someone's kid, but he wasn't having much success. Heaven was doing little talking. He obviously thought that was because she didn't like him.
"Sometimes Hev keeps her thoughts to herself," Gab said, sweeping past her and trying to sound upbeat. Just let them have a good evening, then she could break the news to him quietly and hope he was understanding.
She sat near him on the couch, one leg tucked under her in an effort to appear relaxed, knowing he could probably detect her apprehension anyway. He probably studied people so he could work their behavior into his fiction.
"Did you do a lot of writing today?" she asked. Let him talk about himself for a while. She'd have plenty to say later.
It went a little slow today," he admitted. "Sometimes I plot myself into a corner. It's hard to do the playing fair business and not actually give everything away to the reader at the same time. You have to reveal things without letting people see what you're telling them.”
"Sounds a little like Zen."
"Ah, is that one of your interests?"
"I read some of it in college. Enough to skim the surface, not enough to help me stay calm in adverse circumstances or anything."
"I've always found it a little confusing, but I guess you're right. Novels are a little like Zen.”
"Is any of this new one set around Aimsley , or is it all in New Orleans?"
"More down in Avoyelles. I have a murder on the levee down there, and Gaston has to deal with all of the Cajuns who don't like to talk about things."
"Is there much action?"
"Quite a lot of it in the end. There'll be a manhunt through the swamps and that sort of thing. They have to take out the crawfish boats."
They talked for a while longer about his novel and other books, the conversation drifting to authors they liked and genres other than mystery. Tanner had recently developed an interest in Arna Bontemps, a black author from Alexandria, a town a short distance away. Although the writer had died in 1973, efforts were underway to preserve his legacy and that had sparked Tanner's interest. He'd been reading Bontemps's novel God Sends Sunday .
The oven timer sounded, its harsh buzz filtering through from the kitchen. "I think it's about time to eat," Gab said.
She slipped off the couch and rescued the meat from the rack, quickly spinning on her heels and putting it on a serving platter already set out. Then, clearing the swinging doors, she placed the platter on a hot pad.
"Delicious," he said, once they were eating, his tone almost coy.
"Glad you like it," Gab said. "It's something I just threw together." Her smile this time was to let him know she was being coy as well.
Something positive was clicking, that indefinable connection that somehow converts easily into love. Gab had felt it only a couple of times. It had been there with Dave but it had not lasted.
Maybe this time it was real. The conversation flowed, and they kept talking long after the meal. Then they sat, grazing across the table at each other, occasionally locking on each other's eyes.
Heaven soon excused herself and retired to the living room. Her play was quiet and became a soft background as she hummed and spoke softly to her dolls. Tanner reached across the table, placing his hand atop Gabrielle's.
She let it stay, enjoyed the warmth of his touch and the stirring it evoked.
"Are you a romantic, Tanner?"
"Deep down."
"How come you don't write love stories?”
“Mysteries have love stories in them."
"I thought detectives bedded every girl they set eyes on. That's not exactly a love story."
"Gaston is different. He's something of a romantic himself. Tough as nails but soft inside.”
"Is that you?"
"I'm not tough at all. I guess Gaston has a lot of me in him, but he's not really supposed to be an extrapolation of me."
"Right."
"Honestly. I am not my own hero. I'm just an average guy who makes his living at a keyboard."
"Ah, a man of letters caught in his own mystique."
He grinned and absently touched his
"Sometimes Hev keeps her thoughts to herself," Gab said, sweeping past her and trying to sound upbeat. Just let them have a good evening, then she could break the news to him quietly and hope he was understanding.
She sat near him on the couch, one leg tucked under her in an effort to appear relaxed, knowing he could probably detect her apprehension anyway. He probably studied people so he could work their behavior into his fiction.
"Did you do a lot of writing today?" she asked. Let him talk about himself for a while. She'd have plenty to say later.
It went a little slow today," he admitted. "Sometimes I plot myself into a corner. It's hard to do the playing fair business and not actually give everything away to the reader at the same time. You have to reveal things without letting people see what you're telling them.”
"Sounds a little like Zen."
"Ah, is that one of your interests?"
"I read some of it in college. Enough to skim the surface, not enough to help me stay calm in adverse circumstances or anything."
"I've always found it a little confusing, but I guess you're right. Novels are a little like Zen.”
"Is any of this new one set around Aimsley , or is it all in New Orleans?"
"More down in Avoyelles. I have a murder on the levee down there, and Gaston has to deal with all of the Cajuns who don't like to talk about things."
"Is there much action?"
"Quite a lot of it in the end. There'll be a manhunt through the swamps and that sort of thing. They have to take out the crawfish boats."
They talked for a while longer about his novel and other books, the conversation drifting to authors they liked and genres other than mystery. Tanner had recently developed an interest in Arna Bontemps, a black author from Alexandria, a town a short distance away. Although the writer had died in 1973, efforts were underway to preserve his legacy and that had sparked Tanner's interest. He'd been reading Bontemps's novel God Sends Sunday .
The oven timer sounded, its harsh buzz filtering through from the kitchen. "I think it's about time to eat," Gab said.
She slipped off the couch and rescued the meat from the rack, quickly spinning on her heels and putting it on a serving platter already set out. Then, clearing the swinging doors, she placed the platter on a hot pad.
"Delicious," he said, once they were eating, his tone almost coy.
"Glad you like it," Gab said. "It's something I just threw together." Her smile this time was to let him know she was being coy as well.
Something positive was clicking, that indefinable connection that somehow converts easily into love. Gab had felt it only a couple of times. It had been there with Dave but it had not lasted.
Maybe this time it was real. The conversation flowed, and they kept talking long after the meal. Then they sat, grazing across the table at each other, occasionally locking on each other's eyes.
Heaven soon excused herself and retired to the living room. Her play was quiet and became a soft background as she hummed and spoke softly to her dolls. Tanner reached across the table, placing his hand atop Gabrielle's.
She let it stay, enjoyed the warmth of his touch and the stirring it evoked.
"Are you a romantic, Tanner?"
"Deep down."
"How come you don't write love stories?”
“Mysteries have love stories in them."
"I thought detectives bedded every girl they set eyes on. That's not exactly a love story."
"Gaston is different. He's something of a romantic himself. Tough as nails but soft inside.”
"Is that you?"
"I'm not tough at all. I guess Gaston has a lot of me in him, but he's not really supposed to be an extrapolation of me."
"Right."
"Honestly. I am not my own hero. I'm just an average guy who makes his living at a keyboard."
"Ah, a man of letters caught in his own mystique."
He grinned and absently touched his
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