Smoke

Chapter One Lydia Strong wanted a cigarette to celebrate the defeat of her enemy. She leaned back in her chair and looked at the manuscript that sat fat and neat on her desk beside her computer. She felt like a prizefighter who had finally, after a brutal showdown, sent her opponent to the mat. The Lost Girl had taken her nearly a year to write and every page had been a battle. It was a first for her. Words were her tools, sometimes her weapons; either way, she'd always wielded them with ease. But this book didn't want to be written. Every day the blank page had seemed like a taunt, a dare, a bully on the playground looking for her lunch money. Maybe it was because in the writing of it, she had to let go of things she'd been clinging to for years. Maybe because, as painful as those things were, they were comfortable, familiar, and a part of her didn't really want to see them exorcised. But now they were safely incarcerated in the pages of her manuscript. Soon they'd be edited and revised, edited and revised again. Then they'd be exposed to the light of the world. And, like all demons, in the sun they'd turn to piles of dust. She laughed a little, just because of the lightness of her relief. She got up from her desk and tossed around the idea of going out for a pack of cigarettes. Maybe if Jeffrey wasn't lying on the couch reading the Sunday Times, she'd go down to the bodega on the corner of Lafayette and Great Jones, smoke a cigarette on the street and then throw away the rest of the pack. But he'd be able to tell and then he'd give her a hard time. It wasn't worth it. "I'm done," she called, walking out of her office and through the loft. But he wasn't on the couch; he was standing at the counter that divided the kitchen from the living room, talking on the phone. "Oops, sorry," she said when she saw him. He looked at her strangely when she walked in. She hadn't heard the phone ring. She took a frosty bottle of Ketel One vodka from the freezer and poured herself a lowball, trying and failing to be quiet as she put some ice in the glass and squirted some lime juice from one of those little plastic bottles shaped cutely like a lime. "I see," he said, lowering his eyes to the floor beneath his feet, tapping a pen on the countertop. "No, I'd rather tell her, David, if you don't mind." "Is that my grandfather?" Lydia asked, looking at him now. She could tell there was something wrong, but she sipped at the drink in her hand and pretended she couldn't. She needed a few minutes to enjoy the completion of her manuscript before life leaked in and started demanding attention. Jeffrey put the phone back in the cradle and didn't look at her right away. "Did you hear me? I'm finished. I finished The Lost Girl." "That's fantastic. Congratulations," he said softly, moving toward her and taking her into his arms. "Want a drink?" she asked. "Not right now," he said. She pulled away from him after a second and then walked over to the living room. The fire they'd made earlier in the afternoon was low, just a few flames danced. Outside, a light snow tapped against the windows and their view of lower Manhattan was obscured by frost. She sat on the couch and curled her legs up beneath her. Something in her chest was thumping. She didn't like the look on Jeffrey's face or the careful way he was moving toward her. "There's some news," he said, sitting beside her.Miscione, Lisa is the author of 'Smoke ' with ISBN 9780312341855 and ISBN 0312341857.