Free Icing Ivy by Evan Marshall

“Damn.”
    He reappeared, looking frustrated. “I have no idea where it is. Tom, get a screwdriver from the supply closet.”
    Tom did, and soon Adam was hacking away at the cubes.
    The cake and punch went a long way toward lifting the group’s spirits. When it was time for the one-on-one sessions, everyone bustled off quite happily, almost as if nothing unusual had happened that morning at the lodge.
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    After lunch, Jane met with Larry Graham in her room for their one-on-one session.
    â€œI didn’t write anything this morning,” he announced, falling into the armchair near the bed.
    Jane sat behind the desk. There was something different about him, Jane noticed, then realized it was his hair, that unruly mass of thinning orange fuzz. He appeared to have tried to part it in the middle—for what reason, she couldn’t imagine—and had achieved a thoroughly unpleasant effect. He sat watching her.
    â€œI suppose I can’t blame you for not getting any writing done today,” she said pleasantly, “what with all that’s gone on.”
    â€œYeah, that’s it,” he said, a smile breaking over his coarse features.
    It was suddenly somehow clear to Jane that that hadn’t actually been the reason, but that he was happy to use it as his excuse.
    â€œWhat was that all about?” he asked. “With Johnny and that guy with the gun. Do you think Johnny is some kind of Mafia figure? Who was the other guy?”
    Jane shook her head and tried to smile. “I’m sure I have no idea.” She wanted him to stop talking about this.
    â€œI intend to find out. I’m going to follow their footprints into the woods, figure out where they went.”
    â€œAlready tried that,” she said, and she could tell by his quick series of blinks that this had surprised him. “There’s no trail where they ran into the woods, just sticks and underbrush. The prints get lost. Besides,” she added, shivering, “I don’t think we necessarily want to know what happened. That’s one trail I’ve decided I don’t want to follow.”
    â€œMm,” he said thoughtfully. “Trails . . . You know, there are some trails you can’t see . . .”
    What on earth was he talking about? “All righty, then,” she said briskly, getting to her feet, “if you’ll forgive me, I’ll use the rest of our time for some reading—since you haven’t written anything new for us to go over. You don’t object, do you?”
    â€œNo, no, not at all,” he said, still oddly preoccupied, and she showed him out, relieved to be rid of him.
    She went to the window and gazed out into the woods, dark and forbidding on this bleak gray day. She glanced about her room and it seemed oppressive suddenly, shabby and depressing. She had to get out of there. Taking up her manuscript, she left the room and went down to the lounge, which was blessedly empty. She settled into a big leather chair near the built-in bookcases at the back of the room, sighed deeply, and resumed her reading.
    She heard footsteps and, with a sense of dread, looked up into Bertha’s pudgy face.
    â€œHello, Jane,” Bertha said rather coolly.
    Was she going to apologize for that scene with Jennifer? Hardly likely, knowing Bertha.
    â€œJane,” she said, falling onto the sofa facing Jane’s chair, “I think this is a good time to talk about my career.”
    Jane felt a kind of sinking nausea in the pit of her stomach. “Actually, this isn’t a good time. I’ve got some work to do, and before you know it, it will be time for dinner.”
    Bertha looked at the watch on her chubby wrist. “It’s hours till dinner. You just don’t want to talk to me.”
    Bingo. “No, that’s not it at all, Bertha. It’s that I’m very busy, running the retreat and all. As I think I told you, there really