Chapter 3

Dearest Claire,

I'm neck deep in my latest book, but I wanted to take a bit of time to write. Nothing urgent…I know how you worry over me. I just had a whim to converse with you, and I'm trying to honor those more. Seth says that ignoring those small, harmless impulses often creates more stress in the body than larger, more potentially traumatizing events. He's just read another study, in case you couldn't guess.

I do find it interesting, though, these tidbits he shares with me. Often, they make their way into whatever plot I'm currently wrestling. Who knows? Stress might become a contributing factor for one of my latest characters…perhaps the villain.

I hadn't realized until I started rereading some earlier chapters, but this novel touches some on my experiences with Preston. Somehow it feels disingenuous—mentioning him in such a casual manner, even the use of only his first name. I suppose even in my letters to you I'm putting on something of a persona. Strange, isn't it, how we disguise our true selves in so many situations. Can you ever really be yourself? Can you even know yourself, truly? For instance, would Frank recognize me now? I'm confident he would appreciate the external changes I've undergone. I don't consider myself a vain woman, but I suppose being somewhat in the public eye has made me perhaps more aware of my appearance. I've benefited from having been frogmarched into publishing and publicity. I like the way I look, and I think Frank would, too.

Is this a strange subject to be writing to you? You who have forsworn the world? Notice I didn't say you'd forsaken it. I'm at the top of very grateful recipients of your prayers, my dear.

Before I meandered onto the subject of my physical transformation, I was really thinking of the internal transformation I've undergone since I became a widow. Frank was never one of those husbands who sheltered their wives from the larger world. By that I mean we shared the work of maintaining our household. We were partners. It was less of a shock for me perhaps than it might have been for other wives. We never delineated tasks according to gender, for example. Even now I might be tempted to tease Frank and call him the first male feminist. At any rate, he encouraged me, always, in every endeavor. To have that kind of support, well…I do miss that. I often wonder how he might encourage me in my writing. I know he would be proud.

It's interesting…I find myself comparing Seth to Frank. I suppose it's not so surprising. I compare most men to Frank. I suppose what is more surprising is that I didn't compare Preston to Frank. I was pulled along before I realized precisely the kind of current that had grabbed me. But I was thinking of Seth and Frank. Seth is the more traditional of the two men, I think. It makes sense, as he is a few years older than Frank and had the experience of World War II, something he seldom references. I've noticed that about other veterans of WWII as well. Korea was different in that our government never officially declared war, and perhaps being as close to it as I was, seeing it through Frank's eyes, the absurdity of war was much easier to recognize. WWII still feels much more serious and vital a conflict. And I won't remark on Vietnam at all.

But I think that experience couldn't have failed to shape Seth. His demeanor is certainly gruff, but as we've gotten to know one another, I see that it's mostly bluster. He's capable of great tenderness and generosity when it's warranted. I suppose, like us all, he has aspects of his character he'd like to conceal. Such a shame that I sense what he wants to conceal is kindness. Strange. Preston radiated kindness and tenderness, and yet… Seth radiates irascibility and yet he really is an old softie underneath, I think.

People are strange, as the song goes (don't worry, you don't want to know this one…consider it a burden of having an abundance of nieces and nephews), and perhaps I'm one of the strangest. The small foibles and triumphs of humankind never cease to intrigue me. I suppose I'm like a fish who is attracted to the lively, wriggling bait. Sometimes I snag the bait. Other times, the hook.

Much love,

Jess

"How's the latest book coming?"

"Slow," bemoaned Jessica.

"I'm glad you accepted my invitation to the diner, woman." He glared at her. "I don't think you've been eating quite as regularly as you say."

"I've been eating!" replied Jess reflexively. "Anyway, you know how I get when a deadline starts looming."

"A-yuh. I've seen a fair few of these books get put together now. Why do you have to write so many at a time? Can't you take a bit of a break?"

"I suppose I could write fewer books a year." Jessica stared thoughtfully. "I just got in the habit of churning them out, especially after that bad patch."

"Bad patch?"

Jessica started. She hadn't realized she'd spoken aloud. "Just an unusually tough bout of writer's block," she said cheerily. "It's gone now."

Seth appraised the woman sitting across from him. He knew Jessica fairly well now. In general, he considered himself a good reader of people. Even if he hadn't become a doctor, his training in the military had sharpened his ability to size up people and situations quickly and effectively. He knew Jess wasn't lying, not exactly. Just holding back. Fair enough. They were friends, but how close were they really? Jessica always held a part of herself in reserve, at least from him. It was something he could appreciate. More people ought to try that, especially these days. No accounting for what near strangers would tell a body. And Seth wasn't inclined to press Jessica. He had chapters of his own life that he'd rather leave unpublished, to strain a metaphor. "Well," he replied. "I'm glad to hear that. When is this one due?"

"My publisher is expecting a final draft in six weeks."

Seth raised his eyebrows. "Is that manageable?" She seemed to be having some trouble with this book.

"I think so," she said breezily. "I'm just having a little trouble with the murderer."

"Oh? What kind of trouble?"

"He just doesn't want to cooperate with me on the page." Seth smiled. He loved to hear Jessica talk about writing. In an age of overcomplications and outsized egos, her plainspoken candor was refreshing. He got the sense that she thought of her talent as a sort of gift…something she'd been given rather than something intrinsic to her. He wasn't sure how he felt about that. He'd met very few people as sharp and observant as Jessica Fletcher. "And so I just don't know what to do," she continued, looking at him cagily and pausing for a moment. Finally she pointed her fork at him, laughing. "You weren't listening to a word I've been saying, Seth!"

Seth grinned sheepishly. "You caught me, Jess. Tell me again?"

"Nope," she said. "I don't repeat myself." She put down her fork and patted her mouth delicately with her napkin. All of a sudden Seth was reminded of the fact that she was a woman, not just his friend or even merely his most reliable opponent. "You alright?" she asked quizzically.

"Fine, fine. I just need to get back to the office." He began moving out of the booth. "I'll take care of the check this time."

"That's not necessary!"

"It is too, woman! I invited you to lunch."

"Is that what you call it? I wasn't under the impression that I had a choice."

"Let's just say it was doctor's orders." He looked at her plate. "Glad to see you ate well, Jess. Maybe now your villain will cooperate with you." She looked up at him, startled. "Food is energy, woman. That's what I keep telling you! You can't subsist on saltines and soup without paying a price."

Jessica laughed in spite of herself. "Then I'll just thank you for lunch, Seth." She moved elegantly from the booth and leaned in to kiss him on the cheek. "Maybe a quick visit to the library will do almost as much as this fine lunch has done for my book. See you later!" She waved cheerfully and left the diner, pulling her bike out of the rack and smoothly hopping on it, pedaling towards the library.

She was an intriguing woman, and Seth appreciated the difference their friendship was making in his life. I finally made a friend here, Ruthie, he thought to himself, and smiled at how pleased she would have been.