Snowflakes Over Manhattan
— Chapter 8 —
A Coffee, A Manuscript, and A Publisher
ELIZABETH WOKE TO the smell of coffee and two masculine arms around her. Neither were unusual back home; they were her waking norm thanks to her husband, but this was New York City.
She cracked her eyes open. Two fir needles lay on the pillowcase by the end of her nose, having drifted down from the Christmas swag circling the bedpost while she slept. She blew softly and they fluttered away as her gaze lifted beyond her pillow.
A mug of hot, aromatic coffee rested on her night table, steam rising gently in the cooler air of the room. With a murmur of undisguised pleasure, she stretched out a hand. That first sip was heaven. She savored it slowly before returning mug to coaster and settling back into the mattress, flipped around to face the owner of the arms enclosing her with proprietary laziness.
Nathan's face on the pillow opposite was awake and watching her tenderly. A burst of winter's morning light peeked through the curtains, illuminating the dark stubble defining his jawline and cheeks.
"You spoil me," she greeted him softly.
He leaned forward and brushed his nose against hers. "You deserve it." He looked into her eyes, a breath away. "And you're my wife—that's my job."
Her fingers brushed a lock of hair off his forehead. "I admit, I like being your job."
Nathan pulled her hand down, brushed a kiss across her knuckle. "Best job in my world."
She shifted uneasily, a frisson of anxiety shaking her. "Nathan. . . speaking of jobs. . ."
He brought her fingers to his cheek. "You're worried about your meeting today with your publisher."
Her breath escaped her in a soft whoosh. "You know I am."
"I do." One by one, his fingers laced through hers. Slow. Deliberate. "But I also know how talented you are and that no matter what happens today, there is always a market for talent." His eyes held hers, a steady blue light in them. "I believe in you."
"I know I tend to be a worrywart. . ." She rolled her head on the pillow, staring at the ceiling for a minute before bringing her face back to his. "You're always telling me that things usually turn out better than we expect, and that even if they don't, we'll get through it together, and still, I—I . . . just . . . fuss."
His voice took on that low tone it always did when they were like this; a little roughness loitering around the edges. "You're my favorite fusspot, Mrs. Grant."
She felt herself start to melt despite her nerves.
He shifted closer on the pillow, holding her steadfast in his gaze. "And we will be alright—you will be alright—regardless of whatever your publisher has to say. We have each other, our healthy, beautiful children, a snug home on a property we love, the blessing of a solvent business, incredible, godly friends and their equally special families, and, honey, the gift of your writing isn't going anywhere."
She slipped forward and wrapped her arms around his shoulders, tucking her face into the familiar comfort of his neck. "Thank you—for everything, Nathan." Her voice was muffled against him. "You always give me clarity."
His hand rubbed slow circles between her shoulder blades, his breath soothing and steady in her ear. Elizabeth's arms went lax around his shoulders as her bones gave way and she melted, inert, into his unhurried ministrations, her anxious muscles softening.
Elizabeth breathed in the scent of him, smelling the fresh wild of the outdoors; earthy forest, mountain air, fresh-cut trees . . . and coffee beans skirting the periphery. "My anchor and my wings," she whispered. "For always, Nathan."
She felt an answering kiss being pressed against the side of her head and leaned into it with a soft sigh. For a long moment, there was quiet as they held each other in the simple comfort of just being.
"But . . ." Nathan finally whispered, getting her attention, as had undoubtedly been his intention.
"Hmm?" She was soft and warm and comfortable and couldn't seem to find the compunction to rouse herself.
"Your coffee is getting cold."
Elizabeth popped her head up, rumpled tresses spilling in every direction. "What!?" she wailed, languid inclinations evaporating in a clap of alarm. "Oh no!"
Rolling over with alacrity, she grabbed for her mug. Her toes curled at the cool air as she swung her legs over the side of the bed and scooted half-upright; she ignored the discomfort in her haste to bring the coffee mug to her lips. The first sip was reassuring. "It's still quite warm," she sighed with relief. "Maybe not piping hot, but still toasty warm."
Nathan leaned across and propped his chin on her shoulder. She gave a little hum of enjoyment as she sipped the hot beverage, and he chuckled before turning his neck to dust a kiss on her cheek. "I know how much you dislike lukewarm coffee."
Disentangling one hand from the mug, she slipped it against his cheek in a quick caress. "Not when it comes from you."
A soft movement interrupted them. Their youngest daughter was awake and stretching, back arching as her hands pushed into the air over her shoulders and red lips opening in a mighty yawn for a mouth so tiny.
Nathan swung his legs around—a short journey on their narrow mattress—and pushed off the bed to kneel at Elizabeth's bare feet, bending over the cradle resting there. His hands made short work of bringing Holly to his shoulder. "Good morning, baby girl," he crooned in a soft sing-song that had Elizabeth stifling a giggle.
"Honey," she leaned forward and kissed his cotton-covered shoulder, then kissed the baby who rested there and blinked sleepy eyes at her, "if your old Mountie buddies could hear you now. . . " She smothered a grin against that same shoulder at the wryly amused glance he tossed her.
"Nope, darlin', I'm unashamed to be quite firmly under our little sweetheart's thumb. And if they had a baby that looked like ours, was as smart and precious as ours"—he brushed a tiny curl into the dark cap of hair that covered Holly's head—"they'd be wrapped around her little finger too."
Elizabeth smiled, her cheek smooshed against his shoulder but she didn't care. "I think one in particular would agree rather strongly with you."
He raised a brow.
"Gabriel Kinslow," she stated. "When he and Astrid finally had little Gretta after all those boys, I think he about near cried with joy."
"Oh, he did." Nathan chuckled reminiscently. "And relief."
"Mmm," she agreed, stroking Holly's forehead with the side of her index finger. "Gretta has been a little leaven in the loaf."
"Speaking of babies," he pivoted to look at her, eyes pointedly concerned, "how's Lillian doing? You mentioned you'd talked to Sam when you called home last night, but we got so busy comparing notes on meeting Ian MacCord that we never got around to properly talking about the news from home."
She replaced her coffee cup on the table contritely. "I'm sorry, I didn't mean to worry you. Lillian's fine, Nathan," she assured her husband. "She was napping when I called last night, but Sam said everything was going well—with her and with the children, who were busy building a snow fort. He was putting together a potato and bacon chowder for supper. It was just the usual pregnancy tiredness that sent her for a nap." She looked at him reassuringly. "He would tell me if it was otherwise."
"True." Nathan, who had been listening closely, dipped his chin in a nod. "I know you've been concerned all along that she was taking on too much, babysitting so far along in her pregnancy."
"Still am, a bit," she admitted. "I was loathe to even ask her, but the girls were so keen, and she's a prudent woman who knows her limitations and she was so happy joining us for Christmas. . ." She paused for breath, her sentence running on. "But I'm still glad Sam's there to keep an eye on her, make sure she doesn't overwork herself."
"Given how protective he is, especially when she's expecting, he'd never let her push herself that far. If I know that man at all—and I do—he won't let her push herself period, doubly so considering her condition. Plus, they've got the older girls helping out and giving her breaks, especially Samantha and Hannah. They're incredible, responsible big sisters, and together they're a dream team. Best friends and their respective mother's right hands."
She rested her hands on his shoulders, looked into his eyes. "You remember those pregnancy naps?"
"Of course." His smile spiked mischievous. "I loved those pregnancy naps. They were my favorite time of day."
"That's because you decided my pregnancy naps were meant for you as well." She stared at him pointedly.
"Of course I did. An opportunity to curl up with you during the day; hold you and our unborn babes in my arms? I'd be a fool of a man not to choose that."
She opened her mouth. Closed it.
There was no retort to that.
Truth was, she melted when he would slip onto their bed behind her during her naps and she would feel his warmth at her back and a tender hand curving to her rounded belly where their child grew.
If ever she had trouble falling asleep, he would rest his cheek against her hair and sing, low and lulling and hypnotic, in her ear until she drifted away. And if the culprit keeping her from napping was their baby's movements in her womb, his songs soothed them to contented stillness. Almost like magic. Sometimes, she would even awaken to find his head lowered, singing a lullaby ever so softly against her belly in the hopes of keeping the unborn babe placid so that she could sleep longer.
"And I didn't marry no fool," she whispered, using a touch of improper grammar for effect. Her hand drifted from his shoulder to his cheek.
"No, ma'am, you didn't," he whispered back and there was a world communicated between their eyes.
A sweet little mewling sound escaped Holly, who blinked not-so-sleepy eyes at Elizabeth. Tiny fingers flexed in her direction.
"Duty calls." Elizabeth's mouth lifted tenderly, a smile that encompassed husband and daughter as she caught that wandering newborn hand in hers and kissed it.
"Indeed it does." Nathan shifted Holly to her arms, brawny hands ever mindful with the transport of his very small daughter. "Hold on, give me juuuuuuust as second here, ladies. . ."
He rummaged through a drawer in her bedside table, coming up with a thick pair of house socks in his hands and waggling them at her in cheeky triumph. Lillian had knitted them for Elizabeth as a gift after Leah—also a winter baby—had been born. Chunky powder-blue wool, they were cushy, unbelievably warm, and one of Elizabeth's favorite things in the whole world. Crouched before her, Nathan eased them over her bare feet and began to rub his hands over them, the friction bringing heat.
Warmth began infusing her lower extremities. She smiled at him, grateful. "Thank you, Nathan." Blessed, thoughtful man. He was her life's greatest gift, second only to God, and she could try for the rest of her life and still never be able to sufficiently show him what that meant to her.
"Welcome." He gave her feet a final rub and stood. "You want to feed her here or in the rocking chair?"
"Here is fine." She was loathe to move from their warm bed, even if she was currently sitting on its edge.
He propped extra pillows against the headboard, fluffed them, and sliding his arms under her, transferred her into position against them like she weighed less than a kitten. It took her breath away—always had—leaving her staring starry-eyed up at him. She could be married to him for a hundred years and it would still affect her. He made her feel delicate—and no man alive had ever made her five-foot-nine frame feel delicate.
He paused, looking down at her face. "What?"
His effortless strength. Her eyes lustrous with admiration.
"After fifteen years, you don't know?" she whisper-asked and it was uneven in her throat.
Under his dark-stubbled cheeks, a rush of blood darkened his tanned skin. He was flushing at her unspoken compliment. Heavens above, how she loved this humble man . . .
"Darlin', I'll carry you anywhere you want to go." His voice matched hers.
Holly chose that moment to let loose a bubbling gurgle as she stared up at her two parents, arms batting muzzily in their direction.
"Alright, precious girl, don't worry—Daddy and I didn't forget you," Elizabeth laughed, but her gaze was helpless inside the responsive warmth of Nathan's eyes.
She contented herself with the sweet little wink and toasty kiss he quickly brushed to her forehead before diving his head to Holly's level, pretending to chomp on her reaching little arms, making all the requisite nom-nom-nom noises, much to her fascination.
The baby's delighted coos became protracted, musically layering one on top the other, as she used both hands to grab a handful of Nathan's thick hair as if to anchor him there. It took another five minutes of kisses and playing and whole conversations in nonsense words before little Holly could be persuaded to let go of Daddy's hair—five minutes that her parents cherished as the treasures that they were.
—ooOoo—
Elizabeth was in the last stages of dressing when she turned impulsively to Nathan. He was seated on the bed tugging on his shoes and making funny faces at Holly, ensconced on the coverlet next to him like a little queen in the midst of a pillow throne. "I know we spoke about this last night, Nathan, but I really do think Ian MacCord likes Allie. And she's definitely fighting something regarding him."
He looked up, paused in the lacing of his shoes. "There's definite awareness on both sides."
My Mountie observer. "But she's so prickly towards him." Elizabeth fidgeted, worrying the ends of her sleeves. "I wish we knew why she thinks he's a terrible boss. What has he done to give her such an impression?"
"I'd like to know that myself. But given what we saw, I hold some speculations." He sat up slowly, shoelaces halfway done. "MacCord's in a tough spot as her supervisor. I saw everything you saw—and agree; he's quietly intrigued by Allie, and attracted." He smiled and there was more than a glint of fatherly pride in his eyes. "A man would have to be blind or a dimwit not to be. And Ian MacCord is neither."
"Allie seems like she's somewhere in the territory between being unaware of him at times, and painfully aware of him at others."
"She's not ambivalent towards him, although she makes a good attempt to appear so in front of him."
"Ambivalent like telling us he's the "world's worst boss"?" she quoted.
His mouth ticked wryly. "Exactly."
He sobered. "There may be rules in place at the paper about fraternization between employees, and even if there isn't, with him as her boss, were they to get involved. . . " He hesitated. "It throws off the power dynamics, which are already skewed—and not in Allie's favor—and could make things messy. Then there's the potential for accusations of favoritism from her fellow reporters, sure to follow were their relationship to be made public."
"There has to be a way," she said firmly. "I refuse to believe it's impossible, if they were both to want it."
He finalized the tying of his shoes, and rose to his feet to draw closer. "I liked what I saw of him yesterday, a great deal. The minute I laid eyes on him, I knew we'd been missing a major piece of this puzzle. Things started to fall into place when I watched him around Allie. He had a good handshake. And everything after that only solidified my first impression. The decisive force with which he intervened with that Gerard fellow. . . There is a great deal more to that young man than meets the eye, mark my word." He took her fidgeting hands in his. "They're young, Elizabeth, and a path between them may be complicated right now."
Her chin lifted. "Perhaps they simply need a guiding hand to show them a path uncomplicating it."
He raised her hands to his chest, dropped his chin onto them with smiling eyes and raised brows. "Mrs. Grant, do I detect matchmaking wheels turning in that fascinating little mind of yours?"
She dropped her lashes and flattened her hands against his chest. "Maaaaaaaybe."
He laid his hands over hers, laced his fingers through hers in two loose fists. "Have I mentioned how I love it when you toss that stubborn little chin at me?"
She sniffed, the chin in question lifting higher.
"Maaaaaaaybe I'll give it a kiss and see how it reacts then." He gave his shoulders a jaunty little sashay, eyes dancing as they dropped to the offending chin.
Her silence broke. "Incorrigible flirt," she accused, but the look she leveled his way, much like her tone, was having trouble holding a stern line. "You're trying to distract me, Nathan Grant, and I refuse to cooperate."
"When it comes to you, wife," he corrected softly, "I'm an unrepentant flirt. There's nothing I regret about flirting with you."
She could feel her lips softening, the smile she was trying so hard to keep at bay sneaking past the sentry of her self-control.
"Oh?" He dropped his head to the side, over exaggerating his attempt to catch her still lowered eyes. "What's that I spy?" he teased. "A smile?"
She did a little sashay of her own, bringing the top of her head just under his chin level. He looked at her expectantly. "Yes, my love?"
"Nathan," her voice dropped to a whisper, "I really do think that maybe, just maybe, Ian is Allie's mysterious scarf donor."
A stare was her answer for a beat, then Nathan cradled her to him, shaking with a burst of laughter. "My stubborn little wife. I adore you, you know that? You really were in earnest when you said that you would not be persuaded from this topic."
"Yes, my equally stubborn big husband—I really am serious." She twisted out of his grasp and danced away from him to the dressing table. "However, I have to finish getting ready for my meeting, so more on this topic will have to wait."
But her eyes, as she slipped earrings into her ears, were sassily whimsical as she smiled over her shoulder at him.
—ooOoo—
Warm sunlight fell in bold splotches across the colorful Persian rug but it did little to relieve the chill of Elizabeth's nerves as she nervously wound fingers together in her lap and waited for her publisher to speak.
Atticus North of Bristol & North Publishers was nothing like what she had expected. Tall and spare, with intellectual eyes that were thoughtful rather than distant—and about twenty years younger than the picture she had formed in her mind after years of him being a voice on the other end of a telephone line. The same telephone, she imagined, that sat on the corner of his desk, handle inlaid with ivory marble.
This was no venerable, grey haired gentleman with blue-veined hands. He was Nathan's age, and his grey hairs were few and contained to his close-cropped beard. No shaky hands with papery thin skin and age spots, either.
The silence in the room was unbearable. Did he like it? Hate it? Every few minutes, paper rustled as he flipped another page in her manuscript piled before him, but he read without comment. Even his face gave away nothing. The mantel clock over the small fireplace whirred away, each distinct tick-tock punctuating the stillness, unnaturally loud.
Tick-tock, tick-tock.
Beneath her hem, her shoes moved in tiny, agitated patterns against the rug, invisible to the eye but known to her. She had dressed with care for this meeting. A sleek skirt of hunter green wool that hid the toes of her shoes when standing. A delicately embroidered white shirtwaist, modestly fitted, disappeared into the waistline of the skirt—its elegant high collar circling her neck. No jewelry outside of her wedding band and engagement ring, save for the kyanite earrings that hugged her earlobes in mottled green teardrops that picked up the subtle richness of her skirt.
Making an effort to stifle her nerves, her tense eyes wandered the room.
Subtly masculine and discreetly wallpapered in grey stripe, the office was filled with burnished walnut furniture, including the rather impressive desk Mr. North was seated behind. Books lined the open shelves of a tall bookcase filling one corner, more lay on the small side tables around the room; some artfully arranged, others sprawled wide as if their reader had been interrupted mid-sentence. The only reminder of the season was the massive wreath hung in the tall window behind his desk, liberally decorated with hand-painted bulbs in festive red.
She coughed from a throat dry with nervousness. It caught the publisher's attention. He shuffled the papers concisely, sat back with a slight creak from his leather chair, steepling his fingers thoughtfully. "It's well written, Mrs. Grant, as your work usually is."
She started to breathe a little easier. Maybe this wouldn't be so bad, maybe—
"But it is stale."
Her heart sank.
"Forgive me for speaking plainly." He leaned forward slightly, flickers of kindness softening his lean features. He spoke more slowly. "It's not your talent that's in question. From a technical standpoint this is good writing, but it brings nothing new to your audience. You've been writing gentle frontier stories since the beginning, and your voice is beginning to sound. . . tired. It doesn't seem like your heart is in it anymore. Where is that spark, Mrs. Grant? We saw it for so long, but it seems slim in your writing lately."
He tapped the manuscript. "This didn't feel fresh, and it needed to. It felt like something we've read from you many times over, with a slight change in names and location."
She swallowed tightly. "Is it unpublishable?"
Quiet descended. When he looked at her, his hazel eyes weren't without sympathy. "I'm afraid so," he said slowly. "It wouldn't be good for the publishing house. It wouldn't be good for your readers. It wouldn't be good for you."
Elizabeth blanched. "The stories seemed fairly well received in the past," she attempted weakly.
He hesitated. His eyes clouded with gentlemanly regret. He slid open a drawer and a lone sheet of paper appeared in his hands.
"I know you are aware that your sales have been in decline the past several years despite energetic and adaptive advertising attempts"—there was a queer gentleness in his voice, as if warring against the need for candor—"but if I could avail myself of your forbearance, Mrs. Grant, I would ask you to glance over this. It's a compilation of your sales figures for the past five years."
The paper shook in her hand. She prayed he didn't notice. She couldn't bear to appear more vulnerable than she already must.
Neat rows and columns of figures in black ink marched across the page in damning detail, blurring under her apprehensive gaze. She knew her readership was declining—Bristol & North did not keep their authors in the dark—she even knew down to the exact figure how many copies her last book had sold, but seeing the statistics in front of her in harsh black and white made the bleak truth unavoidable.
She was failing as an author.
More so with each book.
If the trajectory continued. . .
"This is why I asked to meet in person. We don't want to lose you as one of our authors, Mrs. Grant."
"But you may have to if." Her limbs stiffened at the seriousness of the implication.
"Yes—if." A flash resembling compassion hovered over his quiet, attractive face. "I'd like to avoid that."
Her fingernails pressed half-moons into her skin. "What can I do?"
The look he directed at her was level. "You tell me, Mrs. Grant. What can you do?"
—ooOoo—
A hand caught her elbow as she slowly exited Atticus North's office. Nathan's familiar eyes read the face she lifted and grew gentle at what he saw.
Elizabeth turned troubled eyes to him, but gave an infinitesimal head shake. A slump took hold of her shoulders as the despondent reality of her situation sank further in. She had known it might not be good, but hadn't realistically considered things might be bad enough that she could lose her publisher.
Nathan's eyes sterned in a frown, but held his peace as he guided her out of the office antechamber and down a wide, brightly lit hall with thick carpeting. The sound of Christmas carols seeped out from behind someone's office door. At the first opportunity for privacy, he took the bound manuscript from her hands and set it down, his focus sharply on her.
He slipped his fingers under her forearms in a steadying hold. "Talk to me."
She rested her forehead against his lapel, allowing herself one moment of weakness. "Might I tell you after we go to bed tonight?" she asked against his coat, feeling the fibers against her whispering lips. "I will tell you all, but I need to gather my thoughts." She shook her head. "Actually, no, I need not to think. My head is noisy right now."
His glance swept up and down the vacant hallway, then, swiftly, he took her face in his hands. "Let me be your quiet."
You are.
He kissed her like it was a secret, there in that deserted hallway where no other souls existed but theirs. And like the fall of a blanketing snow, shutting out all else, a curtain of silence drew itself around her, bringing a measure of serenity until all she was aware of was the slowed beat of her heart.
"Thank you," she whispered, and it was almost a prayer. Her hands were curled to his lapels and she released them with an exhale of breath that was, if not fully tranquil, at least more at peace that it had been.
Nathan said nothing as he gathered her rejected manuscript and escorted her from the building, but his shoulder brushed closer than usual. His unwavering presence was the balm her spirit needed.
—ooOoo—
That night, Nathan, as he'd promised the evening before, took them to an Italian eatery for dinner where Elizabeth promptly fell head over heels—and quite irrevocably—in love with the crispy, fried goodness of eggplant parmesan—"Parmigiana di melanzane" as their swarthily handsome waiter told them, looking down his Roman nose with a faint air of tolerance toward their captivation with the menu.
Eggplant, a vegetable Elizabeth never much cared for, became something entirely different, she decided, when one added melted mozzarella cheese and a sauce they called marinara to its fried surface. "God bless Italy" ran through her head more than once as she tried to restrain herself from ordering seconds, deciding instead to save room for gelato, an ice cream-like dessert their waiter recommended. When the bowls of creamy, sweet lusciousness arrived, Elizabeth thought she might never leave the restaurant as she fell even more in love.
And she only thought of her predicament once.
Sated in the rosy aftereffects of a delicious dining experience, Allie took them to the Brooklyn Bridge to watch the sunset, where they marveled at the expanse of jointed metal and stone as the pastel hues of the lowering sun bathed it in a peachy glow. Elizabeth and Holly burrowed into Nathan's protective bulk as a cold breeze curled up from the waters below.
"So now we've seen a New York sunset from the Brooklyn Bridge, Allie—where would you like to see a sunrise tomorrow, Allie?" Nathan was holding Elizabeth and their baby close, gloved hand sweeping across Elizabeth's back to restore warmth.
Allie's eyes lit up. "Really?"
Nathan nodded, tucking her under his other arm as the wind whipped their hair. "Really. Just choose the location and we'll go. What about those spots you mentioned our first morning here? We were in your kitchen, you were convicting us of Granny Finlay's rhubarb-ginger jam?" Allie was already nodding in recognition.
"Montauk Light House," she chose from memory, without hesitation. "You'll love it! We'll have to get up extra early and take a ferry over, then the railroad to the tip of the island—we can nap during the ride—but I have a thermos so we can bring hot coffee and there's a wonderful cafe on the way back where we can stop for breakfast. . ."
She stopped with a sudden rueful smile, as if realizing that in her excitement, all her words were running into each other. "I get a little carried away sometimes. I should ask if a trip like that in the early morning hours is really something you would be interested in." Her eyes fell on her baby sister and she smiled before addressing Elizabeth. "I know you're up a lot during the night with Holly, are you sure you want to traipse along with me tomorrow morning?"
"Oh yes. I wouldn't miss it. I'll be up anyway." Elizabeth rested her head against Nathan's chest, yawning softly into his scarf. "Just be sure to make that thermos of coffee extra strong?"
"Come on, sleepy ladies." Nathan hugged his armful of Grant women. "Let's get you home and into bed. Montauk comes early tomorrow!"
—oOo—
A/N: (Wanted to get this chapter up much sooner this week, but. . . Thank you for your patience—and for each and every one of your sweet reviews.) We opened with our main couple getting some morning moments w/their little angel Holly (and a pair of socks, LOL!), then onto E's concerning publisher meeting. How do you think she might fix this crisis?
— Researching green stones for the earrings E wore in her meeting with Atticus North was so much fun! Green tourmaline or malachite? Settled on green kyanite as the stone best representing the color I had in mind to compliment her hunter green skirt. Gorgeous stones, all. Worth a Google images search!
— I honestly wasn't planning on Atticus North. Not like this. Originally, I thought to keep him simple, off to the side, elderly. Then I started writing him—and reality just unraveled, LOL! Now I keep thinking 'He's kinda cool, I should do more with him.' (I've got an idea.) That's writing for ya; things can take on a life of their own, completely contrary to the initial plan.
— When Nathan said he saw wheels turning in Elizabeth's fascinating little mind, the "little" was meant in the fully respectful/teasingly-affectionate/admiring sense (where using a diminutive is precious, IMO)—not in a derogatory sense. Nathan Grant would never.
— Update (2/12/23, 5 pm EST): Made a goof. TY to the dear friend who alerted me. That Montauk light house? It's three hours by train from Manhattan. I thought it was half that. :facepalm: Not sure what I was looking at. Sigh. So we're going to have to suspend belief on that part as they'd have to leave at 3 am to reach that destination for, oh, say, a 6 am sunrise! Apologies for that whoops (especially to my New Yorkers!)
Hugs,
Paths