a sharp turn. He kept his eyes on the road. “Go ahead.”

      Since he’d asked her about her work, she thought that allowed her to ask him a question about his. “Did you always want to be a writer?”

      There’d been a few other choices: cowboy, astronaut, but those had faded by the time he was nine. The only serious career he’d ever considered was the one he had now.

      “Well, seeing the world I was part of, creating fantasy just came naturally to me. I was always making up stories in my head, exciting stories—or so I thought,” he qualified with a self-deprecating grin. “Stories where I was the hero, saving the girl, and coincidentally, saving the world as well. Modest little stories,” he added with a soft laugh. “When it came time to earn a living, there was nothing else I wanted to be except a writer. The idea excited me. Fortunately for me, I had gotten better at making up stories.”

      Part

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