The Things We Leave Unfinished Yarros, Rebecca (reading like a writer .TXT) 📖

do you feel about doing twice the work without twice the pay?” I held my breath, waiting for his answer.

“Explain.”

So I did. I laid it all out to the one person who had served as a linchpin in both my personal and professional life, barely finishing by the time I heard the garage door open. Georgia was home.

“Georgia’s back. Will you do it?”

“Damn it,” he muttered. “Yes, you know I’ll do it.”

“Thank you.” Every muscle in my body sagged with relief.

“Don’t thank me,” he barked through the speakerphone. “I’ll get started on what’s already there, but you owe me an ending, Noah.”

The office door opened, and Georgia slipped her head in. “Bad time?” she whispered.

I shook my head, motioning for her to come in. “I know it’s a pain in the ass, but I promised.”

“Okay, but we’re going to run tight with the printers. You have the time you need, but you’d better be prepared for some rushed edits.”

Georgia’s brow puckered in concern as she unbuttoned her coat.

“I can handle it.” I’d handle anything that got me the time I needed with Georgia.

“You’d better. Oh, and Carmen told me to let you know that the kid’s Hanukkah presents got here. You know you didn’t have to do that, but thank you. We’ll miss you for the holidays, Noah.”

“Just keep running, Adam. I’d hate to leave you in the dust when I get back.” If I get back. We hung up and I pulled Georgia into my lap, sliding my hands beneath her coat and sweater to the warmth of her skin.

“What was that about?” she asked, brushing my hair out of my eyes.

God, I loved this woman.

“Time,” I answered, kissing her softly. Now all I could do was pray that mortgaging my career had bought me enough.

Her eyes flew wide. “Oh God, your deadline. It’s this week, isn’t it? Is the book done?” Was that a hint of panic in her voice? Or was I just hearing what I wanted to?

“Not yet.” It wasn’t, at least that’s what I told myself to steal a little more time with her. Sure, it was written, but it wouldn’t be done until it was through edits. “Don’t worry. It’s just delivery. Adam’s juggling a few things on the calendar and starting with what we have so we don’t blow the print deadline while I’m getting these endings just right. Think you can stand having me around for a little bit longer?” Semantics, but it still felt like a lie.

Because it was.

But the smile she gave me? Absolutely worth it.

Chapter Twenty-Four

January 1942

North Weald, England

Scarlett glanced between the small gift box on the table, her typewriter, and the dishes that lay piled in the sink. She hadn’t had a spare moment since breakfast. William had fussed all morning, and was finally down for an afternoon nap, which hopefully gave her at least forty-five minutes to get something done…but all she’d wanted to do was nap right next to him.

The days blurred together with the nights, which one of the other wives had told her was normal when caring for a newborn. She was so tired that she’d fallen asleep sitting at the dinner table last night.

And speaking of dinner…

She sighed, mentally sending an apology to her hatbox of stories as she made her way to the sink, blatantly ignoring the gift box addressed in her mother’s handwriting. This was her third kitchen in the past year, and though she appreciated the sizeable yet frozen garden just beyond the kitchen window, she wished it had come with a view of Constance.

They’d been at Martlesham-Heath for over a month now, and she’d only seen her sister twice. It was the longest they’d been apart since Constance’s birth. She missed her immeasurably, and while they were only an hour apart in distance, they were years apart when it came to this new stage of life.

Constance was still billeted with the other women, still taking her watches, eating in the officers’ mess—and planning a wedding. Scarlett’s closest confidant was now a six-week-old baby who wasn’t much for conversation. She really was going to have to get out and make some friends.

She was pleasantly surprised when the house was still quiet after she finished the dishes.

A quick listen told her William hadn’t woken—she might just have a few minutes.

It felt rather indulgent, but she slid behind her typewriter anyway. It took her a matter of seconds to load the first crisp piece of blank paper. She stared at it for a moment, contemplating what it would become, what story it would hold.

Perhaps she should do as Constance suggested, and finish something. Maybe publish it.

That hatbox was already half full with semi-formed plots, snippets of dialogue, and ideas that needed execution. It contained stories she should write for other people, endings she could twist and sweeten to make other people happy. Endings like the one Constance should have been given.

Endings like the one she wanted for herself and Jameson and William, but couldn’t guarantee. She couldn’t even guarantee that there wouldn’t be a bombing raid tonight—that she wouldn’t be among those counted as casualties.

But she could leave as much of their story for William as possible…just in case.

She started on that hot day in Middle Wallop when Mary forgot to pick them up at the train station. She remembered everything she could, writing even the smallest details about the moment she met Jameson. A smile stretched across her face. If only she could go back and tell herself then where they would end up…she never would’ve believed it. She wasn’t sure she even believed now. Theirs had been a whirlwind romance that settled into a passionate, sometimes complicated marriage.

Jameson hadn’t changed much in the last eighteen months…but she had. The woman who had made quick decisions at the planning board, who had been a rock-solid, valuable officer in the WAAF, was now…none of that, really. She was no longer responsible for the lives of hundreds of pilots, only William, not that