not think this was a normal thing in academic publishing, and it made him uncomfortable. He had dedicated his first novel to her, before they were married, but he did not expect reciprocation. Rachel had been his muse, in the old-fashioned sense. Gracewing had been a New York Times #1 bestseller and was featured on the Today show, where it was described as “a love story for the ages.” The L.A. Times called it “a transformative story of redemption by an astonishing young novelist.” Women who came to his readings always asked about Rachel but seemed eager to forget about her afterwards. In one sense, the novel was about a man who worshipped a woman who was a much better person than he was. If he had inspired Being and Becoming: Change and Human Possibility from Heraclitus to Levinas, he wasn’t sure he wanted to know.
Owen breathed deeply as he pulled the oars. He tried to empty his mind and let in nothing beyond the rhythmic sound of the blades going in and out of the water and the knock of the oar handles against the locks on the rigging. Every once in a while he could hear the faraway sound of people on the banks as their voices carried over the water. The swift glide of the scull and the warmth in his muscles soothed him as the craft moved like a dart across the river.
Stopping to think about things was part of the problem. He was sure it was why he couldn’t write faster. Wondering if the next book would sell. Trying to figure out what people wanted to read about. There was something counterintuitive about needing to be less thoughtful in order to be a successful writer, but it was a conclusion he’d come by honestly, through hours logged and hundreds of pages discarded.
After he’d returned to the club and his boat was wiped down and replaced in its rack, he headed to his car. In the parking lot, a woman was lingering next to a new-looking SUV, peering in its driver’s-side window and frowning at a cellphone. She spotted him and waved. It was only once he met her partway across the lot that he recognized her as the quad boat woman, of the tight grey and fuchsia shorts. She was now dressed in a white blouse and black skirt, her black hair freed from its ponytail and brushing against the tops of her shoulders.
“Hi again,” he said. “Everything all right?”
“Locked my keys in my car,” she said. “And the rest of my crew is already gone.” She gave a rueful smile. “Spent too long in the shower, I guess.”
“Is there anything I can do?” He prided himself on his proactive willingness to lend a hand in any given situation. It might not balance the scales in the long run, but it couldn’t hurt.
“Could you just give me a lift down the road?” she asked. “I have another set of keys at home.”
“Sure. Not a problem.”
“Thanks a lot. I’m really not far.” She shifted the weight of her black bag as she gave him directions, before adding, “I’m Stella, by the way.”
“Owen Grant.” If she recognized his name, she didn’t give any sign.
She fell into step with him. “Are you new? I haven’t seen you at the club before.”
“Been around a while. I just tend to avoid all the social activities.”
“A loner.”
“Ha. Maybe.” Owen unlocked his car. “I spend too much time in my own head, that’s for sure.” He thought he saw a heavy, prurient look in her eyes as he held open the car door for her, though it was possible it was only a badly calibrated expression of gratitude. Before he drove out of the lot, he slowed and asked, “How do you feel about a scenic route?”
“Sure,” said Stella. “It’s beautiful around here.” He glanced over at her, and this time there was a definite curl to her smile, a gradual invitation to wickedness. He stayed on the smaller roads, following her directions, and when she suggested pulling into a clearing along a lonely wooded lane, the familiar spike of guilt was quashed by a roar of rushing blood in his ears.
* * *
—
By the time Rachel came home at seven, he had showered and put the chicken in the oven with some carrots, onions, and new potatoes. He’d almost made a Waldorf salad until he remembered that elaborate cooking was a sure giveaway of a crap writing day.
They sat across from