The Wife’s back in steamy Dallas through Thursday; I’m holed up in our new home overlooking the Pacific and bouncing between my manuscript and Whittemore’s novels.

An overwhelming sense of purpose has accompanied the past twenty-four hours . . . far more than what usually accompanies The Wife’s travels, when I have too much time alone.

On a typical trip, I’d be looking toward the late afternoon and drinks with friends at the local pub. Not so this time. Only me, my words, and Ted’s words. It’s strange to think I spend so much time working with words when so few, especially now, come out of my mouth. . . .